We’ve forgotten the reasons we ached to grow up.
The afternoon sun travels over the frost-tipped trees outside my living room window, yet my mother and I find ourselves existing in a timeless space. Our backs sink into my grandparents’ elderly couch, and I have a profound appreciation for the privilege of being with my mother in this moment.
Our shared conversation, punctuated by comfortable silences, is a weight pressing into my skin, reminding me of the privilege it is to be my mother’s daughter. Occasionally, I glance over as she speaks of the trials of last Sunday’s dinner or the students in her class, and I ponder what it is to be retired.
Her days are filled with supply teaching twice a week, feeding the cats, and simply existing without the pressure of a job. I wonder what it means to have finished your career, to have adult children. To know what has been, and not longer wonder what could be.
My mother carries a combination of steadiness and contentment I can’t seem to remember experiencing in my 22 years of age.
There’s a restlessness I’ve carried with me since I turned 22, I have such a singular image of what I should be stuck in my head that I think I’ve forgotten the true essence of adulthood. Instead, the fear of never getting a job, buying a house, or finding a partner pervades my sense of self, I crave stability instead of possibility.
Over the holiday break as I held the image of my almost 60-year-old mother in my head, I realized I lost my sense of adventure. Paying my rent, buying exorbitantly priced groceries, and hunting for a part-time job tainted my view of adulthood until it became a burdensome weight I carried on my shoulders.
Wistfully, I remember the days when food magically appeared in the fridge, and the furthest I was ever away from home was a family vacation in the tropics.
My mother can afford groceries without watching for sales, and enjoys a vacation without the fear of taking time off work. She achieved one of her greatest aspirations in having a daughter, and I still struggle to find even a glimpse of what I want from my adulthood besides a stable career.
I feel myself holding onto my mom as a symbol of stability, and I wonder why I want to skip all the steps to get there. I’ve lost my sense of wonder for the possibilities that come with every new year, and with it, I’m missing the pleasure of simply wandering in life.
My age is written in the language of loss. Like a tongue-tied infant only capable of babbling my words, I can’t grasp the language of what it means to be an adult. I crawl around the floor and attempt to stand up, but I slip to the ground each time I find my feet, and the world jolts around me.
With every centimetre of height, every layer of skin I shed and regrow, every passing year marks a departure from the girl I once was.
Dyeing my hair bleach blonde, hitting the gym, and forsaking fantasy books, I lament the loss of time for childhood activities. I feel like I don’t have the time to do a lot of the things I did when I was a child, despite remembering playing with dolls and running through the bursting sprinkler with a profound sense of fondness.
I realize I don’t want to be a child again—I simply want to have bursts of euphoria for my potential future.
The popularity of the Barbie movie gave rise to the romanticization of girlhood. The trend encapsulates what it means to be a girl through images of dressing up, eating “girl dinners,” and enjoying everyday activities in the same carefree manner as when you were a child.
However, I find revisiting my childhood memories doesn’t bring a sense of contentment for my adult self—it serves as a reminder of the person I no longer am.
I can’t avoid all my responsibilities in connecting with my girlhood—to me it is too much of an escape.
Perhaps it’s the language itself I disagree with, but the connotations surrounding girlhood appear inherently regressive and contained. It makes me feel like I’m searching for something already lost. To push for this idea of girlhood, I’m denying myself the liberty of experiencing adulthood.
Romanticizing my childhood is a big reason why I can’t enjoy being an adult, as I look for moments of a person I no longer am. I don’t want some of my most peaceful and tranquil moments to be found in my past—a time of blissful ignorance that has since inspired wisdom.
Instead of wearing my age and maturity as a badge of honour, there’s this sense of numbness and disdain for being unable to bring back the dreams of my past self.
Reflecting on my perspective of age has made me realize up until now, I’ve lacked gratitude and appreciation for the adult moments I’ve experienced.
I live with the freedom of not having to tell anyone where I am. I can order a bad takeout dinner, stay up as late as I want, and hang out with my friends 24/7. On top of that, I can choose to do all these things without asking for permission.
My mother used to preach gratitude to me, and in return, I arrogantly waved the word away without a passing thought of what it might mean to me.
I thought I knew what gratitude meant, but I believe it takes experience to understand how to possess it. Gratitude isn’t just a word; it’s an experience, a deep appreciation for what you currently have without an incessant desire for more.
Reflecting on the girlhood trend, I find it fails to capture the true beauty of age—the profound impact a year or maybe even a decade can leave on our lives. Of course, my memory is littered with nostalgia, but I need to be present and slow down.
I’m grateful for being 22 and the opportunities I have and can strive for. I want to romanticize adulthood because I can’t turn back the time and be the child I once was.
Maybe one day I will be like my mother, sitting on the couch with my daughter, although I can’t say for sure. What I am certain of is that motherhood isn’t merely a destination, but a culmination of experiences marked by laughter, tears, and shared moments.
So, as I grapple with the uncertainty of what lies ahead, I understand it’s a privilege, not a punishment, to be a woman and no longer a girl.
Tags
adulthood, Girlhood, Growing up
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