I Want to Grow Up (And Stay This Young Forever)

There is something quietly painful about maturing.

I want to age into someone who knows what wine to bring to dinner parties. Who answers emails without dread, who has a skincare routine that she doesn’t abandon halfway through the week. I yearn to be a woman who can say things like, “Let’s circle back” and actually mean it. A woman who lives in breathable linen, drinks iced lavender lattes, and has a therapist on speed dial, just because.

But I also want to stay this young forever. This version of me who still cries in dressing rooms with my mom waiting outside. Who believes in signs from the universe and makes wishes at 11:11. Who still plays songs from her middle school playlist, reviews old text messages, and tries to analyze new texts like they were written in a secret language.

I think I want both.

To grow up without growing out of the softness. To hold onto the messiness of the now: the 12am spirals, the apprehensiveness, the late-night french fries, the “should I text him?” debates with new friends made in a bathroom. The hope. The desire. The infinite versions of who I could become.

No one really warns you about this contradiction. How growing up feels less like climbing a ladder and more like shapeshifting and constantly rearranging yourself to fit spaces you are still learning to desire. There is potential in that. And loss, too.

I guess growing up means learning how to carry yourself, even when you’re scared. But staying young? That’s about remembering why you started carrying anything. It’s about your early days.

So maybe I’ll be both. 

I’ll grow up, and stay this young forever.