I was never afraid of growing up. Not when it mattered, when I still had time to appreciate my childhood. Not until it was too late. Then, suddenly, I was looking it right in the eye – a fear I didn’t know I had.
Little Scarlett thought it was exciting, even: the prospect of being a full-grown person with purpose and autonomy. She’d write stories, and all her characters would be young adults. At every family get-together, she’d be the last kid at the dinner table, eager to hear what the grown-ups had to say, even while her six siblings were off playing. She’d feel a little better about herself – a little taller, a little cooler – every time someone told her how mature she was.
It was something Little Scarlett was told a lot.
Even now, people are often surprised when I reveal how old – or how young – I really am. At 19, I was supposed to graduate this May. That is, before I started to really think about the road ahead of me. My next destination was graduation, and it was much too close. Once I reached it, I had no idea where my next path might go.
So I grabbed hold of the wheel and took a detour.
I decided to pursue a second major last semester, taking on a creative writing degree in addition to the one I’d already been working towards in journalism. It made perfect sense; I’ve always loved writing, and journalism lets me practice only one style. Taking on this extra work would make me more well-rounded in my craft. It would enhance my educational experience.
All of this is true. But the best lies always have some truth in them.
All logical reasoning aside, deep down, I know I’m pretending. Procrastinating. It’s a tactic I’m all too familiar with. The whole truth is that graduating now would feel like stepping into an abyss, where all I would have to do is fall. By adding another degree, I bought myself time, building myself a bridge over that abyss.
Still, I know it won’t get me all the way across.
I’m facing adulthood already, and even with the safety net of college, it’s scarier than Little Scarlett could have predicted.
If I could go back in time, I’d tell her – tell myself – to take it all in. Don’t wish it away. Don’t be embarrassed to play pretend, and don’t worry so much about the future.
Maybe I need some of that advice right now. To quote “Anne of Green Gables,” the novel that defined my childhood, “tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it… yet.”
So, I’m trying to take each new day as it comes, enjoying it as part of my journey rather than worrying about my next destination.
I take comfort in knowing I had a good childhood: one worth missing. I tell my six-year-old sister to enjoy being young. When she’s a little older, I’ll lend her my copy of “Anne of Green Gables.”
And I’ll face the fear I once fantasized about, one way or another.
