My birthday started with a bang – the painful kind. Severe cramps, aching joints staging a mutiny, night sweats… Happy birthday to me! Here’s 42, announcing itself like:

“Good morning queen. Welcome to perimenopause. Enjoy your complimentary wet sheets, joint stiffness, and hormonal siege.”

It was honestly comical in a tragic way. But even though my body woke up like a Victorian ghost, I refused to let it ruin everything.

My son and I had planned to go to Cardiff, but with the level of pain I was in, that was not happening. I could barely walk across the flat, never mind across a huge city and my own city would be a stretch. So we changed the plan: meet in town, postpone Cardiff, and focus on salvaging something of the day – especially because there was Biscoff birthday cake waiting for me at home, and I was determined to prove that the cake was NOT a lie.

Protein Shakes and Birthday Cakes.

When I walked into the living room that morning, the first thing I saw was a Jellycat bear holding a birthday card on the coffee table. My son had set it up like a tiny celebration for me. The card said “Protein Shakes and Birthday Cakes” – which already made me smile – but inside he’d drawn the sweetest little illustrations and written how much I mean to him.

He’d asked me beforehand,
“Do you want a funny card, or a meaningful one?”

I told him,
“You don’t need to ask permission. You always choose cards that I love. What matters is you, not the card.”

He said, “Well, some people don’t like humourous cards and prefer meaningful.”

And I said:
“The only cards I don’t like are the mean ones pretending to be funny – the ‘you old hag lol’ ‘haha you’re nearly dead’ ‘congrats on fossilising’ ones. Those aren’t clever, they’re just cheap shots. The kind that make you think love is dead.”

He laughed – and so did I.

But this card? Protein shakes and birthday cakes? It accidentally showed he sees all of me. The mum who’s been fighting a relapse. The mum who rebuilt herself on protein shakes. The mum who wanted to eat birthday cake instead of being afraid of it this year. And the “me” who is both strong and scared at the same time. I couldn’t have chosen a more perfect card if I tried.

After waxing poetical about my son too long – as I always do – and because I’d slept through my alarm the rest of my morning was a bit of a mad dash. I had to rush to get ready so he wasn’t waiting around in the freezing cold after uni. My joints were protesting, my cramps were getting worse as my meds wore off, but I forced myself out the door. I wasn’t going to let everything hurt and stay home.

When I got to town, I saw him sitting in John Frost Square with his Build-a-Bear frog, Billie. I had to stop because a cramp hit so hard I literally couldn’t walk for a moment – and in that pause, while looking at him sat there with Billie on his lap everyone else around him just… disappeared.

He was the only person in view. Lit up by love. My son.

Exactly like the day he was born – everyone in the room faded out, and it was just me and him. That same feeling arrived again, right there in the cold. I waved at him. And my birthday properly began in that moment – the exact same way motherhood did:

Not with balloons or plans going perfectly, but with looking at him full of pride and thinking, “That’s my son.”

The Pyjama Present.

After meeting we decided to go around the shops. I had to keep stopping because the cramps were searing down my right leg and making me trip every time I tried to push through. But I dragged myself to Primark anyway because my son had heard they were selling Pingu clothes, and he loves Pingu so much. Sadly there was not a single noot-noot in sight. A disappointment of Antarctic proportions.

I did manage to find boots, bear socks, and pyjamas on sale.

This means I finally have pyjamas that fit me. I’m still struggling financially because recovery is so very expensive, but I thought I should probably buy at least something for my birthday – so I bought things I actually needed. I’d also ordered a Schrödinger’s Cat T-shirt from Amazon and some navy macramé thread so I can make bags and bows for my bears to match my recovery navy aesthetic. And, in true perimenopause fashion, I bought a giant tub of creatine for my birthday because apparently I can no longer cope without that legal white powder.

We couldn’t decide what to buy for birthday dinner, so we just grabbed a bunch of fun food from Marks and Spencer: chicken goujons, garlic bread, popcorn, tortilla chips, vegetable crisps, shortbread – and planned a little birthday buffet while watching a movie. My son was excited about the garlic bread, and honestly so was I. I haven’t had garlic bread in years. He said, “WE COULD COOK ALL OF IT,” and I said, “Sure, why not? It’s my birthday.”

After mostly window shopping, both of us were cold and exhausted, and I really needed to get the weight off my joints, so we headed for birthday Starbucks.

The Holy Grail Starbucks Cup.

Stepping into Starbucks was such a relief – like crossing the threshold into warmth and safety after limping through the tundra of perimenopause pain and Pingu based Primark disappointment. And then I saw one of our favourite baristas: The Pumpkin King of Starbucks himself. I named him that on my blog after he gave us free pumpkin brownies once, and he still holds the title with honour. I told him it was my birthday; he wished me a happy one and then handed us our drinks for free. So obviously I rewarded this kindness by immediately buying myself a new Starbucks cup. It’s stunning – dark pink, beautifully textured – and the kind of cup you fall in love with on sight, like a little birthday moment of serotonin in cup form.

