With my 18th birthday creeping up, I feel like I’m standing at the doorway of adulthood, peeking in with a mix of excitement and nerves. There’s something surreal about turning 18; the world tells me that I’m going to be a grown up soon, even though I feel far from it. I’ve spent my whole life watching people turn 18, thinking it would be this magical moment where everything falls into place. But here I am, days away, and it just feels… big. And honestly, I’m not ready to leave my childhood behind.
Growing up, adulthood seemed like a far-off land, a place I’d reach someday, but could never fully imagine. Now that it’s practically here, I find myself clinging to the parts of childhood that feel like home. Those carefree days when my biggest worry was what game to play after school, the easy laughter with friends over the smallest things, the way the world felt endless and safe—all of it feels like something I don’t want to lose. I think about the childhood versions of me and how those moments are like keepsakes I carry with me, even if they’re no longer right in front of me.
There’s something about being a kid that makes everything feel possible. When you’re young, there’s this magic where dreams feel just close enough to reach out and grab. You think you’ll be an astronaut or a famous artist, and nobody tells you otherwise. The world is big, and you’re just beginning to see where you might fit into it. Now, with just weeks away, I wonder if that magic fades as the years go on. The reality of responsibilities, the pressure to “have it together,” and the expectation that you suddenly need to know who you are—it all feels so heavy, like it’s pulling me away from the lightness of being a kid.
As I hold on to these memories and bits of who I was, I can’t help but feel like they’re slipping through my fingers. I’m excited about the future, don’t get me wrong, but the thought of fully “growing up” feels like I’m being asked to leave behind pieces of myself I’m not ready to say goodbye to. Those pieces are part of what makes life feel alive and colorful. They’re reminders that I don’t have to be perfect, that there’s beauty in curiosity, and that it’s okay to let myself dream without limits.
And yet, there’s a comforting thought that settles in as I think about it all. No matter how old I get, I’m still someone’s child. We all are. My parents look at me and still see the little girl, or to them their “pumpkin,” who clung to them in crowds, who believed in magic, who looked at the world with wide eyes. Honestly, I’m learning that even as adults, we’re all carrying around pieces of the children we once were. That innocence, that wonder, that vulnerability—they never fully leave us. They’re tucked away, somewhere safe, reminding us that we don’t have to have it all figured out.
Maybe turning 18 doesn’t mean losing those pieces. Maybe it just means learning to live with them, to keep them close as we step forward. Because at the end of the day, growing up isn’t about shedding who we were, but about making room for who we’re becoming.