on my sixth birthday, i remember throwing a tantrum because i was no longer five. i think i understood the impending pains of adulthood very clearly from a young age, although i really only have the words for it now at twenty-five.
lately, i’ve become acutely aware of the deeply unglamorous logistics of being alive and being an adult — changing my address, transferring utilities, writing taxes on a post-it note so i don’t forget to file by the end of the weekend. at any given moment i’m either surrounded by half-packed boxes or staring at a laptop trying to remember a password i created three minutes ago. there’s always some small administrative task blinking at me like the smoke detector in my apartment that needs a new battery.
i’m moving 3,000 miles away to new york city. i started a new job a few months ago. i’m trying to scale my creative work into something that resembles an actual life instead of a late-night hobby i apologize for having. all good things. all chosen things. all things i very much wanted.
and yet, somewhere between calling my bank for the third time and arguing with myself about how many sweatshirts a person is legally allowed to own, i had the most useless thought imaginable: i wish i was a kid again.
not necessarily in a sentimental way. or stemming from a desire for scraped-knees. i certainly don’t miss middle school or getting a slap on the wrist for incomplete homework. what i miss, i think, is the infrastructure of childhood.
as a kid, life simply occurred around you.
trips happened. holidays appeared. houses changed. you went places because someone told you to grab your shoes and get in the car. there was no visible labor attached to any of it. you never saw the planning, or the money, or the arguments over directions, or the quiet math your parents were doing at the kitchen table after you went to bed. you just materialized in new locations like a minor royal being transported between estates.
i keep thinking about long drives when i was little, how i would fall asleep, head against the window. i’d wake up and we were somewhere else entirely — a hotel with patterned carpet, a relative’s driveway, a beach town that smelled like sunscreen and fried food. it genuinely felt like teleportation. we were here, and then we were there, and i had nothing to do with it.
meanwhile my parents had probably been awake for hours, navigating traffic, paying tolls, hauling suitcases, figuring out where everyone was going to sleep. i was in the backseat eating gummy worms and asking how much longer every ten minutes, and if we could stop at mcdonald’s, like a tiny, unhelpful executive.
that was the arrangement: they did the work, and i got the experience.
it wasn’t just travel. everything operated that way. groceries refilled themselves. birthdays assembled out of thin air. christmas felt like a natural phenomenon, like rain or wind, rather than two exhausted adults staying up past midnight wrapping gifts and placing batteries into plastic toys.
as a child, you genuinely believed life just takes care of itself. which, in hindsight, is an incredible business model.
now i know exactly how much work it takes for anything to look effortless.
nothing in my current life just happens. if i want to go somewhere, i book it. if i want to live somewhere new, i budget for it, sign things, scan things, send things, wait for approval emails like i’m applying for a mortgage on the moon. even small pleasures come with a trail of tiny responsibilities. dinner is groceries and dishes and remembering to defrost something. a weekend trip is fifteen browser tabs and a mild headache.
adulthood, as far as i can tell, is mostly paperwork disguised as freedom.
the funny part is that these are all things i chose. no one forced me to move across the country. no one forced me to switch jobs or take my writing and creating videos more seriously. these were my ideas. my ambitions. the kind of decisions you talk about for years and then finally make while feeling brave.
still, there are moments — usually late at night, surrounded by half-filled boxes and that specific smell of cardboard — when i catch myself wishing someone else were handling the logistics. someone older and more competent could just tap me on the shoulder and say, don’t worry, it’s all arranged. just get in the car.
i’d like to show up to my own life the way i used to show up to vacations. slightly disoriented and holding a snack. no idea how much anything costs.
it took me an embarrassingly long time to realize that my parents weren’t magicians. they were just tired. they absorbed all the boring, stressful parts, quietly, so i could experience the polished version. they let me believe the world was seamless because they were doing the stitching somewhere out of sight. mom and dad, if you’re reading this, thank you.
someone was always staying up later than they wanted to. someone was always paying. someone was always driving while everyone else slept.
now, when something good happens — when a plan actually works, when a new chapter opens up because i pushed it open — i can see every inch of the scaffolding behind it. there’s no mystery left. i know exactly how many phone calls and forms and small, tedious choices it took to get there.
it’s less magical, sure. but it’s also mine in a way childhood never was.
the other night i was sitting on my floor, surrounded by piles of things i’d decided to keep and things i’d finally thrown out, labeling boxes with a thick black marker like i was archiving evidence. it was quiet. no music. just the pulling of tape and the occasional car passing outside. it struck me that this — this boring, unphotogenic moment — is what most dreams actually look like up close. a bit ugly.
by midnight my hands were covered in that dusty cardboard film and i still had three more to go. nothing cinematic about it. just me, making sure my own life shows up where it’s supposed to.
so, i guess there’s no going back. at least there’s no homework.