Birthdays, Time, and Probability
Birthdays are quite the enigma, aren’t they?
On the surface, you’re celebrating a moment when you joined the rest of the passengers on Spaceship Earth—despite the fact that you didn’t actually do anything special. From a purely pragmatic standpoint, your birth just… happened.
But that explanation feels incomplete. Almost disrespectfully so.
Creating a human isn’t easy. In fact, mathematically speaking, it’s an astonishing feat of probability—one that still honors a phrase I’ve carried with me for years: chances are never zero.
Simply put, I think you’re a miracle of nature.
By virtue of being alive, you beat odds that were stacked long before you ever took your first breath. And without getting into the gory details of how difficult it can be—for you, for your family, for your parents—to reach a first birthday, let alone all the ones that follow, it’s worth pausing to acknowledge a quieter truth: every birthday is the result of love, effort, care, and persistence.
My 50th birthday approached like the quickness—February 7, 2026.
By the time this post goes live, I’ll have completed fifty full circuits around the sun. Fifty times I’ve been told, “Happy Birthday, Los!” Five decades of life—something few are granted, including my fantastic Mama Bayne, who passed at 49.
Fifty is culturally—and generally—accepted as the Golden Birthday. A milestone. A marker. A number that seems to demand reflection.
But the truth is, your golden birthday is something else entirely.
What Is a Golden Birthday, Anyway?
Culturally—and increasingly on social media—The Golden Birthday has come to mean a milestone age: 50, 60, sometimes even 75. Big numbers. Big feelings. Big cake.
But traditionally, a Golden Birthday is much simpler—and much quieter.
Your Golden Birthday is when the age you’re turning matches the day of the month you were born.
By that definition, my Golden Birthday happened when I turned 7, on February 7, 1984.
We celebrated it. I remember that clearly.
We just didn’t know it had a name.
And honestly? Even if we had known, I doubt it would have mattered. Because birthdays back then weren’t about labels—they were about showing up.
Why February 7 Was Always a Win
I was lucky.
Growing up in the Seattle area, my birthday landed in a rare sweet spot:
- No major holidays before or after
- Valentine’s Day was still for new couples, not parents with calendars
- Often lined up with mid-winter school break
- Cold outside, warm inside—perfect for gathering
Which meant one important thing: friends could come.
Invites were accepted because nothing else was competing for attention.
And for a kid? That mattered.
The Wish List Never Reset — It Just Rolled Over
Let’s be honest: my birthday wish list was just Christmas, Part II.
Anything Santa missed? Still very much on the board.
More G.I. Joe action figures.
More LEGO sets.
More worlds to build and stories to imagine.
I was a bright-eyed American-Filipino kid with a big imagination and zero shame about wanting more of what I loved.
That checks out.
Chuck E. Cheese: The Default Birthday Backdrop
For kids growing up in the 1980s, Chuck E. Cheese wasn’t just a restaurant—it was the birthday venue.
It certainly was for me.
Before I had language for it, I remember the smell. That rubbery funk from the ball pit—equal parts dodgeball, P.E. class sweat, and whatever permanently lived inside those plastic balls.
Core memory created.
Then came the noise.
The shrill of children competing with adults yelling to discipline their “misbehaving” kids. Add to that neurodivergent kids—unrecognized, unnamed, unsupported—just trying to exist in a space already dialed up to eleven.
The low hum of arcade cabinets layered with bleeps, bloops, coin drops, and the frantic tearing sound of tickets spilling out in long strips. Tokens clinked. Fingers cramped. Quarters disappeared faster than skill could justify.
“Mom! Five more minutes!”
Children climbed in and out of the ball pit and, even now, I shake my head. I’m surprised we didn’t grow another appendage from whatever unholy combination of rubber, sweat, germs, and mystery substances lived in there.
And yet—we kept going back.
Current Events: 1984
So what was going on during my Golden Birthday year that I had no idea I was supposed to be paying attention to?
