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There’s a point where you grow up and realize that the things you envisioned as a child will never be, and that the things you never thought true will come to pass.  You get fat, you lose friends, you realize your parents aren't infallible, and, perhaps worst of all, you accept that your plans of becoming a ballerina-archaeologist-Olympic gold medalist are simply not going to come true.  You change.  You accept certain things.  You mourn and move on.


But most of all, you grow apart.


You grow apart from your childhood dreams.  You grow apart from old friends.  You grow apart from an unshakable optimism in the world.  You grow apart from your younger self. 


You become like a snake, shedding your infant skin and leaving it behind on some forlorn and dusty rock.  If you look carefully, you can watch your younger self turn to dust.  It's as if you lose your childhood in layers, piece by painful piece. Years of your life crumble away, falling to the ground in piles of ash.  It's all so quick, so messy, so impossible to imagine when you're six or seven years old. And then one day, you're in your twenties and realize ... where did it all go?


Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.   Layers of self, blown away in an instant.


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Adulthood is like a dance.  A dance with uncertainty, a duet of utter joy and complete despair.  Beautiful and ugly, a mantle of maturity that is placed upon your shoulders.  Some people wear their adulthood like royalty.  Others wear it like paupers.  Me? I just feel like I'm wearing a wool sweater, itchy and uncomfortable.  Why can't I stay a child forever, laughing in the sunlight and dancing in moonbeams?


I never wanted to grow up.  And yet, here I am, twenty-something years later, awkward in my new found adulthood.  Unwilling and unable to give up that elemental piece of myself, that tiny three year old that exists inside of me and tells me that unicorns exist, love is real and that it is still okay to imagine life as a ballerina-archaeologist-Olympic gold medalist.


I think to myself how sad it is that, at some unspoken point in time, we are no longer allowed to dream.  Why is it that our hopes and aspirations have an expiration date?  Why is it acceptable for a little girl to hug trees, but unacceptable for a grown woman to do the same? 


I wear the mantle of adulthood as best as I can.  However, I look forward to the day when I can cast it off and say to a child of my own to never give in, to never allow anyone to take your dreams from you, and to never, ever stop believing in unicorns.

Rest in Peace, Grammy. Thank you for letting me believe in my dreams.