'Birthday Tree': It's The Thought That Counts

You've probably heard the phrase, "It's the thought that counts."

That's the theme of a holiday series we're bringing you this month, because 'tis the season for a number of holiday traditions and feelings, even if you're not celebrating anything in particular.

'Tis also the season for the excitement and stresses that December brings.

So, we're acknowledging all of that with some personal essays from the KUOW staff.

In our second essay, Soundside producer Noel Gasca reflects on a special holiday tradition that has taken on new meaning in her adulthood.

Birthday Tree

If your birthday is in December, there’s a good chance you probably grew up feeling a little short-changed. The month is stacked with celebrations, and it feels like the world is dripping with lights and decorations — but none of it is for you.

I know the struggle, because I am one of those December birthdays — December 22, in fact.

I’ll be honest. It was a little disappointing not being able to go swimming on my birthday like my friends who had birthdays in June, or to the pumpkin patch like all of the October birthday kids. But I’m lucky enough to have a mom who started a new tradition to keep my birthday from getting lost in the fray. She called it a birthday tree: a teeny tiny tabletop Christmas tree, strung with some pink lights and a few ornaments. Over the years, the birthday tree has grown, but it’s largely stayed the same. The tree is still all decked out in pink — my favorite color — and there are ornaments that symbolize whatever milestone or interest I had in any given year.

There’s a Clara and Sugar Plum Fairy to represent the year I fell in love with all things ballet and The Nutcracker, a wooden dolphin to represent the year we went to Hawaii (its beak has some chew marks lovingly left by our family beagle), and a typewriter to represent my decision to study journalism at college.

In the summer of 2021, I moved into an apartment of my own, a solid step toward adulthood and the independence I had been craving since I moved back home at the start of the pandemic. When December rolled around, I pulled the birthday tree down from our dusty attic, stuffed it in my car, and brought it back to my place.

As I unpacked the tree and pulled out the ornaments, I told myself that transitioning the birthday tree from my mom’s home to my own space was just another step in the process of learning how to be on my own.

It was an act of adulthood independence, no different than going grocery shopping by myself or setting up my renter’s insurance.

My mom had spent years, decades at this point, selflessly taking time out of her own weekend every year to put up my birthday tree. Now, it was my turn to make it happen.

This is how it should be, I told myself.

But honestly? I hated every second of it. Without my mom next to me, trimming the tree felt like just another item on my December to-do list.

This year, I asked my mom to help me put up my birthday tree with me. As we fluffed the branches and strung the ornaments, I looked at my mom and was reminded of the remarkable gift she’s given me with the birthday tree.

The memories I’ve made with my family over the last 24 years come flooding back to me in a pink-tinged hue. The childhood passions captured in the ornaments dangling from the tree branches feel fresh to me, reminding me to be brave enough to try something new, no matter how old I get. I get to see who I am from the perspective of someone who loves me very, very much.

My mom started the birthday tree tradition with the hope that it would keep little Noel from feeling like her birthday was lost in the shuffle of the Christmas season. It definitely served that purpose. But as an adult, it’s taken on a much deeper meaning. The birthday tree represents the best kind of gift we can give to the people we love: taking the time to genuinely connect and celebrate them for exactly who they are.

My birthday tree is one big, pink manifestation of that gift. It shows me that no matter my age, my mom has always been right behind me, honoring the person I have grown — step by step, ornament by ornament — to become.