My Childhood Died While I Was Still A Child
I Was So Adamant That I Wanted To Grow Up But Living Deadline To Deadline Consumed It
Childhood ought to be a time fraught with wonder and curiosity and the freedom to grow and explore. The world moves in simple motion with you, around you, because of you. Spectres of the future are so far in the distance, they have not yet become even mirages.
I never had a bad childhood. I think it’s important to mention that. I was lucky to not have struggled or wanted for needs in my childhood. And I never want that to come across as a point I am trying to make. My childhood simply died when I was still living in it. I think many of us don’t realize, until much too late, how much we lose in our eagerness to grow up.
We all long for independence eventually. The promise of freedom that adulthood brings as the reward for surviving childhood, for learning lessons, and for following rules. We dream of shedding the watchful eyes of our parents and teachers, dizzy in our heads as we imagine a life of autonomy, of making our own decisions, setting our own schedules.
But what I never understood — and what I think many of us don’t — is that in the pursuit of freedom, we leave something precious behind: the very essence of childhood itself. Only when we’ve already left it behind do we realize how much we should have cherished the simplicity of simply being.
My childhood died when I was still a child, and in its place, I’m left grappling with the consequences of regret, of a childhood I forgot to live.
The Desire to Grow Up
When I was young, I could not wait to leave behind rules and bedtimes and the limitations imposed by adults on me. I watched these super-vision having, fully grown people around me with a sense of envy — I wanted what they had, I wanted that magical freedom to move and to exist as I pleased without worry of being told, “No.” I longed for the kind of freedom they seemed to enjoy. I believed that growing up meant escaping the confines of childhood where all of my decisions had been made by someone else.
Fascinated with the idea of being in control of my own life, living on my own terms, and setting my own schedules, I would daydream of being on my own someday, grown and taking on the world. I dreamt of becoming an astronaut or a secret agent. I was going to do great things — if only I could be trusted to make my own decisions.
As a result of all my forward-looking intentions, I had focused so much on the deadlines on the calendar, the milestones to come, and in doing so, I rushed past the moments that actually mattered. There was always this false promise that life gets even better as we get older. I’m not sure who peddled that misguided statement first, but their judgement should be questioned. The grass is certainly no greener now than then.
Independence, as an idea, was intoxicating to the young mind though, and I convinced myself in naiveté that adulthood held the solutions to my problems. Adulthood promised control. Adulthood promised freedom.
But only now that I am here, with my shoddy back and silly knee pain, do I realize that what I wanted was not what I thought it would be and it has instead become a case of “be careful what you wish for.”
I wanted to be independent so badly, but in my urgent rush to grow up, I missed the beauty of childhood itself. Now, looking back, I feel the weight of missed opportunities and a childhood forgotten.
The Reality of Growing Up
When I turned eighteen, I felt no different than I had before. There was no profound transformation. There was no “A-ha!” moment. No fanfare. It was anticlimactic and dull as ever. Even years later, I still feel like a child playing pretend. Does it ever get any easier? Does anyone have this whole thing figured out yet? Is adulthood just a game that nobody has the rulebook for?
The truth is, I think, that nobody is ever truly ready to grow up. But, like a bird pushed from its nest, we learn to fly — or we flounder.
The freedom I had so longed for quickly revealed itself to be a double-edged sword. Yes, I had the independence I dreamt of, but it came with burdens I hadn’t anticipated. Suddenly, I was responsible for everything. No more safety nets, no more guardians to help me make sense of the world. For the first time in my life, I was responsible for myself — and only I was responsible for me.
Each day became a race, not towards a dream, but simply towards the next deadline. It felt like, “Okay, another thing crossed off. What next?” The pressure built. I felt suffocated by expectations, my time consumed by an endless stream of obligations. I had longed for a life of freedom, but now I realized it came with a never-ending slew of deadlines — something I was already accustomed to from waiting to grow up in the first place.
And I am still young enough to know it will likely only build up before it lets off. My career is still taking hold. I don’t yet have a family. Don’t take this as me complaining, of course. I am grateful for where I am, and happy to have these obligations, but the problem remains.
Adulthood was nothing like the picture I had painted in my head. I was not living with the freedom I so often daydreamed about. I was always one step behind where I should have been. Looking around, I couldn’t (and honestly still can’t) tell if anybody else was under the same disillusionment — and maybe that made things even worse. Was everyone else enjoying the dreams I once aspired towards, everybody but me?
In Hindsight
It was only after so many years of monotony, of living in a constant blur of sameness where every day was the same dream (or nightmare) that it became so apparent that I had mislived all those preceding years. All that carefree exuberance was so far in the rearview. I had my independence, sure, but I never felt like it was as sweet as I had desired it to be. It wasn’t deliverance. It didn’t set me free at all.
