Against All Odds - A Birthday Letter...

Against All Odds - A Birthday Letter...

Dear Readers,

Today, I do not celebrate a number. I celebrate survival. I celebrate endurance. I celebrate the quiet, stubborn refusal to disappear when disappearing would have been easier.

Birthdays are strange markers. They measure time, but they rarely measure truth. They count years, but they do not count sleepless nights. They record age, but they do not record the battles fought silently within the heart. When I look at this day, I do not see candles or cake. I see a timeline of storms survived. I see chapters that almost ended too soon. I see a man who was tested by heartbreak, by disappointment, by silence, and who still chose to build instead of break.

Who am I?

I am the bald man with the silver-threaded beard and the glasses resting on his head because his mind never truly rests. I am the man who has known loss deeply enough to write about it honestly. I am the man who has loved intensely enough to believe in it even after it hurt. I am the man who has faced doubt, not once, not twice, but repeatedly and still returned to the page.

There were seasons when the world felt louder than my voice. Seasons when it seemed easier to shrink than to stand tall. I have known what it feels like to invest emotion into places that did not return it. I have known what it feels like to hope and to watch that hope dissolve. I have experienced moments where silence echoed louder than applause ever could. But something within me refused to let silence have the final word.

And so I wrote.

I wrote when I was tired. I wrote when I questioned myself. I wrote when my heart felt heavier than my hands. I wrote when doubt whispered, “Who will read this?” I wrote when the world did not seem to notice. I wrote not because it was convenient, but because it was necessary. Writing was not a hobby. It was survival. It was resistance. It was faith in motion.

Every book I have published carries a fragment of that resistance.

My Romantic Rendezvous with Greece was not simply a love story set beneath Mediterranean skies. It was a reminder that love can return after silence. That not every love story begins at the beginning, some begin after heartbreak, after healing, after life has already left its marks. It was about rediscovering softness after strength had become armour.

The Symphony of Salt and Skin explored love in its intensity, love that aches, desire that consumes, and connection that refuses to remain surface-level. It was not written from fantasy alone, but from understanding that human longing is complex, vulnerable, and sometimes beautifully overwhelming.

Then came stories that surprised even me. The Grumpy Old Man Who Found Pixel was born from grief, the kind that does not shout but sits quietly in a room. It became a story of healing arriving unexpectedly, sometimes on four paws, sometimes in silent companionship. It became a reminder that sometimes love does not ask questions. It simply stays.

The Grumpy Old Man Who Found His Christmas Again was about second chances, about hearts that quietly close and the unexpected moments that gently reopen them. It was about rediscovering light after believing it had permanently dimmed. It was about magic that does not erase pain but softens it.

The Vigil of Hope became a candle in written form. It was about quiet faith, about holding on when answers do not arrive quickly. It was about believing that even the smallest flame can matter in the darkest night. It was about waiting without surrendering.

Lina’s Winter Friend: The Wolf Cub of the Moonlight Mountains reminded me that softness is not weakness. That kindness and courage can exist in the same breath. It was a story that carried gentleness for children and truth for adults, that sometimes the bravest hearts are the quietest ones.

Fate is a Thread Woven Across Lifetimes, stepped into destiny, into inevitability, into the idea that some connections transcend logic and time. It was about rebirth, about unfinished stories, about battles that span more than one lifetime. It was intense, layered, and deeply symbolic of how I see human connection, not random, but woven.

The Grumpy Old Man Who Taught a Kingdom to Stand Still was about strength through stillness, about understanding that sometimes power is not loud. Sometimes survival requires pausing. Sometimes leadership requires endurance more than action.

When I look at these works collectively, I see a pattern. Love. Loss. Redemption. Hope. Destiny. Stillness. Courage. They are not random themes. They are chapters of my own internal journey.

Against all odds, these books exist.

They exist because I refused to stop. They exist because I believed that even if only one person read them, they would matter. They exist because someone believed in me when I nearly doubted myself into silence. There was a voice that said, “Don’t quit.” There was encouragement that refused to let my pen fall permanently. Without that push, perhaps these stories would have remained thoughts instead of pages.

And then there is God.

I cannot write this birthday letter without acknowledging the One who carried me when I could not carry myself. There were moments when my own strength was insufficient. Moments when frustration could have turned into bitterness. Moments when surrender seemed logical. But grace intervened. Strength appeared where there was none. Doors opened quietly. Ideas arrived when I needed them most. The gift of imagination, the discipline to write, the resilience to continue, these were not accidents. They were blessings.

