I’m not sure why we give birthdays so much weight. A single day passes, and suddenly I’m a full year older. But the truth is, I didn’t age in a moment. I’ve aged slowly, incrementally, day by day by day.

Take a snapshot of anyone’s life and compare it to a few years prior, and you’ll likely see important changes. But are we really so different? Have we truly changed?

I have a theory: we don’t fundamentally change over the course of our lives. We mature, we grow, we see the world differently. We’re shaped by the people we meet and the things that happen to us. But at our core, we remain who we’ve always been.

This week’s Torah portion, the story of Korach’s rebellion, offers a powerful example. In it, Korach challenges Moses’ leadership and tries to position himself for Aaron’s job as High Priest.

Korach wasn’t a radical who appeared from nowhere, suddenly craving power. He was Moses and Aaron’s cousin. Aaron had known him since childhood. Perhaps that’s why Aaron didn’t seem to take Korach’s challenge seriously. He knew who Korach was—and who he wasn’t.

Korach believed that holiness alone qualified him for leadership. After all, doesn’t the Torah teach that all people are made b’tzelem Elohim, in God’s image?

Yes. But that doesn’t mean we are all the same. We are uneven by design. Our differences—in ability, temperament, personality—aren’t flaws. They are features of our individual expressions of being human.

I’ve reached an age where I look back over the decades with both surprise and wonder. How did the Jennifer of then—so painfully shy—become the Jennifer of today? I haven’t changed completely. I’m still the girl who once shrank from speaking in public, who believed she was mediocre at best, who preferred to disappear rather than take up space.

But I’ve grown into myself. I’ve learned to appreciate who I am. It’s taken a long time, but I no longer want the ground to open up and swallow me whole, as it did with Korach.

Another birthday approaches. I’ll observe the day with quiet gratitude for the journey, for the life lessons, and for the slow, sacred work of becoming.