The birthday I worked through

I spent my own day on someone else's clock.

Photo by Eric Ward on Unsplash

“When you’re born, you look like your parents. When you die, you look like your decisions.” — Dr. Crawford Loritts

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Yesterday was my birthday, and I spent it working a night shift.

No dinner, no drinks, no friends waiting to toast. Just the familiar hum of routine and the steady stream of obligations that never stops.

It wasn’t tragic. I wasn’t miserable. But it hit me: this is what I do.

I spend most of my time working — at a job, on Money Talks, stock options and building the future. Every hour is chosen, every commitment deliberate, even if it stretches me thin.

I choose this. And the cost is real.

My birthday passed while I was on someone else’s clock.

I realized how little space I leave to just be present for myself. How easy it is to convince yourself that constant effort equals progress, that the next hour or the next goal will somehow compensate for hours given away.

Most men I know live like this. We shrug it off, joke about it, call it dedication or discipline, proud of endurance but blind to the cost: time we’ll never get back.

We’re meticulous with so much else, but careless with ourselves.

Birthdays, mine and so many others, turn into just another day, another chance to prove we’re dependable. But underneath that steady exterior, a lot of us are running on fumes.

I’m still young. I could have spent the night out, exploring life. Instead, I worked, absorbed in the crush of demands and deadlines.

I tell myself there will be other nights, more birthdays. Until then, I grind. Just like most men.

We joke about it, shrug it off, maybe make a self-deprecating comment and move on. The truth is, many of us don’t know what care looks like unless it’s for someone else.

That’s why I didn’t take off Sunday night or suddenly stop working. It never crossed my mind to do anything else. I just rolled with it. And I didn’t vow to do anything different next year.

I just noticed. Every project, every goal, every achievement comes at the cost of time I could spend resting, reflecting or simply living.

I spent my day — and night — on someone else’s clock. And I chose it. But now, at least, I see it for what it is.

Another day closer to freedom.