The Joy of a Simple Celebration
More than a birthday.
This weekend, we celebrated my middle one’s birthday.
No theme. No Pinterest boards. No guest list.
Just five people, one kitchen, and the shared understanding that we were together and that was enough.
Our youngest flew in from school. The others had already adjusted their schedules. I mostly cleared mine, too. We didn’t plan much beyond, “Let’s eat something good and sit around for a while.”
And somehow, that small plan became a perfect one.
There were hugs that lasted longer than usual. Jokes that made us laugh hard enough to wipe our eyes. That rare kind of togetherness where no one’s checking their phone because nothing on the screen could compete with the room.
It wasn’t only a birthday.
It was more.
As a parent, you try to plan for everything - especially birthdays. You want it to feel magical, memorable, and meaningful.
And then life reminds you: the magic is already here.
It’s in the way your child rolls their eyes at your old jokes.
It’s in the way everyone instinctively knows where to sit.
It’s in the moment someone starts singing (off-key, always) and nobody wants it to stop.
That’s the real magic. Not in the candles or the cake.
(Though, let’s be honest: the cake helps.)
I’ve spent years optimizing strategy and execution. Boardrooms. Transformations. High-performance cultures. I can break down a platform roadmap in four minutes flat.
But this weekend reminded me of a different kind of ROI:
Return on Intimacy.
How often do we slow down long enough to notice that the people around us are, in fact, the point?
The laughter. The teasing. The grace we give each other after long absences. That’s the stuff birthdays are made of. Not balloons, but belonging.
I’ll admit, there was a time when we would’ve over-engineered a celebration like this. Booked the restaurant. Made an agenda. Squeezed meaning into every minute.
But this year, we did something radical: we just… let it happen.
And it was glorious.
There’s a line I love from Bob Hope:
“You never get tired of celebrating birthdays, because as long as you’re having them, it means you’re still around.”
We were around. All of us.
And that alone felt like the rarest gift.
There was also the surprise of how much joy can live in small things.
My daughter picked the donuts that somehow became a pyramid-like cake. My youngest son made a joke about how I was dressed. My wife and I exchanged that look of amusement, joy, gratitude, and awe - all at once.
It was a kitchen full of sarcasm, carbohydrates, and love.
Highly underrated trio.
And it struck me: why don’t we do this more often?
Why do we save this kind of presence for birthdays, holidays, or crises?
Why don’t we celebrate a Wednesday that went well or a Tuesday where everyone came home safe?
There’s an old Irish proverb that says:
“A good laugh and a long sleep are the two best cures for anything.”
I’d add: a meal with people who know your middle name and still like you.
There was one moment, though, that caught me off guard.
After dinner, we were sitting around—just talking about life, school, work. And for a split second, I looked around the room and saw each of them not as “my family,” but as individuals. Separate. Full. Becoming.
It hit me hard.
They’re growing up.
They’re growing apart, as they should.
They’re becoming more themselves.
And yet, we still orbit this one place. This table, this room, this feeling of being known.
That moment stayed with me. Quiet. Deep. The kind of moment that makes you grateful and tender at the same time.
We didn’t need matching outfits. We didn’t need a party planner.
What we needed - what we always need, really was something much simpler: the freedom to show up just as we are. No script, no performance. Just presence. And when we offer that, the celebration tends to take care of itself.
So here’s to the birthdays that never go viral. The ones with no hashtags, no curated photos, no grand designs. Just meals that may not be memorable, but moments that are. The kind of quiet joy that slips in when no one’s trying to impress anyone—when we let being together be the main event.
To every parent who’s ever wondered, “Did I do enough?”, I’ve come to believe that showing up with your full heart is not just enough. It’s everything.
Next year, I probably won’t remember what we ate. The cake might change (as it should). But I’ll remember how we laughed. I’ll remember the feeling of sitting around a full table, the way conversation layered over warmth and time and familiarity. I’ll remember the lightness in the room—not from anything planned, but from everyone simply being themselves.
As Erma Bombeck once wrote,
When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, 'I used everything you gave me'.
That’s the kind of life I aspire to lead.
Not one that waits for perfect timing or flawless execution, but one that recognizes what’s already here. A life that celebrates the ordinary. That lets joy be easy. That always - always - makes room for cake and joy.
Warm regards, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your Sunday.
Adi