I’m a grown-a*s adult but cry on a whim. Just this morning I wept over the news so grim.
I’m a grown-a*s adult, so my ID card says, but I just want to be cared for on my less perfect days.
I’m a grown-a*s adult tired of being called such, because full-time composure truly is asking too much.
I’m not an adult, I’m not even fully grown. I am a complex human, who can cry, sulk and moan.
Maturity doesn’t mean being emotionally repressed. It means accepting the ways in which our souls are expressed.
I don’t particularly like it, but I love it nonetheless, that I’m full-on with my feels, whether joyful or a mess.
So, what if we abolish the outdated “adult”? A word that’s restrictive as a hillbilly cult.
I’m now a wrinkly human with taxes and higher stakes, but I still need the softness we give a child that makes mistakes.
For the end, a funny truth, that makes me giggle from my core: when I allow myself to “child” is when I don’t need to anymore.
She waited for my acceptance, nothing less and nothing more, and the moment I gave it, she dropped the tantrum and skipped Right. Out. The. Door.
