I Don't Like Growing Up

I am running out of time. 

I remember sitting at the dinner table, laptop open, scrolling through majors as if I could recognize one as my own. With each scroll my chest felt tighter. Nothing seemed like a right fit, like a pair of pants that you can only stand in. 

Did I want to write for the rest of my life? Dance? Create? Produce? Did I want to learn a trade? 

The acceptance letters began to pile up on the side of my desk, bright envelopes with stickers and a brochure. It was supposed to feel exciting, freeing, maybe a little nerve wracking in a good way … But it didn’t, it felt like pressure, maybe like I was growing up too fast. 

I am running out of time. 

Looking around at my classmates, they all seemed to have everything figured out – declared majors, career paths, plans to move away. I didn’t. 

My mom says I should be in health, become a doctor, a physician … I can barely take care of myself. How could I dedicate my life to taking care of others? My dad tells me to find something stable, something I wouldn’t regret. 

“Once you’re out of college, you’ll want to find a position that will help pay off all the debt,” he said. 

Right … because writers, dancers, artists and all those creative positions make tons of money when they are fresh out of school. Maybe I should find a career that will make me tons of money. I still want to strive for happiness though. 

My chest feels tight again, my shoulders meet my ears, I close my eyes hard so no one will see my frustration.

But I knew what I didn’t want. I didn’t want hospitals. I didn’t want to feel trapped in something that left no room for creativity.

And still, I felt guilty – like not having a plan meant I was already falling behind. I’m so young, yet it feels like I’m running out of time.

When I realized I couldn’t afford to go away to most of the schools I got into, it felt like everything collapsed at once. All those options, all those expectations … gone. I remember standing in the kitchen, staring at the numbers, feeling like I had somehow failed before I had even started.

At the time, going to community college felt like settling. Like I had taken a wrong turn while everyone else kept moving forward. It wasn’t my first choice, and it still doesn’t feel like the right fit for me. But it makes everyone else happy. 

“That’s such a smart choice.” 

“Congratulations.”

“So proud of you.” 

I guess I should be grateful. 

I am grateful. 

But somewhere in that disappointment, something shifted.

Slow down. Just slow down.

 

They called my name, I walked the stage, received my diploma. I should be really happy. I think I was in the moment. 

“Oh yeah, I just graduated high school, haha!” We screamed to the lyrics of “Spin” by Mac Miller. But it still felt like in that moment something wasn’t right, even stepping out of the field in my gown, that tight chest feeling, eyes watered – and not just because of my allergies – everything was going too fast. 

Slow down. Just slow down, I tell myself. But it’s so hard. It’s hard to sit down and think about my future. A future that I have no control over. At least it seems that I don’t.  

For the first time in months, I wasn’t rushing toward a decision I didn’t understand. I didn’t have to pretend I had everything figured out. I could take classes, explore, change my mind, without the weight of a massive cost or a permanent label. 

Now, I’m in school and figuring things out class by class. I work weekends, balancing shifts with assignments and deadlines, and I dance as much as I can in whatever space is left in between. Sometimes it’s in the studio, sometimes it’s in my dusty garage. My parents are proud of where I am now, they don’t have to hold my hand, but they gently guide me with a hand on my back in the right direction. 

It still feels like a lot. Some days, I still feel behind. 

But other days, I notice the small things – the independence, the space to grow, the freedom to figure things out at my own pace.

And I realized something I couldn’t see before: I was never running out of time.

I was just trying to live on someone else’s timeline.

Now, I’m learning to build my own.

It’s slower. It’s uncertain. But it’s mine.

And for the first time, that feels like enough.

A photo from my first day of work