Dr Joel Teelucks­ingh

Birth­days are strange things for doc­tors.

For most peo­ple, a birth­day is cake, can­dles and mes­sages that ar­rive in cheer­ful bursts. For doc­tors, es­pe­cial­ly those who have spent years watch­ing bod­ies fail and time run out, a birth­day is al­so a reck­on­ing. Not dra­mat­ic. Not mor­bid. Just qui­et­ly un­avoid­able.

As I grow old­er, health feels less ab­stract and more re­la­tion­al. It is no longer just about num­bers on a chart or years on a cal­en­dar. It is about be­ing present; for fam­i­ly din­ners that are not rushed, for con­ver­sa­tions that de­serve at­ten­tion, for the qui­et mo­ments that re­mind you why stay­ing well mat­ters.

Health is not a self­ish pur­suit; it is an act of re­spon­si­bil­i­ty to those who de­pend on us and those we love. Longevi­ty means lit­tle if we are too ex­haust­ed, dis­tract­ed or un­well to show up ful­ly.

Doc­tors are trained to no­tice what oth­ers over­look. Sub­tle symp­toms. Qui­et warn­ing signs. Pat­terns that re­peat long be­fore dis­as­ter an­nounces it­self. That habit does not switch off when we leave the hos­pi­tal.

So, birth­days come with a dif­fer­ent aware­ness. I think of the pa­tients who nev­er reached the age I am now. I think of the man who said he would “start ex­er­cis­ing next year” and nev­er got the chance. I think of the woman who ig­nored fa­tigue un­til it be­came some­thing much more per­ma­nent.

One of the most dan­ger­ous myths we car­ry is that time is abun­dant.

We be­have as though there will al­ways be an­oth­er Mon­day to start eat­ing bet­ter, an­oth­er Jan­u­ary to ex­er­cise, an­oth­er qui­et sea­son to rest. We treat health like a sub­scrip­tion we can re­new lat­er.

Med­i­cine teach­es you oth­er­wise. Bod­ies do not ne­go­ti­ate with pro­cras­ti­na­tion. Blood ves­sels do not wait for mo­ti­va­tion. Sleep de­pri­va­tion, stress and poor habits ac­cu­mu­late in­ter­est qui­et­ly, ef­fi­cient­ly and with­out emo­tion.

No­body wants to talk about health when they feel fine.

Good health is in­vis­i­ble. It does not trend. It does not de­mand at­ten­tion. It sits qui­et­ly in the back­ground, do­ing its job with­out ap­plause. We no­tice it on­ly when it be­gins to slip.

Birth­days are a rare mo­ment when healthy peo­ple briefly lis­ten. Not be­cause they are sick, but be­cause they are old­er. And age, un­like symp­toms, is hard­er to ig­nore.

The body re­mem­bers every­thing. It re­mem­bers years of poor sleep. It re­mem­bers chron­ic stress dis­guised as am­bi­tion. It re­mem­bers skipped meals, ex­cess al­co­hol and the qui­et ne­glect of move­ment. It re­mem­bers kind­ness too—hy­dra­tion, rou­tine, laugh­ter, rest.

We like to be­lieve the body re­sets mag­i­cal­ly af­ter hol­i­days, week­ends or “bad phas­es.” It doesn’t. It adapts. And adap­ta­tion has lim­its.

Birth­days re­mind us that while we count can­dles, our or­gans are count­ing pat­terns.

There is a cul­tur­al ob­ses­sion with “midlife crises,” as though re­flec­tion it­self is pathol­o­gy. The health­i­est pa­tients I know are not the youngest or the fittest. They are the most hon­est. They lis­ten when their bod­ies whis­per in­stead of wait­ing for screams. They course-cor­rect ear­ly. They ask bet­ter ques­tions.

A birth­day week is about cal­i­bra­tion.

Pa­tients of­ten ask me what the most im­por­tant health ad­vice is.

They ex­pect some­thing com­pli­cat­ed. A sup­ple­ment. A break­through. A se­cret.

It is dis­ap­point­ing­ly sim­ple.

Sleep is not op­tion­al.

Move­ment is med­i­cine.

Food is in­for­ma­tion.

Stress is not a badge of ho­n­our.

Lone­li­ness is as dan­ger­ous as smok­ing.

And per­haps the hard­est truth: con­sis­ten­cy mat­ters more than in­ten­si­ty.

Birth­days re­mind me how of­ten I of­fer this wis­dom gen­er­ous­ly and fol­low it im­per­fect­ly. That gap be­tween knowl­edge and prac­tice is where most ill­ness lives.

An­oth­er myth birth­days ex­pose is the il­lu­sion of con­trol.

You can do every­thing “right” and still get sick. You can do every­thing “wrong” and live long enough to con­fuse every­one. Health is not about per­fec­tion. It is about prob­a­bil­i­ty.

The goal is not to elim­i­nate risk. It is to stack the odds gen­tly in your favour. To make choic­es that re­spect your fu­ture self even when your present self is tired.

A birth­day is a qui­et agree­ment to keep try­ing.

The great­est health gift is not longevi­ty. It is ca­pac­i­ty.

The abil­i­ty to walk with­out pain.

To sleep with­out med­ica­tion.

To climb stairs with­out fear.

To think clear­ly.

To laugh eas­i­ly.

These are or­di­nary mir­a­cles. We no­tice them on­ly when they dis­ap­pear.

So, if you’re read­ing this and it’s your birth­day week too—or even if it’s just an­oth­er or­di­nary day—con­sid­er this your gen­tle re­minder.

You are not late.

You are not be­hind.

But you are re­spon­si­ble.

And that, odd­ly enough, is very good news.

Be­cause re­spon­si­bil­i­ty means choice.

And choice means hope.

Age is in­evitable; ne­glect is op­tion­al- and birth­days are the body’s way of re­mind­ing us which one we’ve cho­sen.