The age equation

When I was little, I was terrified of growing up. I thought that minutes disappeared after they happened. If I was six, I never got to be six again and the happiness and sadness of that year would fall into a void.

One of the most impactful changes of these 24 years was the realization that I'm still six, and seven, and eight, and every age I've been before. Time stacks up and changes you, and whether that time felt long or short it was the exact integer needed in your equation.

These moments so small, these moments so big, these moments mean almost nothing to those who didn't live them with me, but they happened, especially as I walked through my 23 years.

The time I danced in strobe lights again for the first time in years because I wanted to dance and dance with someone special. Or, the time I pressed the elevator buttons to ascend the high rise instead of turning back because the job at the top was worth it; and how I did that, again and again, steadying myself each time. Or, the moment I discovered how good the urgent energy of the commuter herd feels leaving and exiting the Metra. Or, the steps I took on the city sidewalks in my boots to recalibrate my anxious feelings instead of searching for stability in an endless Instagram scroll. Or, when I laughed instead of panicked when the pilot said we had to deplane.

Each minute hangs in time, waiting to become an integer in the equation of me. So far, I like the sum I've calculated.