I have reached the age I always wished to be, and only now do I realize how much time I wasted waiting, counting, pretending. I look back at my childhood when I still trusted the world and expressed freely my love for strangers and strange places. I imagined that as I got older, I’d grow wiser and my fear would dissipate, but I have found the opposite to be true. I was wiser when I was a child, watching families of deer through my kitchen window, collecting rocks and fossils in the driveway, lining doorways with salt to keep out evil fairies.
Now I worry about money, about school, about love. I second-guess myself before I speak. I wonder if I express myself too much or too little, if my words will be received well, or if they will be rejected. I was once fearless, but now I walk through this world on my tiptoes, quietly avoiding obstacles and hoping that if I am careful and calculated enough, I will make it to the clearing among the trees.
I believed to have distanced myself so much from the little girl I once was, yet the things I felt then have not changed. I am still afraid of the dark, my eyes still fill with tears when I think of my father, I still seek comfort in the softness, I still crave gentle love. Sometimes I am still angry, still sad. Other times, I feel joy so great it spills out of me. I still remember the stories I would fall asleep to, and now I come up with my own.
Now that I am older, I wish I could go backwards. But no, that isn’t right either. Now that I am older, I can honor her, the girl with the bowl cut who wore her mother’s silver jewelry on her little hands and wrists. I can honor her and bring her closer to the surface, let her walk with me again, hand in hand. I can hold her and love her. I can nurture her, and let her nurture me.
