Not What It Seems

Growth is a curious thing. It never arrives neatly packaged with a bow, the way we imagine it

will. It doesn’t always look like degrees on the wall, milestones checked off, or applause from the right rooms. For me, growth has looked more like risk; the risk of trusting myself enough to stand alone, to cultivate independence, to accept my life not for what others project onto it, but for what it truly is.

But what is my life? Is it a list of my interests — the books I read, the places I’ve been, the patter of my days? Is it defined by my past, or confined to my present? The more I dig within myself, the more I see how often individuality is measured by what we can do for others. How we soften the edges of our voices, our presence, our very essence to keep strangers comfortable.

I’ve lived both sides of perception: the polished version that grants entry into affluent circles, and the humble truth of being raised in poverty. Neither tells the full story. Both are disguises, in a way.

We’re told we become adults at eighteen. Yet real adulthood doesn’t sink in until much later — when you’ve fallen, rebuilt, and questioned who you are enough times to finally answer with something deeper than survival. For me, that answer didn’t start taking shape until my thirties.

So, what is growth? It’s not a final form. It’s the quiet discipline of learning from your own missteps, then daring to navigate differently. It’s recognizing the bar has always been set low and deciding not to measure yourself by it.

Life is one tight lane, with dirt roads branching off into distractions. Growth is the choice to walk your own, even when it’s unpaved. And having a nice butt helped navigate both.