Born to Burn to begin Again

A birthday arrives not as a celebration, but as a confrontation.

While others gather around to count the years with light-hearted gestures and sentimental clichés, I find myself counting something else entirely. Not candles, not blessings, but the number of times I have surrendered to expectations that no longer feel like mine. The number of pieces I have left behind, scattered along the journey of becoming what the world applauds yet rarely understands.

And so I pause, not to reflect on again, but to interrogate becoming. Not to recount achievements, but to evaluate the cost. What, after all, does it mean to carry fire in one’s chest for so long that it begins to consume the architecture of your being? They said passion would give me purpose. I believed them. What they failed to mention was that it might also become a kind of silent immolation. Not visible, not dramatic, but steady and ritualistic, like a candle that never questions why it must disappear in order to give light.

At first, the fire felt sacred. It gave shape to my days, carved meaning into moments, and created a sense of clarity that many spend lifetimes searching for. It was seductive in its certainty. To be moved by something larger than yourself is one of the most intoxicating forms of human experience. But what begins as devotion can so easily slip into obligation, and once passion becomes a performance, it stops being yours.

I did not notice the shift immediately. How could I? The applause was loud, the validation constant, the results measurable. But somewhere along the line, passion lost its soul and became currency. Identity, after all, is a powerful drug. It convinces you to keep going even when every part of you is whispering that the direction is no longer aligned with your essence. And when your identity is tied to what you give, what happens when you have nothing left to offer?

Responsibility is rarely questioned in those who appear capable. Competence becomes a kind of trap. People stop checking in, stop inquiring, stop imagining that you might need rest, not because they are cruel, but because you’ve made exhaustion look elegant. You’ve performed resilience so convincingly that even you have forgotten how to be anything else.

And so I ask myself quietly, urgently was I born to burn?

Is that the role the world has written for me, and have I accepted it under the guise of leadership, of service, of commitment? Or is today, this unassuming milestone of birth, a discreet invitation to something radically different? Perhaps I was not born to burn, but to begin again. Not in the literal sense, but internally. Spiritually. At the level where the soul meets the truth and refuses to negotiate.

To begin again is not to abandon what has been built, but to question what has been lost in the process. It is to remember that you were someone before you were useful, before you were needed, before you became irreplaceable. And maybe that version of you deserves a voice too.

For a long time, I believed that sacrifice was synonymous with greatness. That the more I gave, the more I became. But I have learned that unchecked sacrifice often breeds resentment. Not just toward others, but toward yourself, for continuing to say yes when everything inside you was asking for pause. You begin to grieve your own absence long before anyone else notices you’ve gone missing.

So perhaps the deeper question today is not about purpose or impact or legacy. It is about reclamation. Am I willing to reclaim my humanity from the machinery of expectation? Am I brave enough to let go of being needed, if it means being whole?

I have come to believe that not all burning is holy. Some fires are sustained only by guilt, fear, and the illusion that we must remain constantly alight in order to be worthy. And so, as I cross the threshold of another year, I choose to let that version of me rest. Not in anger. Not in defeat. But in profound gratitude for all it taught me, and in the deeper wisdom that says: not everything that ignites you is meant to stay.

Today is not a celebration of survival. It is a quiet ceremony of remembering. I remember who I was before the roles, before the responsibilities, before the narrative hardened. And in that remembrance, I find a question that feels like a compass: if I begin again, what would I choose to carry, and what must be left behind?

Not because it failed. But because I no longer need to prove I can carry what was never meant to be mine alone.

If you ask me today who I am becoming, I cannot give you a name, a title, or a destination. I can only tell you that I am learning how to live without the performance. I am slowly unlearning the choreography of overfunctioning. And I am returning, not with fire, but with stillness. Not with answers, but with presence.

I was not born to burn. I was born to evolve. And that begins now.