Well, here we are. Another orbit around the sun, another year closer to wearing socks with sandals unironically. Thirty-two. The age where you’re still young enough to tell yourself you’ve got time, but old enough to know that’s mostly a lie. This birthday wish isn’t going to be wrapped up in platitudes or tied with the ribbon of delusion. No, this is a wish forged in the crucible of a year that felt like a series of cosmic pranks.
Let’s not sugarcoat it. Last year was a mess. Not the cute kind of mess, like a toddler covered in spaghetti; more like the aftermath of a frat party—sticky floors, regret in the corners, something unidentifiable growing behind the couch. It began with too much drinking, the kind of drinking that makes bartenders hesitate before pouring you another. Then, just when you thought life couldn’t get more cinematic, the family home burned down. Literal flames licking at memories, reducing them to ash and bad insurance claims.
But here’s the thing: you survived. Not gracefully, not in the way heroes do in movies, but more like the last slice of pizza at 3 AM—still standing, against all odds. Towards the end of that disaster of a year, you did something radical. You started working on yourself. Like a redemption arc written by a screenwriter who finally sobered up, you clawed your way back. Less drinking, more writing. Less escaping, more living. Actual, tangible progress, the kind that can’t be faked on Instagram.
So, what does 32 hold? Here’s my birthday wish: may this year be less of a dumpster fire. May it be the year you build something out of the ashes, instead of just brushing them off your clothes. Write more. Write even when it’s terrible. Write especially when it’s terrible. Cultivate those healthy habits like they’re rare orchids—because for you, they are. Keep spending time with family, not out of obligation, but because you finally get that they’re not around forever. Grow up, but not too much. Just enough to stop playing chicken with your own well-being.
And for God’s sake, if you’re going to drink, drink well. You’re 32, not 22. If you’re going to burn the candle at both ends, at least use a nicer candle.
May this year be less survival and more living. Less holding on and more moving forward. And if you find yourself standing amid chaos again, may it at least be the kind you chose, not the kind that chose you.
And here’s the deeper part, the part you always skim over because it feels too heavy to hold: I wish you peace. Not the fragile kind that shatters at the first sign of trouble, but the real, unyielding kind that stands its ground. I wish you joy that isn’t borrowed from a bottle or chased down in fleeting moments. I wish you self-forgiveness. I wish you could see yourself the way others sometimes do—worthy, resilient, unfinished but striving.
Happy 32nd birthday. May you live this one with intention. May you write your way through the hard parts, and toast the good ones with something that doesn’t taste like regret. May you love deeper, laugh louder, and finally, finally understand that you are so much more than the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.
Because you deserve better than that. And this year, you just might believe it.
Erika Matic is a writer clawing her way out of the wreckage, one keystroke at a time. Equal parts grit and grace, she’s rebuilding, rewriting, and refusing to stay down. Somewhere between surviving and thriving, she’s finding her way—and telling the truth about it, unflinchingly.
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