the soft violence of growing up

small elegies for the selves i abandoned too soon

there is something truly cruel about growing up, growing up knowing that you had time - nothing that is sharp or sudden, but what feels slow and drawn out, somewhat similar to dusk settling in before you realise the sun is fully out, just a subtle disintegration. we always say growing up like it’s a mutual decision, but it happens when nobody is watching, and now you are wondering left if what you last said to them between the months felt like a goodbye. it probably wasn’t. it never is.

(from pinterest)

there is a violence in that, isn't there? it isn't sharp. just dull. not loud. but echoing. it resembles a soft bruise you press just to know it still feel the pain, to know if it still exists. life can be defined as a series of unceremonious goodbyes - to people, places and versions of yourself. there isn’t any confetti, no curtain call, just a quiet unthreading, something resembling the loosening in a sweater you’ve worn too many times. you catch yourself trying to emeorize the sound, your brain trying to preserve it in amber, as if nostalgia was a reliable archivist rather than a selective thief.

what’s worse is that you don’t realize or we fail to recognize we’re mid-farewell until months later, when the last text remains unanswered or when the jokes don’t land or the silence feels more intimate than the conversation ever did, a quiet resignation of joy now waiting for permission. they never warn you about this: letting go isn’t always a decision, it’s sometimes just what’s left when no one holds on.

all the softness remains, but remains in memory. in the fact that once we’re, in the way certain songs still unlock entire summers. in the way some way, someone, somewhere still thinks of you when they see your favourite colour. the soft violence of growing up is, perhaps, also the sort miracle of having been loved, if not forever.

somewhere along the line, i started mistaking survival for growth. i began calling things lessons just so they wouldn’t hurt as much. it’s really funny how we curate pain, dress it up in metaphors, and file it under “character development” so we can pretend we’re not just trying to forget. i’ve learned not to fight those days. i let them sit beside me like old friends, the kind who never knock and always bring silence because growing up hasn’t made me wiser, only more tolerant of ambiguity. i don’t know if that’s a gift or a resignation. but i do know this: there is still a softness inside me, under all the armour. and that has to count for something.