A funny thing seems to happen when we become adults too. People lament and rue the childish things. No playing video games, no blowing bubbles, no having fun! It’s in the monotony of “growing up” and taking care of the career ambitions you didn’t know you needed to have at 10 years old and paying bills that we realize how much is lost when we move on from childhood and why childhood is so important to live in while we’re in it.
It is only with the gift of hindsight that I can realize my childhood died while I was still living it.
I was always so prepared to tidy my toys and stuff them away and be a grown-up. But how was I to know that was the wrong choice? I didn’t have the hindsight yet nor did I have the foresight to know. My childhood was dying, and I was killing it, and there was no avoiding that. Now, all that I have left of the child I once was is holding on to the fragments.
If I could go back, I would, and I would tell that small version of myself to enjoy where he was because the world will not be as we think and that there is no sense in rushing the things which will always come in time.
The curiosity of childhood had been replaced with the urgency of adulthood even before I was an adult. The little moments started to feel stale before they were stale. Too late did I realize this. The spectre of independence, of a future freedom, was a fruit of sweet lies filled with the juices of a bitter truth. And, in eating this fruit, my childhood became poisoned in retrospect.
The Toll of Deadlines
What started as an urgency of growing up became a weird crutch to pass the days. Through the hard years, I looked forward to outlined dates of “it will be better by this day,” and in the good years, I looked forward to the events of “I can’t wait for this thing to happen to me.” Deadlines, circled dates, and always the same broken mechanism of moving through life.
I know this one might be more all my own doing though. I can’t say everybody else lived from deadline to deadline, and perhaps that is another conversation to have, but the effect it had on shaping the death of my childhood was ubiquitous and nonstop.
At some point, the deadlines stopped being things to look forward to at all. They became due dates for bills and deadlines for contracts and paydays. A never-ending string of things that my childhood mind never considered when desiring to be old and grown. Perhaps I would not have rushed through those precious years if I had only known.
Rather than a sense of accomplishment, I am often now left with an emptiness that gnaws at me. There has been this realization that there is always something more to do now. There is no more time for the carefree.
The demands of adult life have now consumed my thoughts and suffocated what little there was left of my so-called inner child. If he is in there, somewhere, he is cursing at me for smothering the joy we once felt. And he is busy coming up with new curse words to shout at me for not letting him live his childhood. Perhaps this is part of healing though, the part were I open myself to the idea that I made mistakes so that I may learn from them and do my best to make amends and rectify the problems caused.
Still, there remains a strong and persistent undercurrent of regret for not savouring the moments which mattered and for not allowing myself the space to enjoy my life. Every day now feels as if I am on survival mode.
This was not the independence I so desperately desired in my childhood. It is almost ironic, then, that I feel more stuck with all these freedoms than I did as a dream-laden child with the whole world before him.
The toll of jumping from deadline to deadline has been steep. It has caused a serious lack of enjoyment at times and caused my earlier years to be tilt shifted to the peripheries. But, you know what they say, life happens when you’re busy making plans — or daydreaming about being a grown-up.
Reclamation
I often find myself wondering if there is any way to make amends with my inner child. Can I reclaim the joy, the curiosity, the playfulness that I once had? Can I forgive myself for letting it slip away so easily?
The truth is, time is precious and immutable. We can’t go back. The moments are gone, and all we have left are the fragments — the memories of the child we once were and the lessons we learned too late.
Still, I hold onto the hope that by slowing down now, by taking time to appreciate the little things, I can reconnect with the childhood I once had. It’s not the same as reclaiming it in full, but maybe it’s enough to give my present self the gift of living fully, without the burden of endless deadlines or looking forward to some other meaningless calendar date that will come with or without the urgency.
Conclusion
In the end, the childhood we rush to leave behind is never as simple or as fleeting as we once imagined. Adulthood, with its promises of freedom and independence, often comes with unspoken costs and a myriad of limitation of its own. The deadlines I once looked forward to became the very things that stole my peace and joy, turning life into an urgent stream of “what comes after.”
Yet, while I cannot reclaim the past, I can choose to live differently moving forward. The beauty of childhood, though lost, is still a reminder of what it means to live in the moment and embrace the simplicity of simply existing.
Perhaps the key is not in trying to go back but in learning how to be more present in the now and more in touch with our inner child and that sense of wonderment often lost with the death of childhood. It is in mourning, learning, and moving on despite.
After all, childhood may die before we realize it, but we still have the power to nurture the joy and curiosity that it leaves within us, even as we grow into boring, old adults.
Yours truly,
D.
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