February, Again
November, December, and January were seasons of quite suffering. In November, I fought an exhausting battle with my physical health — there was hardly a day without coughing, a fever, or the flu. December pulled me deep into mental struggles. By January, both had worn me down completely. It was overwhelming and at times, I felt utterly hopeless. But then, small lights began to appear — through people around me, through moments of unexpected comfort. And somehow, they helped.
Now, it’s February already — my birth month. Many people consider their birth month special, but I never have. It’s not because I didn’t celebrate my birthdays, but because of the moments that always seemed to go wrong on that day, year after year. So, I still celebrate in my own way — simple things, just not on the exact date. It sounds weird, but I’m completely serious when people ask, “When is your birthday?” and I answer, “Whenever I’m in the mood”.
Next week, I’ll be turning 22. I know there’s barely any difference between 21 and 22 — just a few days, really. But for some reason, 22 feels terrifying. I still haven’t figured out why. I don’t even know if I’ll acknowledge my birthday this time. Will I keep ignoring it, like always? Or is it finally time to face it, to accept it? I don’t understand why a simple date carries so much weight for me.
But aside from that, I genuinely love how this first week of February has felt. No, there haven’t been any big miracles. But inside, there’s finally a little peace. The chaos is fading, little by little. And for the first time in a while, I’ve found my determination again — to chase a dream, even if it’s unrealistic. At least it gives me something to move forward for, something to hold onto for the months ahead. And maybe, that’s enough.
