By Gregorie Michael Towai (Eipéráng)
Today, August 16 is my birthday.
Birthdays are supposed to be occasions for celebration, gratitude, messages from friends and family, and reflection on another year of life. And I am grateful to be alive. I am grateful for every person who has remembered me, prayed for me, checked on me, encouraged me, or simply reminded me that I matter.
But this year, I cannot pretend that my birthday arrives without weight.
I have spent much of this past year trying to remain strong for other people. I have carried responsibilities that required me to put much of my own life aside. I have experienced grief and loss. I have continued advocating for my community and speaking about accountability, transparency, culture, dignity, and the future of our islands. And through it all, I have tried to keep moving even when circumstances behind the scenes were far more difficult than most people could see.
There is an emotional cost to always trying to be strong.
There is a mental health cost to being the person others depend upon while quietly wondering who will be there when you are the one who can no longer carry everything alone.
Perhaps one of the hardest lessons I have confronted is discovering that some people I genuinely believed were my lifelines have not been there during some of my most dire moments of need.
I do not say this to condemn anyone. I do not write it out of bitterness, nor do I believe friendship or compassion should be measured solely by what another person can provide. Everyone carries burdens we may know nothing about. People have limitations. Circumstances change.
But acknowledging that truth does not make the hurt disappear.
There is a particular kind of loneliness that comes from reaching toward someone you trusted, especially when circumstances have become desperate, and finding silence on the other end. It makes you question relationships you thought were secure. It makes you wonder whether you misjudged your place in someone’s life. And when you are already exhausted, grieving, worried about finances, carrying responsibilities for others, and trying to maintain some sense of normalcy, that silence can become extraordinarily heavy.
That is where mental health enters this conversation.
We often talk about mental health after someone has reached a breaking point. We ask why they did not speak up. Why they did not ask for help. Why nobody knew what they were going through.
Sometimes they did speak.
Sometimes they did ask.
Sometimes the people around them simply did not understand how serious the need had become.
There are people walking among us who appear strong because they have learned how to function while hurting. They answer messages. They attend appointments. They care for relatives. They advocate for their communities. They write. They work. They laugh. They post photographs. They tell other people that everything will eventually be all right.
And then they sit alone with everything they did not say.
I understand that person more today than I ever wanted to.
My birthday has therefore become more than another number added to my age. It has become an opportunity to examine what I have carried, what I can continue carrying, and what I need to finally put down.
I have learned that strength cannot mean endlessly sacrificing yourself until nothing remains. Caring for others cannot mean abandoning yourself. Advocacy cannot mean that the advocate never needs advocacy. And being the person who encourages everyone else does not eliminate your own need to hear someone say, I see you. How can I help?
I also realize that disappointment can teach us something without turning us bitter.
Some people we expected to stand beside us may not. Others we never expected may quietly appear. And sometimes the most important realization is that we must begin building a life in which our emotional survival does not depend entirely upon whether another person answers when we call.
That does not mean we stop needing one another.
Quite the opposite.
Our island cultures have always understood that human beings survive through relationships, reciprocity, family, community, and responsibility toward one another. We were never meant to carry every burden individually. There should be no shame in saying, I am struggling. There should be no humiliation in saying, I need help. And there should be no expectation that a person must first collapse before their suffering becomes worthy of attention.
So today, on my birthday, I am giving myself something I have not always allowed myself: permission to acknowledge that this has been hard.
I am tired.
I have been hurt.
I have been disappointed.
I have felt alone at moments when I desperately needed not to be.
But I am still here.
And perhaps that is what I celebrate today.
Not perfection. Not pretending. Not another year of convincing everyone that I can handle everything.
I celebrate endurance.
I celebrate the people who genuinely have remained present.
I celebrate the ability to still care deeply after experiencing disappointment.
I celebrate the courage to say that mental health matters even for those of us whom others perceive as strong.
And I celebrate the possibility that the next chapter of my life can contain something different: healthier boundaries, reciprocal relationships, renewed purpose, greater peace, and the understanding that my worth is not determined by who answered my calls or who remained silent.
If there is one birthday wish I have today, it extends beyond myself.
Check on the strong person in your life.
Check on the caregiver.
Check on the advocate.
Check on the friend who always seems to have something encouraging to say.
Check on the person who has been unusually quiet.
And when someone finally finds the courage to tell you that they are struggling, do not assume that because they survived yesterday they can easily survive tomorrow.
Sometimes presence itself is a lifeline.
Today, I am grateful for another year of life. But I am entering it without pretending that the road behind me has been easy.
I carry gratitude alongside disappointment, strength alongside exhaustion, hope alongside uncertainty.
All of those things can be true at once.
And on this birthday, perhaps the greatest gift I can give myself is simply the freedom to finally say so.
Gregorie Michael Towai (Eipéráng)
Gregorie Michael Towai (Eipéráng) is a native Refaluwasch son of the CNMI, an independent researcher, published author and founder of the RJKC. He lives in Oregon and writes on governance, culture, economic sustainability and the future of the Marianas.
The views and opinions expressed in this op-ed are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of NMI News Service, its staff, or its sponsors. NMI News Service publishes opinion submissions from the community as a platform for public discourse.
