Embracing the complexities of adulthood and longing for the simplicity of childhood

They say once you grow up, you miss childhood. You miss being a little kid with nothing to worry about, making a mess of everything, and easily getting away with it. And I, being the bizarre person I am, always found it ridiculous. I used to think, “How can someone miss being a child? I mean, you are ignorant, dirty, barely know how to take care of yourself, and always rely on others for help. How can anyone miss being told what to do, where to go, what to eat, and what to wear? How can we miss being controlled by everyone, but most of all, how can we miss something we barely remember?”
But now, as I am in my twenties, I feel like they were right. They are always right when they say you will miss being a child. However, by child, I don’t mean a little kid who is just learning how to walk. By child, I mean the person I was last decade, last year, last month, or even yesterday. I miss being the person I was just a few seconds ago. Because I’ve realized with every passing second, there is just a little pressure building inside me, and it’s been going on for a while now. I am afraid it might burst anytime.
I now miss the uncertainties of life. I miss the child who was unaware of the world, its brutalities, and even its beauties. I miss the person who could tell the difference between these two. I miss the person I was when I joined college, the scared little girl who was confused and had no idea where life would take her. I miss the person who went to college every day because it was her safe space. I miss the tiredness I used to feel in my legs after running around the college all day, and I miss the strength I had afterwards to finish reading a novel in just one day. Now, even the thought of it tires me out.
I miss the person who used to observe faces and count the lines on everyone’s forehead. Now, I don’t even look anyone in the eye. I miss the girl who used to write about everything she came across, whether it was beautiful or creepy, whether it made sense or was stupid. Now, I only want to write valuable stuff, which is why I write a little.
I miss the person who wanted to learn literature out of curiosity and happiness; now it’s just a responsibility. I miss the child who was told what to eat, how to dress, what to do, with whom to play, and what to say. I miss those boy clothes that my mother used to put on me. I miss the buzz cut I had for most of my childhood. I miss the games I used to play. I miss the big bag full of books I used to carry. Because living on my own, I’ve realized the importance of everything that I took for granted.
Now, I go to the vegetable vendor, and for ten minutes, I stare at him because I don’t know what I want to eat for dinner. These are, I think, all symptoms of growing up. I am confused; little things tire me out. I have no energy to write or read books. Reading literature to pass the rest has taken away the joy from it, and reading novels seems like a dream now. I used to sing songs while working, and today I realized I don’t do that anymore.
Now, whoever is reading this might think I am a depressed person who needs help, but I am not. I am actually pretty great. It’s just that when I think, my thoughts just don’t stop digging the lost memories. But I am hopeful. Despite everything, I have never lost hope. I know right now, whatever I am doing, whether I like it or not, I will miss it in the future, like I miss the days that have gone by.
When I was writing my first novel, I’ll laugh at how frustrated I was when I had a long writer’s block. I’ll miss how the vegetables used to stare at me, and I at them. I’ll miss everything that frustrates me right now. That’s life. The best part about living is actually living. I mean, living with all that comes your way, living with the anxieties, the sufferings, the mental breakdowns, living to reach a certain point and then wanting to go beyond.
Working hard to go to another college, and once you’re there, missing the old one. That’s who we are, that’s who we’ll always be. The crazy little humans who are never happy with where they are. The bizarre humans who are expecting to be happy after they’ve achieved great things. The wild humans who want to grow up early only to miss their childhood. I am just a small part of the large human race, and I am not apologetic for my human behaviour. It’s silly, but then, we all are. We are humans after all; overthinking is in our blood.
Shafiya Showkat is a writer, columnist and poet. Feedback at [email protected]

Shafiya Showkat