When I was a kid, I couldn’t wait to be grown. I had lots of expectations:
- I’d be a rich and famous singer, actress and dancer.
- I’d be beautiful. I’d be slender and have big breasts and long hair.
- I wouldn’t be afraid of the dark anymore. I wouldn’t be afraid of anything.
- I’d have a handsome and dashing husband, and we’d live happily ever after.
Last night I had an extremely difficult and painful conversation with my husband. I was surprised at how small I felt inside. Like that tiny alien on Men in Black II. Like a 5-year-old, dressed up in a 38-year-old body. A small imposter, very much afraid of the dark.
Do you remember that paralyzing childhood fear? I remember being terrified that something was under the bed or in the closet. The fear was so intense that I could not move–not even to avoid wetting the bed. It took all my willpower to cry out for my mother.
I wonder if my maturity will ever match the years on the calendar. I wonder if anyone can see that I’m just a baby. Most days I try to hide it, but sometimes I want to be rightly seen. That way someone can let me be small and scared, and they’ll hold me and tell me it’ll be okay. And because I’m just a little one, I’ll believe it.