December.

IDENTITY

6 MIN READ

I saw a TikTok that said “And suddenly, it’s December again. But I’m not 17 anymore.”

The thing about time is how sneaky it is, how it inches forward when you’re not looking, piling change after change onto your shoulders until one day you’re standing in a mirror trying to recognize your own reflection.

December used to mean the thrill of getting older, of pushing boundaries. Seventeen was all rebellion and recklessness, an adrenaline rush of freedom before the world could catch up with me. But now, at 21, December feels heavier. Not in a bad way—just in a way that makes me pause.

I think about the girl I was at 17, wrapped in the invincibility of youth, unburdened by the weight of decisions that actually matter.

She didn’t know anything about credit scores or job applications or the thrilling anxiety that you feel when you impulsively move around the country- only now realizing it’s the fulfillment of a dream I barely dared to voice at 17, a privilege that now feels both exhilarating and humbling.

Her December was all late-night drives, cheap liquor from Fav-Trip, and barn parties in the middle of no where.

Her December was a playlist of songs that felt like young, wild, and free. A handful of dreams she hadn’t even learned to say out loud yet.

She thought she’d have it all figured out at 21.

And now? I’m starting to learn that nobody really does.

That adulthood isn’t a threshold you cross, but a tide you learn to ride—sometimes smooth, sometimes ass kicking.

At 21, December isn’t just high school Christmas break consisting of a shit ton of early basketball practices and a whole lot of late nights.

It’s more of a checkpoint; It’s standing at the edge of the year, looking back on all the smaller selves I’ve been, and wondering who I’ll be when I do this all over again next year.

Seventeen was all implosion and chaos. Twenty-one is organized, but no less complicated.

I’ve learned to let go of some things: the need to have all the answers, the idea that success is a straight line, the belief that vulnerability is weakness. I’m still learning to hold on to others: my voice, my boundaries, the friendships that feel like home.

There’s this odd liminality to being here, on the brink of real adulthood but not quite through the door all the way. Some days, it feels like a free fall, like I’m trying to build a parachute on the way down.

Other days, it feels like flying—the exhilaration that comes from knowing I’m building something that’s mine, even if I’m still figuring out what that is.

December has a way of making you nostalgic for a version of yourself that doesn’t exist anymore. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe growing up is less about mourning who you were and more about honoring her.

Seventeen didn’t know about the heartbreaks and headaches that were coming, but she also didn’t know about the strength she’d find on the other side of them. She didn’t know that one day she’d be sitting here, writing this, feeling both incredibly small and wildly infinite at the same time.

And now, I’m realizing that I’m exactly where I was wishing for at 17, and yet, it doesn’t feel the way I thought it would. At 17, I imagined adulthood as freedom without friction—boundless, weightless. But now I know that freedom can be heavy, and filled with decisions—with responsibilities I couldn’t have dreamed up back then. I’m living in the cities I once scribbled into daydreams, making choices that feel thrilling and terrifying all at once. This is the life she wanted, and I’m proud to be here, but I also wish she had known to savor what she had.

Because looking back, I miss it—the simplicity of her December. The countdowns that felt monumental, even when they weren’t. The nights that were small in the moment but monumental in memory. She was so busy wishing away time, chasing the future, that she didn’t see the beauty in the present. And I don’t want to keep making that mistake.

So here’s to this December.

To being 21 and everything it means, everything it doesn’t mean. To honoring the girl I was by letting myself feel this life I’ve built, even when it’s messy or doesn’t match the dream exactly. To holding space for the present instead of always rushing toward the next thing.

Because maybe that’s what it means to grow up—not just becoming who you dreamed of, but learning to love where you are while you’re still here.