I made it to the 25th mark last Saturday.

My parents got me a cake so I could make a birthday wish, as they always do. As I watched them sing “Happy Birthday” to me, I felt sad for some reason. Their facial features have become more wrinkled over time. They take faster breaths. Their voices, which used to sing with such force, are slowly losing their strength. It dawned on me that as I grew older, so did my parents.

Some of my friends did not have a parent or two to soothe them during their first heartbreak, while others had the privilege of accompanying their folks through senility. One thing is certain in both scenarios: loss is absolute. Regardless of when it comes, it will come.

My younger self wouldn’t be thinking about this—about loss. She’d count her blessings while ungratefully wishing for brighter days. Everything I was back then was the epitome of impatience, eager to receive all that life could offer. It’s understandable considering that youth is an exciting time to dream and wonder about what could’ve been.

Meanwhile, as I slowly let the remaining days of my adolescence perish with time, a new perspective began to settle in: rather than counting the things I would gain, I started keeping track of the things I might have to let go of.

I may lose my parents to old age. My friends and I may have to live separate lives when our priorities evolve. I might have to give up my dreams so that my children could pursue theirs. My life could change without warning, and I must make do with what is left.

Again, I understand that loss is absolute and that there’s nothing I can do about it. But as humans, we still dare to hope for an ideal realm where loss doesn’t exist, silently indulging in moments of greed to make the unknown slightly bearable. In those moments, I suppose, loss is not what we fear. The terrifying bit is meeting grief itself and finding out what it’ll do to us when it comes.

To soothe the anxious mind, I try to justify loss. Annica is a Pali word and philosophy for impermanence. Existence doesn’t linger. This inevitable and uncontrollable moment of ending pushes us to make the most of what we have before we can’t anymore. It makes every second valuable. Irreplaceable, even.

This takes me back to moments from a rebellious phase of mine. My mother would often scold me mercilessly for every reckless decision I made. Like every other teenager, I arrogantly thought that my life would be much easier if my mother just left me alone. Now, with a sudden health scare haunting our family, I wouldn’t mind getting scolded more often if it meant she could always stay around. The idea of losing her made me realize the magnitude of her existence and the unending emptiness she’ll leave in her absence. I guess, loss taught me what it means to have.

With each coming birthday, I’ll receive more things to lose. However, with each passing grief, I’ll be hungrier to live. The next time I blow out the candles on my birthday cake and appreciate the people that sang me “Happy Birthday,” I will remind myself that we are celebrating the years I carry the meaning of those I have lost and the time I have spent giving meaning to be carried when I’m gone.