I was your archetypal kid in a nuclear family: Mom, Dad, little sister, and me—the older brother. We lived in Mountlake Terrace, a suburb of Seattle, in a cul-de-sac that felt like its own universe.
Like Stranger Things before it had a name, my sister and I explored everywhere on bikes. Hers was pink. Mine was black. Huffy ruled the neighborhood. Helmets optional. Streetlights were the curfew.
Turning seven in 1984 meant growing up inside a world that felt loud, optimistic, and futuristic:
- Thriller was everywhere
- Space Shuttle launches felt miraculous
- The Los Angeles Olympics radiated confidence
- MTV reshaped culture
- Technology felt like promise, not pressure
It was a world that simply said: look forward.
2026 — The Golden Birthday
Here’s the truth: I didn’t know—with confidence—that I would make it this far.
My mom didn’t.
That fact lived quietly in the background of my life. Not as fear, exactly—but as awareness. A reminder that time isn’t promised, and milestones aren’t guaranteed.
And yet… here I am.
Still digging.
Still thriving.
If I’m honest, I think I may have already started writing the best chapters of my life.
Personally, I’ve come home—after time away, after detours that taught me what wasn’t mine. I’m building a life with Jen. Blending families. Expanding circles instead of shrinking them.
Professionally, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. A leader in the trenches with earned experience—trusted, respected, and recognized not because I demand it, but because I’ve lived it.
Physically, I’m a work in progress—and I’m good with that. I’m returning to the fit days of Los not through intensity, but through systems and habits that support consistency.
Spiritually, the shift has been just as clear.
I’m choosing peace over strife. Instead of chasing one battle after another, I’m stacking peaceful moments with people I love. I’ve always known this to be true, but it lands differently now: each day is both the oldest and youngest I’ll ever be.
Mind-flaying, right?
I don’t live as if each day is my last. That kind of thinking feels nihilistic—and it’s never been my lane. There’s a healthier balance to be found. One where you honor time without fearing it.
At fifty, I’m not chasing urgency.
I’m practicing presence.
2052 — The Diamond Birthday
A Diamond Birthday occurs when you turn the same age as the last two digits of the year you were born.
For someone born in 1976, that alignment happens at 76 years old—in 2052.
It’s rare. Entirely personal. A moment where the number that marked your arrival finally meets the number of years you’ve lived.
Diamonds are known for their brilliance, strength, and resilience—qualities forged over time, under pressure. In that way, the metaphor holds.
With a little luck—and a lot of grit—I hope I’m still writing at 76 years young. Still curious. Still reflective. Still paying attention.
Not chasing the past.
Not rushing the future.
Just honoring the present.
Old Soul, New Body
My mom once told me—almost casually—something that quietly framed how I’ve lived my life ever since.
She said I had always seemed older than my years. That I noticed things other kids brushed past. That I carried myself like someone who’d been here before.
At the time, I didn’t fully understand what she meant.
I just knew it felt true.
Years later, flipping through a photo album—real photos, glued down, sealed under plastic—she paused on a six-month-old picture of me.
“You’re an old soul, Caloy,” she said.
“You’ll know things at ages you shouldn’t,” she continued. “You’ll feel moments repeat. Déjà vu. Time will show you.”
And time did.
I learned that time can’t be hoarded or hurried. It can’t be recycled or rewound. The best we can do is meet it with awareness.
That’s when it clicked.
Photos are frozen moments of time gone by. Proof that a second once existed, even after memory softens. They don’t stop time—but they remind us we were here.
So I learned to pay attention.
To document.
To notice.
And now, standing between a Golden Birthday behind me and a Diamond Birthday somewhere ahead, the truth feels clear and complete:
I’ve always been an old soul—
learning the world, patiently and imperfectly,
inside a brand-new body.
The past can’t be changed.
The future isn’t guaranteed.
But the present?
That’s the gift.
los, Fil-Am Renaissance Man 