An entire childhood sloppily shoved into cardboard boxes, staring at me from inside a storage unit I walk away from, and think about every night as I fall asleep. I wish I wrapped up all my trinkets in tissue paper, and carefully stacked them on the top shelf of my new closet. I wish I kept every book I came across and color coded them in a brand new book shelf that I built in my brand new living room. I wish I hung up every sweatshirt I thrifted in my hometown, every piece of jewelry I found and promised to keep safe as if it was given to me by a dear friend. There is a nauseating feeling that comes hand in hand with growing up. Suddenly being too far from the place you spent years dreaming of getting away from. It is not nostalgic. It is terrifying. And I’m scared I’m going to die out here in the real world. I’m scared I won’t make it through the winter. I don’t understand anything. I miss my trinkets. My books. My sweatshirts. My home. The people. The house with the Christmas tree lights. The thanksgiving traditions. One day I woke up and realized I no longer remember the rug in my living room. Or the number on the house I grew up in. My memories feel like dreams I had and slowly forgot. A dying language only I know.
I was once a kid, terrified to sleep without the lights on.
And one day I decided I didn’t want to be a kid anymore, I wanted to be a brave adult, and I turned the lights off.
Except, I think I forgot to turn them back on again.
I know now, being an adult does not make you brave.

In fact, I think we are all afraid, feeling an empty wall for a light switch that isn’t there.
Looking for a home that’s been shoveled into cardboard boxes.
Spending all night wondering where our trinkets went.