There was nothing I disliked more while growing up than being called, “Kid,” “Kiddo,” “Squirt” or some other variation of these supposed terms of endearment. But in every situation I found myself in, I was always the youngest and these nicknames were just a part of the package.
I had always done everything I could to appear more mature, even though on the inside I was insecure and clueless. As a freshman in high school I sat at the senior table and my best friend when I was a senior was already 25 (the age I am turning now).
For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be older. Always trying to grow up faster (even going as far as experiencing some things way too early). Never acting my own age. Never wanting to be treated like a child.
Yet, as hard as I tried, I still always felt like a kid.
When I look around now, I realize that I am no longer the youngest. I am no longer the kid. In fact, the kids I used to lead in student small groups are graduating from high school. They are the interns and new people on staff. I am finding myself calling them, “kid.” Something I so terribly despised in my own young years.
They are who I was: and I’m about to be the age I always tried to be.