A Birthday with Cake, Forest Walks, and the River That Knows My Name

So apparently, the calendar says I’ve turned 50.
Well… I respectfully disagree.

Fifty? Sounds like a number you give to someone who wears matching socks, has a gym membership and uses it, and talks about mortgage rates. Definitely not me.

I spent my birthday in the best place possible—home, back in my country, surrounded by people who don’t just know me but see me. No grand events. No glittery chaos. Just the warmth of family, laughter echoing through the garden, and a cake baked by the most magical hands I know—my mom’s.

Let me start with that cake. The most delicious, butter-soaked, love-filled torte I’ve ever had. I swear the sugar sang. And alongside it? Uncountable tea, coffee, wine… and yes, that strong lemon vodka and juice combo that you can only survive with proper genetic training.

There were no massive guest lists, just heartfelt wishes. And the best present? A piece of amber jewelry, raw and real—just like this moment in life.

The Walks, The Wisdom, The Wit

You might think a quiet birthday means no action. Think again.

My mom, maybe just a bit over 70 (she’d prefer I not get too specific), has energy that could power a small village. Between gardening, cooking enough food to feed five families, and making that unforgettable cake, she somehow manages to walk—not stroll, mind you, but proper Nordic walking, arms swinging, sticks tapping, pace set to Olympic speed.

And me?

“Come now, we must reduce the calories taken, else You’ll puff up again – She says ! 

So yes, I walked. And I didn’t regret it.

Because those were the moments I’ll carry with me—birds singing, the wind swirling around wildflowers, and conversations with Mom that never seem to run out. We talk like our souls are catching up with each other.

Then there’s Papa. Watching us lace our shoes like we’re prepping for a triathlon, he sips his tea and deadpans:

“If she walks any faster, I’ll lie down and let the ants carry me home. You’ll need a bicycle to keep up!”

And when Mom, ever hopeful, asks, “Will you join us tomorrow?”

He lifts an eyebrow and says:

“No, no. Someone has to protect the house from suspicious squirrels and political news.”

His humour? Sharp as ever. Gentle like sandpaper—but the kind that makes you laugh while exfoliating your ego.

No Balloons, Just Beauty

We came back from our walk, settled under the pine tree, and drank tea as the sun leaned in through the branches. I looked around and felt something that no luxury party could ever give me:

Peace. Presence. Realness.

My birthday just passed. Do I feel 50 in my back? No. But my love handles? Oh, they have accepted the number long before the rest of me. The body changes, not into some divine sculpture—but into a living diary of joy, stress, dreams, and delicious carbs.

Still, the sky looked the same. The birds sang the same. Life didn’t suddenly care that I crossed some numerical threshold.

That’s the truth of it. Life moves. With or without us. Whether we’re slim and glowing or lumpy and aching. Whether we’re young or old, joyful or confused, life flows on. It doesn’t pause to throw us a party just because we hit 50.

And maybe that’s the point.

But Why Don’t I Feel 50?

It’s funny, isn’t it? The calendar says one thing, but inside—I’m not there. I still feel like that barefoot girl running through the rye or grass fields, or the woman dancing in the kitchen with music too loud and too many thoughts swirling around.

And maybe that’s because time doesn’t touch us the way we think it should.

Science says our brains don’t “count” years the way a calendar does. We age biologically, yes—but the part of us that feels joy, wonder, and mischief? That part’s timeless. It lives on experience, not numbers. The neurons that light up when we feel wonder don’t check our birth certificate first.

In the ancient Vedic wisdom, the soul—Atman—is eternal. The body may grow old, but the soul? It never does. It watches everything with quiet curiosity and keeps dancing, no matter how many candles are on the cake.

“I don’t feel 50 because My inner self never turned that number. It just kept dancing .”

And I think I like that. Actually—I think I am that.

A Wish for 50

What I wish for my 50th birthday?

To be surrounded by those who truly care.

To always feel the wind that blows away my sorrows.

To have the sun shine straight into my eyes—reminding me to stay wide awake to life.

To hear the stories whispered by Polish fields…

…by the golden heads of rye swaying in sun-drenched waves…

…by the wildflowers that so many overlook, yet there they are, dancing joyfully in the wind as they always have, smiling at anyone who stops to notice.

And the river. Oh, the river I love so deeply. She never stops. She flows as if nothing ever happened. She carries the weight of yesterday, the mystery of tomorrow, and the sparkle of the now.

She reminds me—my life is like hers.
And that’s okay.

I want to flow like that river. Free. Strong. Reflecting the sun like it’s made of diamonds.

And yes, I want to shine like that. Even when I’m 100.

Because 50?

That’s just a number. But this? This is a life.

And One More Wish…

The truth is, I already have what I wish for: moments that matter, people who love deeply, and a life I adore.

So maybe, if I can be greedy for just one more thing—

Let me be immortal like the river.

Let me never stop living. Let me keep flowing forward. Because I love life so much, no number will ever change that.