As I’m scrolling on my phone, I come across a video of an elementary school girl doing her makeup. Her small hands gripping a brush awkwardly, painting pink splotches on her eyelids, dabbing glitter all over her cheeks. Of course, my mind goes to you immediately—white streaks on your chubby cheeks while you laugh without two front teeth—but then I recall that you’ve long outgrown the image etched in my brain.
Time flies. No, time chases. Time is a nightmare that creeps up on me incessantly, a reminder that I will never be a teenager again, and you will never again be the child I know you as.
You used to dread me going off to university. I wonder if you remember. That time when you handed me a note at the kitchen table—I opened it in my room a while later. You wrote asking me not to go to America, that you’ll miss me when we’re so far apart. I cried that day quietly in my room.
Years later when it was really time for me to leave, neither of us shed a tear. Perhaps we were simply given too long to process the change, or perhaps we were both battling with rioting emotions. But at the end of the day, the young girl clung onto my jeans begging me to stay was gone, having grown into a teenager waving goodbye with a smile as I turned around with my passport.
When I blew out the candles that read 20, I didn’t think much of it. Later that day, I let my mind wander, but in the isolated quiet of my room my thoughts always become monsters. Pondering led to questioning, and as I questioned, I plunged into a whirlpool of “What if”s, and suddenly the intangible transformation of 1 to 2 became a physical pain.
At 17, I was stressed—I had a passage identification test for my AP Lang class that I had not studied for, and I sat on my desk biting my teeth throughout the night. If I failed, I would never make it to college.
At 18, I was stressed—I tried to squeeze out some profound narratives about my life, but to no avail. I wrung my brain out like a washcloth. I needed to get into college.
At 19, I was elated—I had finally made it.
At 20, I stand at a dead end. I had tumbled and fought my way through a seemingly endless path, but I had somehow reached a dead end. Voices encourage me to now push through and construct my own road. I stand confused. No one taught me how to do that.
I shut my eyes in the dead silence of dawn, an unspoken turmoil rioting around my curled body as I try to fend against the force. Images of you, myself, the ones I love—morph into sickly creatures that threaten to break me. I feel an unbearable pressure grow stronger and stronger, crushing my head into the mattress, but before I shatter into pieces—my eyes fly open. And as I take in the familiar sight of my room, I allow myself to take a deep breath.
I may not braid your hair every morning before school, but instead you send me mirror pictures, asking me which pants you should wear.
You may not make me squishies out of paper anymore, but the duck keychain I bought for you the other day is securely attached to your school bag.
You may not let me take silly pictures of you, but our photobooth pictures decorate your social media account.
Perhaps time doesn’t just chase—it shapes. Perhaps we are malleable clay molded and kneaded by the hands of relationships, experiences, trials, and lessons.
But some things remain the same—the way I see my own features in you, the way you make me laugh, the way I get mad at you for asking me stupid questions—I’m sure these things will never change.
I’ll try. I’ll try my hardest to not let growth crush me, allow myself to flourish with as little tears as possible, and with as much love as I am capable of.
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