The Fifteenth

 Trigger Warning: child-on-child sexual abuse, mentions of drug addiction.

Just me, my cozy fit, and a little love-filled corner of Heartopia ✨💌

My birthday is on the fifteenth.

For most people, that sentence carries something light. A hint of celebration. A memory of cake, candles, laughter, people gathering around you because your existence matters.

For me, it carries something else entirely.

Growing up, we celebrated my birthday on the first of the month. Not because that was my birth date, but because that was when the food stamps and cash assistance came in. There was never enough stability in our home to make it last until the fifteenth. Addiction dictated the calendar. Chaos decided what mattered. And I learned very early that my actual birthday did not.

The first of the month was survival dressed up as celebration. If there was cake, it was because the benefits had just hit. If there was a gift, it was because something hadn’t yet been traded, sold, or used up. I was expected to smile and be grateful, even though something inside me understood that this wasn’t about me being cherished. It was about timing.

But even that isn’t the reason I hate my birthday.

From the time I was a child, my cousin sexually abused me for five years straight. Every year, around my birthday, what should have been a day of safety became something I dreaded. My body learned to brace itself instead of relax. My mind learned to disconnect instead of celebrate. My birthday stopped feeling like a marker of life and started feeling like a reminder of what was taken from me.

There is something uniquely cruel about trauma attaching itself to a date.

The fifteenth would come, and instead of candles and softness, there was fear. Instead of protection, there was silence. Instead of adults noticing something was wrong, there was neglect layered on top of violation. I carried secrets that were far too heavy for a child, and I carried them alone.

And at home, there was no refuge.

My grandfather beat me every day. Not occasionally. Not in moments of extreme discipline. Every day. And I wasn’t a bad kid. I wasn’t rebellious. I wasn’t out of control. I was a child trying to survive an environment that felt unpredictable and unsafe, and I was punished as if I was the problem.

When you grow up being hurt at school, hurt by family, and hurt at home, your nervous system never gets to power down. You don’t learn what safety feels like. You learn how to scan rooms. You learn how to shrink. You learn how to make yourself small enough to hopefully avoid the next blow — physical or otherwise.

So when people ask me now why I don’t like my birthday, it’s hard to explain.

It’s not about getting older.

It’s not about attention.

It’s about the fact that the day that should have affirmed my life was layered with violence, neglect, and betrayal. It’s about the fact that my existence was never handled gently. It’s about the reality that I was harmed repeatedly by people who shared my blood, and no one stopped it.

Birthdays are supposed to make you feel wanted.

Mine made me feel exposed.

And the hardest part is that even now, as an adult, my body remembers. As the fifteenth approaches, there’s a heaviness that settles in my chest. A restlessness in my sleep. A quiet sadness that doesn’t always have words, but is very real. Trauma keeps time differently than the rest of the world.

For a long time, I wondered if maybe I was dramatic. If maybe I should just “get over it.” If maybe other people had it worse and I should be grateful I survived.

But surviving isn’t the same as being safe.

I didn’t deserve to be abused for five years. I didn’t deserve to be beaten every day. I didn’t deserve to have my birthday rearranged around addiction. I deserved protection. I deserved softness. I deserved adults who noticed and intervened.

I deserved to be a child.

And this year, maybe that’s what the fifteenth is about.

Not pretending it doesn’t hurt. Not forcing myself to love a day that still feels complicated. But telling the truth. Saying out loud that what happened to me was wrong. That I was not a bad kid. That I was not responsible for the chaos around me.

The fifteenth still carries grief.

But it also carries proof that I am still here.

Still breathing.

Still building something different.

Still refusing to pass down what was handed to me.

Maybe healing doesn’t mean I suddenly love my birthday.

Maybe it means I finally stop blaming myself for hating it.

The truth is, I can’t rewrite my childhood.

I can’t give that little girl the safe birthdays she deserved. I can’t undo the harm. I can’t make the adults who failed me suddenly take accountability. Some things will always be part of my story, whether I like it or not.

But I can decide what the fifteenth means now.

I can choose not to minimize what happened. I can choose not to gaslight myself into believing it “wasn’t that bad.” I can choose to honor the grief instead of burying it. And I can choose to build a life where safety is not rare, where love is not conditional, and where my existence is not inconvenient.

Maybe my birthday will always carry complexity.

But it also carries proof of survival.

It carries the woman who made it out. The woman who is doing the hard work of healing. The woman who refuses to repeat what was done to her. The woman who understands now, deeply: that she was never the problem.

If you’ve ever dreaded your birthday for reasons you struggle to explain… if certain dates feel heavy and you don’t know why… if you’re carrying childhood trauma that still echoes into adulthood, I see you.

You are not dramatic.

You are not weak.

And you were never responsible for what was done to you.

If this resonated with you, I invite you to stay connected. Subscribe to this blog, follow along, and walk this healing journey with me. I speak more openly about trauma, chronic illness, nervous system healing, and rebuilding life after survival on my Chronic Illness Diary podcast.

Your story matters. Your survival matters. And even if your birthday doesn’t feel like celebration yet, your existence is still worthy of being honored.

— Symone