I thank God for protection in seasons I did not understand. I thank Him for lessons hidden within disappointment. I thank Him for allowing pain to refine rather than destroy me. I thank Him for reminding me that purpose does not always reveal itself immediately; sometimes it unfolds page by page.

This birthday is not about vanity. It is about reflection. It is about acknowledging that the man I am today is not the same man I was years ago. I am more patient. I am more grounded. I am less afraid of vulnerability. I understand now that strength does not require hardness. That courage is often quiet. That authenticity resonates louder than perfection.

Who am I?

I am a writer who turned loneliness into literature. I am a man who chose ink over silence. I am someone who believes that stories can heal, challenge, and awaken. I am someone who refuses to allow past heartbreak to define future hope. I am someone who understands that legacy is built slowly, deliberately, faithfully.

I have faced rejection. I have faced indifference. I have faced internal battles that no one else saw. There was a time when I genuinely believed I might not even live long enough to see this birthday. My health had its own battles, quiet and frightening ones, the kind that make you sit alone and question how much time you truly have. I remember someone once looking at me and saying, almost casually, “You won’t last a day. You’ll die tomorrow.” Those words were not new to me. I had heard variations of them throughout my life, predictions of failure, forecasts of collapse, curses disguised as certainty.

But I chose not to fight those words. I chose not to seek validation from those who had already decided my ending. I kept my composure. I kept my silence. Not because I was weak, but because I understood that arguing with darkness does not produce light. I decided that if I was going to prove anything, it would not be through confrontation. It would be through continuation. And here I am. Alive. Writing. Publishing. Growing.

Yesterday, a respected colleague read two of my recent articles and told me, “Jacob, you are an amazing writer. Keep going.” She gave her blessings. In that quiet encouragement, I heard something louder than every curse I had ever endured. I realised that I do not need to fight anyone anymore. I do not need to compete, to argue, or to defend my existence.

Some people preach goodness but do not practice it. Some speak of virtue while living in contradiction. I have seen it. I have felt it. But I refuse to become it. I forgive those who wished me harm. I pray for those who misunderstood me. Because my strength is not in retaliation. It is in resilience. And this birthday is proof that every word spoken against me did not become my destiny.

But I have also faced my own reflection and chosen not to look away. I have chosen to grow instead of retreat. I have chosen to learn instead of blame. I have chosen to create instead of complain.

This year, I did not merely exist. I expanded. I wrote a poem on my birthday, not as a performance, but as a declaration. Poetry, for me, is distilled truth. It is vulnerability without disguise. It is the heart speaking without armour. This poem was not written for applause. It was written because something within me needed to speak.

To every reader who has picked up one of my books, thank you. To every person who has shared a review, a comment, a message, you may not realise it, but you strengthened this journey. You reminded me that stories do not travel alone. They find homes in other hearts.

Today, I do not boast. I acknowledge. I acknowledge that building something from nothing takes faith. I acknowledge that persistence is a quiet superpower. I acknowledge that growth often looks messy before it looks impressive.

This birthday is not about counting years. It is about counting courage. It is about recognising that I survived things that once felt unbearable. It is about honouring the discipline it took to sit down and write when motivation was absent. It is about recognising that I am not finished evolving.

I am still becoming.

Stronger. Wiser. More deliberate. Less reactive. More intentional.

The world may measure success in numbers. I measure it in impact. In authenticity. In alignment with purpose. If even one person found comfort in The Vigil of Hope, if one person felt understood through The Grumpy Old Man Who Found Pixel, if one heart believed in love again after reading My Romantic Rendezvous with Greece, then the work mattered.

And I am not done.

There are more stories waiting. More poems forming. More chapters unwritten. More growth ahead. This birthday is not a conclusion. It is a checkpoint. A moment of gratitude. A declaration of continuation.

So today, I thank God. I thank those who stood beside me. I thank the one who believed in me when I hesitated.

And yes, I thank myself for refusing to surrender.

Against all odds, I am still here. Still writing. Still believing. Still building.

Happy Birthday to me.

And may this year be louder in purpose, deeper in faith, and richer in creation than ever before.

Until next time…

God Bless Us All…

- Jacob Mascarenhas

Author | Storyteller | Founder of AWritersTip