I Am the Version of Myself My Childhood Self Would Side-Eye

I used to think growing up meant becoming some grand, polished version of yourself—the one your childhood self would cheer for, maybe even brag about at recess. But here I am, ordering my third cup of coffee at 9 PM, staring blankly at a screen, and wondering if I’ve just been winging adulthood all along. Growing up is realizing you’re your own unpaid intern.

Turns out, the kid inside me would side-eye this version pretty hard. Not because I gave up on dreams, but because I forgot how to be recklessly hopeful. The fearless wonder? Buried under endless to-do lists and a growing collection of "shoulds" I didn’t even know I agreed to. Hope is the most expensive habit with the worst Return of Investment.

But here’s the twist: maybe that side-eye is a good thing. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of reminding me that I’m still in progress. The kid’s shock is just a mirror—reflecting not failure, but the distance traveled. Sometimes the only thing growing faster than you is your collection of regrets.

Because adulthood isn’t a trophy. It’s a series of compromises, awkward realizations, and occasional moments of grace where you realize you’re still funny, still curious, still capable of surprise. It’s less about having it all figured out and more about knowing how to laugh when you don’t. Laughing at your chaos is the cheapest therapy.

My childhood self would side-eye this version, sure. But maybe they’d also laugh with it, because even in all the mess and “what the hell now?” moments, there’s still something undeniably me—a little rough around the edges, a little beautifully broken, and stubbornly alive. We are all just drafts, but some of us are unpublished manuscripts.

And if that’s not worth a side-eye or two, I don’t know what is.

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