Today is my birthday.
Historically, I’ve hated this day. The attention. The pressure to feel something profound. The awkward dance between celebration and self-reflection. But this year, something shifted. Maybe it’s the past few months cracking me open a bit. Maybe it’s a teaching I heard recently from the Rebbe: that your birthday is the day God decided the world couldn’t exist without you.
That’s a heavy statement.
Because what happens if you don’t believe it? If you brush off your birthday year after year, are you saying—whether consciously or not—that your existence doesn’t really matter?
This year, I can’t ignore it. Not because I want to celebrate myself, but because I’ve been starting to feel the opposite. There have been fights. Moments where I’ve wondered whether my marriage is ending. Work challenges that shake my confidence. Physical aches that remind me I’m not as invincible as I thought. It’s felt like every day has something waiting to knock me sideways—some new reminder of how fragile everything is.
And yet… maybe that’s the point.
You could take the nihilistic view: life is suffering. Pain is constant. We’re born into it, we die in it, and the middle is just waiting. But I’ve started to believe something else—something that’s much harder to accept when you’re in the thick of it: that pain is a form of instruction. That suffering is a signal, not a sentence.
Earlier this week, I wrote about a fight that left me spinning. I felt shame, regret, panic—this sense of impending unraveling. But then, almost inexplicably, it passed. Not the situation, but the storm inside me. My brain released its grip. And in that moment, I remembered: everything is temporary.
That’s the essence of meditation, isn’t it? Not the breath. Not the posture. But the realization that the waves—of anger, of doubt, even of joy—aren’t permanent. My life before my wife. My life with her. My confusion as a father. My uncertainty in my career. All of it is in motion.
And if everything is temporary, then the way out is not resistance but presence.
The Rebbe said your birthday matters because it affirms that you are necessary. Even if you don’t feel needed by your spouse, your children, your parents, or your job—God needs you. That’s enough. It has to be enough. Because when you outsource your worth to other people’s needs, you’re only as valuable as their desire for you in that moment. And that’s a dangerous place to live.
When those needs fade or shift—when a partner withdraws, a boss criticizes, a friend disappoints—it can feel like the floor drops out. But it’s not the floor. It’s a wave. And it will pass.
I don’t say any of this because I’ve figured it out. Honestly, I wish I believed it more. I wish I could internalize this truth not just on my birthday, but on the random Wednesday when everything feels like too much. But that’s the work. The real work. Not just building a life that looks good or even feels good—but building a life that is rooted in truth.
Today, that truth is this: I am still here. And that matters.
Even if I forget why sometimes. Even if the world doesn’t reflect it back to me. Even if tomorrow brings another fight or another doubt or another physical reminder that I am not in control. I am still here. And that is enough to begin again.
Long Short Way 