Time to grow up.
Ever feel this way? As someone who has always struggled with depression and anxiety, I find myself faced with this thought a lot, “Time to grow up”.
As a mother, I’m a role model. I’m suppose to be an adult. What the hell does that even mean?
Time to grow up.
As a child, I remember being so happy, and one of those reasons was because, as children, we do what we enjoy. Without responsibilities, and a lot of free time (even if at the time we felt powerless and structured), we focused on things that entertained us, made us happy. But as adults, many times, we push that aside because, it’s childish. An adult should do this and that. An adult shouldn’t play games, shouldn’t like toys, should play pretend… We put an enormous amount of pressure on ourselves, about who we should be. With working, bills, taking care of our children, it’s no wonder depression is a struggle for a lot of people.
Maybe it’s time to not grow up, but look inside and remember what made you happy.
I have always been a gamer. Yes, I know I’m a girl. Yes, I know I’m a mom, 30, and a professional. But I love games. Granted, while many are more about game play, I like to balance game play with an amazing story. As a reader and writer, it’s not surprising that I hunger for that type of story in a game.
Yet, sometimes I feel guilty when my daughter gives me “that look” and says, “Isn’t that a kid game?”
But I’m happy when I play a game or read a book. I’m happy when I show my nostaligic movies to her and watch her enjoy them as much as I still do. It’s a way to relate (because heavens know I can’t relate to that Liv & Maddie crap) to her, to share something with her.
She sees me as someone who isn’t always so serious. And when happy, I tend to be more relaxed, more understanding of the little accidents that come with childhood. Whether we are watching Sailor Moon or a Miyazaki movie, I’m happy to be able to “not always be a grown up”.
As a teen, I remember an adult telling me about my fantasy writing, “This will get you no where. It’s garbage”. They suggested I read Steinbach instead of Goodkind for influence. I remember feeling ashamed, and I wonder now when I hear those toxic words in the back of my head, if part of my departure of what made me happy was the stereotype of what was “adult” and what was “childish”. Why are we putting this pressure already on children? Telling our children that being an adult is about being refined and not following what we enjoy.
Maybe it’s not time to grow up, but be myself, to accept who I am and what I enjoy.