To Adéṣẹ̀tọ́, On The Anniversary of Your First Inhale

A letter from me to me.

Dear Adéṣẹ̀tọ́,

Today is your birthday.

And you are here, breathing, present, intact, and a little quieter than the years before. There’s no music playing in the background, no wild celebration or sugar-heavy cake with sparklers. But there is this letter, and there is you, and somehow, that feels enough.

You’ve never been entirely comfortable with birthdays. Well…perhaps because reflection sits too close to the skin on days like this. You find yourself asking the unasked questions: Am I becoming someone I can live with? Am I honouring the time I’ve been given? Do I still carry the child I once was, or have I quietly replaced him with performance?

This year felt long, didn’t it? It wasn’t loud, but it was heavy. It was a year of learning subtle lessons. Lessons that didn’t announce themselves but crept in through side doors. You learned that silence doesn’t always mean peace. That kindness to others means nothing if it costs you kindness to yourself. You learned the difference between waiting and wasting. And maybe most of all, you learned that love must include you too.

You are older now. You've grown, truly, though you won’t always admit it. Not just in intellect or ability, but in restraint, in gentleness, in how you no longer rush to prove what is already true. You have known joy like sunlit cloth and grief like rusted nails. You have swallowed silence and exhaled laughter. There were seasons you bloomed without permission, and seasons you folded in on yourself like worn pages in a book no one dared finish.

You’ve started tending to yourself in the small, ordinary ways that once felt like luxuries like sleeping when you’re tired. Saying no without guilt. Leaving conversations that no longer serve you. Making room for joy that doesn’t have to be earned. You have poured into others while learning—slowly, shakily, how to refill your own cup. And you have begun, I think, to forgive yourself for all the versions of you that couldn’t stay. You’ve honoured your strangeness. You’ve given names to your ghosts. And in doing so, you’ve become more you than ever before.

There are still questions you carry. Questions that won’t be answered today or even next year. But I hope you continue to live them slowly, the way you’ve learned to carry silence, as a kind of listening, rather than an emptiness. I hope you keep writing-unfolding yourself line by line, even when no one claps.

If I could offer you anything on this day, it would be permission. Permission to stop performing survival. Permission to lean into your own softness without apology. Permission to be a little foolish sometimes. Permission to be seen in your unfinishedness. You do not need to sparkle to matter. You are allowed to simply be.

You are not late. You are not behind. You are just becoming and that has always been enough.

So today, don’t worry about how many people remember or call or text. Light a candle to honour all the fires you’ve kept burning in the dark. Breathe slowly. Place one hand on your chest and remember that you made it here, again.

Happy birthday, Adéṣẹ̀tọ́. Be gentle with the boy you once were. Be kind to the man you are becoming.

With all the warmth I can gather,

Adéṣẹ̀tọ́.