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I’ve never wanted to grow up.
I’ve always been the girl who sighed
At birthday candles instead of making wishes.
The girl who whispered,
“Wow… another year,”
Like time was something cruel,
Not a gift.

The girl who stared out car windows
And thought,
“I wish time would slow down.”
“I want to be 12 again.”
I missed being small.
I missed the color of childhood—
Not just bright,
But loud—
Like sidewalk chalk on sun-baked concrete,
Like juice-stained smiles
And tangled hair after recess.

I missed the days when the world felt huge.
When trees were skyscrapers,
And playgrounds were cities.
When my biggest worry
Was whether my siblings
Would play outside with me after dinner.

I was always the girl who said
“I’ll never be okay with growing up.”
The one who dyed her hair bubblegum pink
Just to feel like the version of herself
She never got to be.
The one who still watched Disney Channel
Long after her friends moved on.
The one who still said
“Ew, boys are gross,”
Even when her voice cracked saying it.

But look at me now.

Now, I want to grow up.
Desperately.
I’m the girl who still says
“Wow… another year,”
But this time,
Because it still doesn’t feel like enough.

Now I say,
“I wish time would hurry up.”
“I want to be 22 and married.”
I dream of holding hands in grocery stores,
Of shared bank accounts and tired kisses.
I long to be called someone’s wife.
To belong somewhere,
To someone.

Now, I want the world to feel small—
Predictable.
Safe.
I want my biggest concern
To be whether my child
Wants me to play outside with them
After dinner.

I’m now the girl who thinks,
“I can’t wait to grow up.”
The one who wears her hair natural
Because she’s chasing maturity
Like it’s the only way to be taken seriously.
The one who traded cartoons
For 90s sitcoms—
Not for nostalgia,
But for preparation.
For study.

The girl who once said
“Ew, boys are gross”
Now says,
“I want a husband and a life.”
She watches wedding videos
And cries for people she’s never met.
She decorates Pinterest boards
With baby names
And living room layouts.

And still,
Growing up is hard.

Because somewhere inside,
There’s a photograph of the girl I used to be—
Faded but intact.
Running barefoot in a backyard,
Dripping popsicle on her shirt,
Yelling “last one to the fence is a rotten egg!”
Believing in magic.
Scared of the dark,
But not of life.

She’s gone now.
Packed away in a box
Of old T-shirts and journal pages.
And she will be
For a long time.

Until someday,
Maybe I’m 28,
Maybe 45—
And I look back at all this
With a lump in my throat
And say,
“I wish I was 16 again.”

And I’ll mean it.

Because growing up
Is not a straight road—
It’s a spiral.
And we’re always
Chasing the versions of ourselves
We didn’t know we’d miss
Until they were already memories.
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