I also decided to brave food. Eating outside is difficult for me in about seventeen different ways. There’s the eating disorder part – the hating eating in public – and then the “my body apparently thinks I’m an elite marathon runner despite me only walking to Starbucks” part. Eating and then moving equals runner’s trots, high blood sugar, crashes, and generally being thrown onto a blood sugar rollercoaster I didn’t sign up for.

But then I saw a brand new hot festive toastie. Festive sandwiches always remind me of my best friend WeeGee, and for a moment it felt like she was standing beside me saying, “Go on. Have it for me.” So I decided I was going to risk it – for love, for grief, for friendship, for recovery. I ordered the toastie and an Americano. My son ordered a sausage sandwich and a white chocolate mocha, so for the first time in ages we actually sat and ate a meal outside together.

The toastie was absolutely delicious. Honestly? I’d rate it above a Greggs Festive Bake and I do not say that lightly. The turkey was moist, not dry, and I’m pretty sure there was gravy in there somewhere. Warm, cosy, comforting – and it genuinely felt like WeeGee was with me, sharing the moment. I’m fairly sure the exercise intolerance is caused by movement itself, so I made sure to sit upright, didn’t bend forwards, and stayed in Starbucks long enough for my stomach to calm down before attempting to move again.

While we were waiting, my son handed me birthday gifts. We had planned to go to Cardiff so he could get me presents, but since I couldn’t go, he’d gone after uni that morning instead. I hadn’t expected anything at all because we postponed it, so when he gave me a little Jellycat bear and a Jellycat penguin, I was honestly touched he’d gone to so much effort. I lifted the penguin like Simba from The Lion King and declared, “I shall name thee Pistachio the Penguin.” We took photos of our plushies, and I clipped the little bear onto my bag like he was joining our adventures.

I felt proud of myself for eating the toastie, even though it scared me – proud for choosing recovery, scared because it was far more than I usually eat in the daytime thanks to my movement-triggered digestive chaos. But this was my birthday, and nothing was going to stop me having birthday cake later. I pushed the ED thoughts to the side the best I could.

After Starbucks, we walked home tentatively, and ironically my son ended up being the one with the blood sugar issues. But once we got inside, everything calmed down. We settled in, thawed out from the cold, and got ready for our evening movie and cake celebrations.

Spending My Birthday With Nobody….. 2

Before settling down to watch a movie, I cooked the food for our little party buffet and laid it all out on the coffee table. Picking the movie was the easiest decision of the day. My son and I have a collective favourite film – Nobody – and we’d just discovered that Nobody 2 was available on Amazon Prime. We were very excited to spend my birthday with Mr Nobody himself, Bob Odenkirk.

My son has never been a big fan of anything violent, but Nobody is that very specific genre of justice-based violence that is so absurd and so comedic it stops feeling like violence and starts feeling like a cartoon for adults. It’s basically Home Alone for grown-ups, but instead of Kevin McCallister you get Bob Odenkirk. And he is such a fantastic actor – Better Call Saul is my favourite TV series of all time – yet you forget he’s Saul within minutes.

Nobody 2 didn’t disappoint. We both laughed out loud several times, especially at the Duck boat scene. The driver and tourists carried on with their tour as if absolutely nothing was happening behind them. That level of delusion reminded me of my son and I causing utter mayhem in GTA V while NPCs continue acting like, “Yup, completely normal day in Los Santos.”

I really enjoyed eating popcorn and snacks with the movie. I’ve always been the kind of person who eats for function, not joy – something I’ve worked very hard on in recovery. Before, I would’ve said, “I don’t need popcorn with a movie, I’m not hungry,” or “Why would I eat popcorn? It doesn’t do anything. That’s eating for the sake of eating, and I don’t even like eating when I have to, let alone for fun.” So I was surprised to find actual joy in it. And proud of myself for eating it along with the rest of the buffet food.

I also didn’t eat everything just because it was in front of me – something else I’ve worked hard on in recovery. I’ve struggled with bingeing even during my previous 12 years of recovery, and if food was out, I’d eat it automatically. Afraid it wouldn’t be there tomorrow. Afraid that because I’d already eaten “more,” I might as well finish it, because who knew when I’d be allowed it again. So the fact that ED thoughts came and went, but didn’t control me, felt like progress.

After repeating to each other how great the movie was, and how now we have Nobody and Nobody 2 to rewatch in the future since I’d purchased the sequel, it was finally time for Biscoff birthday cake.

The Birthday Cake is NOT a Lie

When I saw the Biscoff-shaped birthday cake in Asda, I knew immediately it had to be mine. Biscoff got me through the roughest part of my early recovery, and it’s earned a permanent place in my second hearts – my new muscles – because I basically built half of them out of the glycogen Biscoff generously provided.

I feel like Biscoff helped get me here, so celebrating with a Biscoff birthday cake felt perfect. I placed the gold “4” and “2” cake toppers on it and added a Happy Birthday candle. I lit them, made a wish – a secret one, of course – and blew them out while my son’s plushies sang Happy Birthday at top volume. But the cake itself ended up giving me a wish that came true.

