When I Grow Up, I Want to Be a Kid .

Does that make sense?

Nobody told us that growing up would feel like slowly putting ourselves down somewhere… and forgetting where we left us.

When I was younger, “When I grow up” used to be a promise.

It sounded shiny. Powerful. Independent. I would say it like I was announcing a promotion. It was like when you see your elder sister in a bra, and you desperately pray for your boobs to grow bigger, so you can finally wear one too. That's how urgent it felt. That's how glamorous adulthood looked.

When I grow up, I’ll have money. When I grow up, no one will tell me what to do. When I grow up, I’ll take three meats from the pot, if I so wished.

Now, I only have ponmo in my pot of stew, and I’m convincing myself it’s a good source of collagen to avoid spiraling into “this is not the life I chose”. And somehow that’s not the victory I imagined.

Growing up came quietly. It didn’t knock. It just started adding things to my mental to-do list.

Deadlines. Bills. Expectations.

“Have you thought about your future?”

“What’s your five-year plan?”

“Are you sure that’s a place you see yourself long term?”

Somewhere between trying to be responsible and trying to be impressive, I think I misplaced something softer in me.

As a child, I was loud without apology. I laughed from my stomach. I ran without checking who was watching. I cried without rehearsing how to explain it. If I was sad, I was sad. If I was happy, the whole room knew.

Now I calculate my reactions. Is this too much? Is this too emotional? Is this mature? Maturity has slowly become synonymous with restraint. With control. With holding it together even when everything inside you feels like a shaken bottle of cold coca cola.

But children don’t “hold it together.” They fall apart and then fall asleep and wake up new.

I miss that.

I miss when rest didn’t need to be earned. When lying on the floor staring at the ceiling was an activity, not laziness. When my biggest responsibility was finishing my Quantitative reasoning assignment before SpongeBob came on.

I remember long afternoons that felt endless. The sun would stretch across the compound, and time didn’t chase me. I would sit on the floor drawing nonsense, completely immersed. No productivity. No monetization. No thought of “Is this useful?”

Just joy and presence.

Now even my hobbies feel like they need outcomes.

If I write, should I publish it?

If I read, is it educational?

If I rest, have I worked hard enough to deserve it?

Adulthood is heavy in ways nobody explains. Not just financially heavy. Emotionally heavy. You become responsible not only for yourself but for how you affect others. You learn that your choices echo. You realize that safety isn’t automatic. And somewhere in learning all of that, we start becoming harder.

We call it growth. We call it wisdom. We call it being realistic. But sometimes it’s just fear wearing oversized suit. At least, that’s what it is for me.

Children try again without overthinking. They don’t sit down to calculate the probability of success before attempting something. They fall off a bike, cry dramatically, and then get back on like nothing happened.

As adults, we fall once and start drafting resignation letters in our heads. Someone criticised my work a few days ago. I bawled my eyes out and was already planning to quit, one month into the job. My friend just kept telling me, “Think about the money.”

Children forgive quickly. They fight at 3 p.m. and share snacks at 3:30. No ego preservation. No silent treatment marathons. Just feelings that move through them instead of building permanent houses inside them.

I think somewhere along the way, we learned to store everything. To archive pain. To rehearse embarrassment. To carry yesterday into tomorrow. And we call that being grown.

I don’t actually want to be a child again. I like knowing things. I like earning my own money. I like the quiet confidence that comes with surviving things younger me would have thought were impossible.

But I do want her back.

The version of me who laughed without checking who approved. The version who tried things just because they looked fun. The version who rested without guilt.The version who believed that tomorrow was automatically full of possibility.

Maybe “When I grow up, I want to be a kid” isn’t regression. Maybe it’s integration.

Maybe it means,

Keeping curiosity even when life gets predictable.

Keeping gentleness with yourself when you inevitably mess up.

Maybe it means letting yourself cry without turning it into a character flaw. Letting yourself celebrate small wins without downplaying them. Letting yourself be excited without calling it childish.

Because somewhere along the way, we started confusing seriousness with depth. You can be deep and still delight in small things. You can be responsible and still be playful. You can be grown and still be soft.

The world will try very hard to harden you. It will tell you that survival requires sharp edges. And sometimes, yes, you will need boundaries. You will need discernment. You will need to say no. But you don’t have to become unrecognizable to yourself in the process.

When I grow up, truly grow up, I don’t want to be smaller. I don’t want to be more afraid. I don’t want to be so composed that I forget how to feel. I want to be grounded, but light.

So maybe growing up isn’t about becoming someone new.

Maybe it’s about returning to who you were before fear, before comparison, before performance, and choosing to protect that person instead of abandoning them.

When I grow up, I want to be a kid.

Just one with better boundaries… and 3.2gb of Mtn data.

Well, I'm gonna go lick lollipop that my friend got me.

Your anonymous bestie,

Ree 🤍