Twenty. The amount of letters a number contains does not change its meaning, yet the difference in the wording between nineteen and twenty is incredibly prominent. The “suffix” -teen is dropped and will never be seen again. The loss of the “suffix” feels dramatic, as it is just a number, but losing -teen, and becoming this new franchise of a woman, stings a little more than I thought it would. Nostalgia comes at the price of a younger sibling or cousin who has no clue what I’m talking about. Dora kitchens become iPad games with restaurants. Barbies are no longer dancing with no knees or elbows. I have become accustomed to knowing what it is to grow up, as I have been for nineteen years, but nearing the day that true womanhood begins is something I have tried to avoid for a long time.
A birthday can be considered just a regular day for many people, but for someone who looks at age as a milestone or another reminder of where they are in life, the impact can still be there, even if done in silence. It is not about the actual number. It is what the number represents. As cliche as that sounds, looking at the implications of what age means to someone, twenty is a wake-up call that especially, as women, we have to leave our childhood behind.
I have always been considered to have childlike features and habits. I still wish on dandelions, get scared easily, and refuse to go far out into the world by myself. I was raised as anyone should be, surrounded by love, even when family members were scarce. Still, my parents and sister showed me what it was to be loved unconditionally. Even then, there are moments where I reflect on “little Kiana” and can only hope she’d be proud of the young woman who thinks about her constantly.
If you’re anything like me, looking back at baby pictures of yourself can take you back just a bit because we have forgotten what it was to be that little girl all those moons ago. That’s okay. Part of me knows that she is present with me when I am running around in the rain or when I am surrounded by music that makes my heart jump. I look for her more than I have in a long time.
Turning twenty sounds terrifying, but I can’t help but think and hope that the little versions of us that roamed the earth are proud of where we are. Womanhood is something we can’t escape from, no matter how hard we try. But imagine how beautiful it will be to tell the little versions of us that we have become more than they could have ever hoped. Isn’t that what womanhood is about? Healing the little girl that lived for everyone else so that we can live for ourselves?
Even when we’re seventy and our knees grow fragile, I hope that we still find solace in dancing in the rain as we did when we were seven. Seven looks like it can pass as the “prefix” for seventy; hopefully the imagination and wonder will remain the same.