Last year, eating birthday cake was a battle. I was in a relapse, and honestly, the year before that too. If you’d asked me then what I wished for, it would’ve been something like: I wish I didn’t have to eat this cake, or I wish I could eat this without wanting to cry. This year, I cut a small slice and ate it.

The cake was soft and fluffy, not heavy at all. The icing and the middle were Biscoff-flavoured. I was eating birthday cake with no battle, no fear, no arguments in my head. It wasn’t Biscoff-y enough, so I cut another little slice and ate that too. That second piece was more Biscoff-flavoured, so I was satisfied. And then I was done. I didn’t want any more. I wasn’t afraid of there being no more cake. I wasn’t afraid of calories. I wasn’t afraid I’d lose control. I didn’t feel compelled to finish the cake because “it’s my birthday and I don’t know when I’ll have cake again.”

It was a wish that came true. The cake wasn’t a lie – it was telling the truth. The truth of how hard I’ve worked in recovery to get here. I was proud. This Biscoff-shaped cake ended up being a quiet, unexpected marker of progress. That’s why it being Biscoff was perfect: Biscoff got me here, but so did all of my hard work.

My son and I chilled out for the rest of the evening until he went to bed watching old episodes of Waterloo Road, talking about how it turned into such a surprisingly good day – despite the pain, his blood sugar chaos, his uni fatigue, my perimenopause nonsense, and our cancelled plans. It was perfect, in its own strange, gentle way.

I Wish For Once I Could Stay Gold

After my son went to bed, I crashed. Hard. From being in a mixed episode, from hormonal chaos, from not eating in a way that stabilises me properly. Honestly, I wasn’t going to include this part, but leaving it out wouldn’t feel truthful. I had a really good day, but when the novelty wore off, everything came tumbling down. The birthday dopamine – buying things, eating different food, getting free Starbucks drinks, Jellycat penguin presents, watching Nobody 2, being able to eat birthday cake – carried me through the day like a wave.

But finally, everything came crashing down. Another reason I didn’t want to admit this happened? Shame. Because I felt like I couldn’t simply “be happy” on my birthday, because I was suddenly crying. After the crash hit, I felt like a completely different person to who I’d been just hours earlier. It unnerved me deeply.

I was overwhelmed with eating disorder thoughts – planning not to eat the next day to “fix” it, feeling shame and guilt for what I’d eaten, wondering how I was supposed to cope without the old behaviours. I even questioned whether being able to eat birthday cake was worth feeling these darker emotions so intensely. That is the cruelty of a mixed episode: it takes something bright and makes it feel dangerous.

I was missing WeeGee so much. My grief has come so far, but after the festive sandwich, the ache of not being able to tell her that Starbucks does them now hit me like a bus. She used to make my birthday feel so special. My grief is easier in the sense that I can think of her, feel her, talk about her – but I still struggle with the empty spaces she left behind.

And then there was the letter from my mother. Even though I’ve gone no contact, she still felt it appropriate (again) to send a guilt letter inside a birthday card. Asking for forgiveness while still doing the same things I went no contact for. Making my birthday, my son’s birthday, and Christmas about her, ignoring my boundaries, ignoring our pain. You cannot forgive someone who continues to repeat the behaviours they claim to regret. This is why I don’t like birthdays or Christmas – she ruined so many of them. And she tried again this year. That’s why I said earlier I wasn’t going to let anything ruin my birthday. I’d dealt with it. And thankfully, when the crash happened, it was technically after midnight. So she didn’t ruin the day itself.

I cried the most because I wished – just once – that I could stay gold. Stay in the glimmer of the day. But instead I crashed, and I cried so hard, and I felt so angry at myself for being so upset.
But the truth is: the day was good. It wasn’t pretend. It wasn’t fake joy. Glimmers can exist even when you’re depressed. Having these glimmers, knowing they’re possible at all, makes the darker moments less unbearable. I can still have a good time. Still bond with my son. Still eat cake when I couldn’t before. Still laugh at movies. The fact that any of that was possible today, with everything going on, means something.

That is what makes little lights appear in the dark void of depression.

It’s a miracle, really, that I had a good day at all.

Birthday Gold.

Birthdays have always been complicated for me. They’ve held grief, trauma, guilt, and years of being made to feel small. But this year, despite everything stacked against it, I still had moments that sparkled. Moments that felt warm and real and mine. I laughed. I ate cake. I watched movies with my son. I held a penguin named Pistachio. I was loved.

And even though the gold didn’t last the whole night, it existed – it proved to me gold can still live here.
Glimmers aren’t meant to stay forever; they’re meant to remind us that they can return.

So maybe staying gold isn’t about never crashing.
Maybe it’s about remembering that even after the crash, the light comes back.

And on this birthday – for a whole day – it did.
And that, along with eating Biscoff cake without a fuss, are my birthday miracles.