Growing Pains

Learning lessons through growth, reflecting on what I thought adulthood would be like as a child, and finding comfort in the pains that come with growing up.

I wish children were offered classes about growing up. Or, at the very least, fed more realistic fairytales.

As a teenage girl in her mid-20s, I find it pretty rude that I didn’t learn how to fill out a mailing envelope properly, what it means to have a dysregulated nervous system, or know the signs of someone who doesn’t care about me the way they say they do.

Obviously, I know [a little more] now. But those are just a few painful lessons I could have learned just by being told.

Currently, I’m sitting in the park, reflecting on a friendship I thought I’d have forever.

It’s really wild because you meet a stranger and slowly the two of you decide to evolve past acquaintances to friends, and if you’re lucky best friends.

In the past, I would allow people into my life giving them a score of 100%. As time passed, they all dropped below 100. However, there was always the opportunity for some level of redemption.

It wasn’t until recently I grew up enough to know that wasn’t fair to myself or the other party.

I put them so high on a pedestal that the only direction they could go was down. I didn’t allow myself enough time to observe the new people in my life before placing them in a bucket.

The fact that my relationships haven’t ended that disastrously is a miracle, but it didn’t rid my dues being paid in growing pains.

Now, as a teenage girl in her mid-20s, I give myself and other parties the space to be themselves, and then decide whether to bring them into my life or not.

And I like this about me now.

Maybe the growing pains popped me so good I decided it was time to stop getting smacked, in that way.

Or maybe I was given signs, but instead decided to keep doing me until I found someone who fell in line.

Or maybe that was a canon event.

Canon event: an event that is essential to the formation of an individual’s character and identity.

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As a kid, I always thought I’d get engaged at my college graduation and be married by 23.

I wish Disney would’ve told me that was more of a Gen-X thing. And that I’d graduate college at 21 because I’m that girl.

As a kid, I knew I’d continue to age past 25, but I didn’t grasp the concept that that meant I’d continue to evolve mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.

I didn’t know that meant I’d leave the career I studied for [which I didn’t know what that’d be] or move to a city I know nothing about, and even have these interests, like fitness.

I think she thought we’d have some desk job, have a husband like Victor Baxter, pop out a few babies, and maybe even have a housewife era.

If I could have a conversation with her now, she’d be… surprised.

But I do believe she’d be proud.

And as excitingly uncomfortable as it’s all been I wouldn’t change a thing.

I wouldn’t change being incredibly mentally exhausted from a career I only took part in for monetary reasons.

I wouldn’t change being on autopilot through the majority of my early 20s because I was so detached from myself.

Okay, maybe I would change my college experience by thinking about my future more, being business-oriented, or pouring time into hobbies… but that’s an L I’m just going to have to eat, at this point.

Through the anxiety, sweat, and tears of finding myself, I’ve learned to be decisive, intentional, communicative, and compassionate.

I learned I have more control over my life than the adults told me I would.

I learned that keeping promises to myself is foundational for any relationships I think about building.

I learned that money does grow on trees—all you need is a printer.

This is a joke… but it is everywhere.

Most importantly, I learned that through the discomfort of growth, there will always be pockets of comfort. Those pockets could be surrendering to the situations that bring stressors or taking time to focus on the things in your control.

Regardless, finding those pockets is crucial for reaching new heights.

Because anything that isn’t growing is dying.

And you’re obviously not dead yet.

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