growing up by Lily Harris

sometimes i think growing up is just learning how to miss things.

when i was little, i wanted to be older so badly. 

i thought being a teenager meant freedom, 

that i’d understand myself, 

that everything would finally make sense.

but now i’m here, 

and everything feels both too fast and too slow. 

i blink and months disappear, but inside, i still feel twelve— 

confused, hopeful, soft in places, 

places i thought i’d outgrown.

i miss the versions of me 

who didn’t think about time all the time. 

who didn’t feel guilty for resting, 

for not knowing what comes next. 

i miss being excited for tomorrow— 

instead of being terrified of wasting it.

sometimes i scroll through old photos 

and it hurts to see how alive i looked 

without even trying. 

like the world was still wide open 

and i hadn’t learned yet 

how small things can close in on you.

i keep chasing the feeling 

of running barefoot in summer grass, 

laughing at nothing, 

believing i was infinite. 

i didn’t know infinity could end 

in the shape of an ordinary day.

no one tells you growing up feels like grieving— 

not for someone else, 

but for yourself. 

for the kid you were, 

for the time you didn’t know was slipping, 

for the innocence you traded just to understand the world.

and some nights, 

when everything is quiet, 

i swear i can still feel that younger version of me 

somewhere inside— 

still waiting for me to come home.