Leap year. Leap day. Could be a day of taking a leap of faith.
February 29 is not just a date to me. It is my birthday.
A day that exists only when time permits. A day constantly appearing and disappearing without heed of warning. A day a majority of people forget even exists—until it does.
Growing up, I learned early that I was born into interruption. While others moved through fixed calendars, mine required major adjustments. Some years, I celebrated on February 28. Other years, on March 1. Moved. Delayed. Rescheduled.
February 29 became more than a birthday. It grew to become a metaphor. A metaphor for feeling unseen; for being present but not always acknowledged; for existing in between what is the norm and what is memorialized.
This year, February is deemed as… “perfect.”
Twenty-eight days. Four clean weeks. Symmetrical. Untouched by corrections. No extra day stretching along the edges. No anomaly interrupting its tempo.
It follows the rules. It fits the system. It looks complete.
But I find myself subtly asking the universe—perfect for whom? Because in its perfection, there is no space for me.
This year, as you might have guessed by now, there is no February 29. And when this happens—when the calendar flows smoothly without ever needing any adjustment—I feel the quiet message underneath it: irregularities are inconvenient.
Maybe that is why the idea of a leap for me has always felt personal.
Before I go further, I want to anchor this reflection on a song by Jennie, entitled “F.T.S.,” a song that moves between the horrors of hesitation and defiance. For every two lines she sings, I hear something echo against my own timeline of thoughts.
She begins:
“Maybe it's time to take a leap of faith.
And come to my senses and take my shirt off in the rain.”
And I think… maybe it is time.
Because when you are born on a day that appears only every four years and every four millennia, you learn patience early. You learn how to wait for a seat at the table. You learn how to celebrate yourself quietly when the system does not highlight you.
Then she sings:
“Strike a fuckin' match of love and desire.
And warm my hands up in the flame.”
There is just something rebellious about stepping forward without asking for anyone's permission. It is about choosing warmth even when the season feels scorchingly cold.
In a burgeoning society obsessed with achievements and age markers, the people's timelines become rulers of their own minds. Governments measure growth and progress in years. Institutions measure development in data. Society measures success by where you should be in life right now.
Everything must follow a schedule.
Everything must be “on time.”
But what happens to those of us whose timelines were never regular to begin with? Whose timelines were just some sort of disturbance in the flow of the universe?
And then, moving on, going back to the song, it asks:
“Whatever happened to freedom and honesty?
What matters to you, you, you, it's not that deep to me.”
Freedom. Honesty.
We ask these from leaders. We ask for accountability, transparency, and effective reform. Just like how it should be. But do we also allow ourselves the same honesty?
Honesty that perfection can feel somewhat exclusionary. Honesty that systems often favor what is predictable and can be controlled. Honesty that sometimes, being rare feels like being completely forgotten.
So, she continues:
“I'm in love, you're on game.
Switchin' up, switchin' lanes”
Switching lanes. Refusing to fight the urge.
Maybe that is the lesson of leap day:
That life is not necessarily meant to follow a neat 28-day pattern; that correction is not deformity; that adjustments are necessary for time to stay true.
Leap years exist because even the calendar needs fixing. Even time needs alteration. So why are we ashamed of needing our own adjustments?
This year may have a “perfect” February. Balanced. Regular. Complete. But I most definitely think perfection without inclusion is not wholeness. And so, even without February 29 printed on those pages, I choose not to disappear with it—I refuse to do so.
I am still here.
Breathing.
Growing.
Turning a year older even if the calendar does not mark it the way it does for others.
So maybe the leap of faith is this:
To grow without waiting for the extra day. To love myself without needing correction. To question systems that define perfection too narrowly.
If time can bend every four years to stay aligned with the sun and the cosmos, then I can bend my fear into courage.
A leap year corrects the calendar.
A leap of faith corrects the self.
February 29 may not exist this year.
But I do.
And that is more than enough.
To rarity.
To adjust.
Choosing to move forward even in a “perfect” month that forgot to hold space —
Optimistically.
Deliberately.
Still leaping.
