Growing up is learning
that time doesn't ask permission.
It takes your favorite people,
your safe places,
the sound of laughter that once lived in your house
and leaves behind echoes you pretend not to hear.
It's realizing
the adults didn't know what they were doing either,
they were just older,
braver-looking
carrying their own quiet disasters in their pockets.
Growing up is bruised knees turning into bruised hearts.
It's learning how to smile through it
because crying in public makes people uncomfortable.
It's understanding that some goodbyes don't come with closure,
they just....happen.
And you carry them anyway.
Getting older means loving things
you know you'll lose.
It means taking pictures
because memory isn't as loyal as you thought.
It means missing versions of yourself
who didn't yet know how hard the world could be.
But here's the gold they don't warn you about;
It's the way you survive things
you once swore would break you.
It's the strength that shows up quietly,
unannounced,
when you thought you had none left.
It's finding beauty in late-night conversations,
in laughter that comes after the tears,
in realizing you're still here;
still trying,
still loving,
still becoming.
Growing up hurts.
Getting older humbles you.
But somewhere between the loss and the living,
you learn this:
The heart may crack,
but it also widens.
And somehow,
miraculously,
it keeps making room.
Dec 18, 2025
Dec 18, 2025 at 8:29 AM UTC
Growing up is learning
that time doesn't ask permission.
It takes your favorite people,
your safe places,
the sound of laughter that once lived in your house
and leaves behind echoes you pretend not to hear.
It's realizing
the adults didn't know what they were doing either,
they were just older,
braver-looking
carrying their own quiet disasters in their pockets.
Growing up is bruised knees turning into bruised hearts.
It's learning how to smile through it
because crying in public makes people uncomfortable.
It's understanding that some goodbyes don't come with closure,
they just....happen.
And you carry them anyway.
Getting older means loving things
you know you'll lose.
It means taking pictures
because memory isn't as loyal as you thought.
It means missing versions of yourself
who didn't yet know how hard the world could be.
But here's the gold they don't warn you about;
It's the way you survive things
you once swore would break you.
It's the strength that shows up quietly,
unannounced,
when you thought you had none left.
It's finding beauty in late-night conversations,
in laughter that comes after the tears,
in realizing you're still here;
still trying,
still loving,
still becoming.
Growing up hurts.
Getting older humbles you.
But somewhere between the loss and the living,
you learn this:
The heart may crack,
but it also widens.
And somehow,
miraculously,
it keeps making room.
I've been writing pieces of this poem since freshman year, since I lost someone very important to me. It took years to find the words that felt honest enough. Today, on my 18th birthday, it finally came together. It's long, but so was the journey.
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