Feels like an A24 cut
Birthdays are weird when you’re not exactly where you thought you’d be. The fact that I’ve tried to stop counting the years the way others do hasn’t been much help either. To quote Sartre, “Man is nothing else but what he makes of himself.” But what if you’re still unsure of what you’ve made? By 26, I thought I’d be someone else. Instead, much like Greta Gerwig’s painfully self-aware character in “Frances Ha” (2012), I often feel like I am not a real person yet. Because most days, I feel like I am a chameleon, a cracked mirror, a fraud, a shapeshifter.
Today, I decided not to celebrate my birthday. I woke up early and, as a form of meditation, I opened Google Docs to exorcise brain fog and my feelings. I’ve come to realize there’s a certain pressure that comes with birthdays. It’s not just about being happy. It’s about performing happiness, something obligatory, almost theatrical in a sense, in this “curated identity for validation” era. Post something on Facebook, say something profound and reflective about growth and gratitude. Here’s the cake. Blow the candle. Make a wish. Big smile. Camera flash.
Is it really my birthday if I don’t post about it on social media? Is it a milestone or just another Wednesday in the calendar slipping by? Am I being ungrateful, or is this just what people often call “birthday blues”? The kind of feeling where time flies so fast you can’t barely catch it in your hands, and you wonder if anyone notices, including yourself?
Being twentysomething also means people would ask you the most uncomfortable questions, and you have to answer them without feeling personally attacked. Every small talk is a possible minefield. Seemingly innocent questions start sounding like threats, like ultimatums. Hey, how are you doing? (Still figuring things out, but thanks for asking.) How’s your job? (I wish I were unemployed so I could sleep eight hours, but I have bills to pay.) The only way to answer such questions is to lie about it. But if you have the guts, put on a brave face and never expect them to be impressed.
Life lately: Unsent emails. Archived messages. Too many open tabs in the browser. Unfinished manuscripts. Deadlines. Slugging Vaseline at night. The novel DIY art of making instant noodles while in a work-from-home setup. Scrolling through Instagram in between breaks to find my friends, skin glowing, in love, filtered, flawless, lounging on beachscapes. More doomscrolling. Then I’d ask myself, what kind of beta blockers do they take? What coping strategies have they stumbled upon? What morning affirmations do they recite in front of the mirror to make them feel better?
Here comes your friendly neighborhood imposter syndrome knocking again. So I’d commit to sporadic home workout routines. Squats, jump lunges, push-ups, dips, leg raises, planks, mountain climbs, burpees. I’d stare into the mirror and see Kafka’s bug staring back. After a dreamless sleep and a cold shower, I felt indomitable and finished writing more than 10 pages in Google Docs. After closing the tab, I kept thinking, is this it? What happened to the “gifted child” I once was, the one everyone expected so much from? Is this what being grown-up feels like? A weird loop of transient joy in small things, bad news, sweatpants, and pretending “adulting” is a verb that makes any of this make sense? It feels like an existential A24 film with no budget. No plot, just vibes. Written by an unpaid intern on their very last day.
Maybe the real problem is that the system prioritizes speed and mass-produced outputs, sidelining craft, caliber, and contemplation to the margins. You’re labeled a grown-up the second you clock in, even if you’ve never filed your taxes or figured out how to say “no” without guilt. Can we normalize twentysomethings still figuring things out? Because at this point, my biggest achievement is remembering to charge my phone and not crying at every email.
It’s my birthday. I grew older, not wiser, and I think that’s okay. The visible veins in my hands, the chipped mug on the sink, the quiet flicker of blue flame on the kitchen stove, the subtle streak of blue in a bruise that’s healing remind me it’s okay to be blue. A kettle whistles in the background. Outside, the sky threatens rain, like a promise to break the heat. Maybe it’s just the weather. Maybe it’s something more. We live in fragments of good news. We live in small victories, and for now, that’s beautiful enough.
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Dave Jonathan Maraya Verbo, 26, is a freelance filmmaker and writer based in Alcala, Cagayan.
