Hidden away in my cornucopia of painfully outdated Pinterest boards lies my idle “Sweet Sixteen” collage, which, for some bizarre reason that I cannot comprehend now, was supposed to be neon-themed.
While it has remained untouched for years, I can remember the persistence of a ten-year-old me who arduously labored over what type of streamers would hang from the ceiling, the widespread corroboration of fondue assortments, and whatever appalling outfit I had planned to wear on my once-in-a-lifetime 16th birthday—although I cannot remember it now, my best guess insinuates that I was set on wearing some sort of tutu.
I haven’t touched such presumptions in six years. Those dreams, once laden with the impression of confetti and balloons, are blanketed by the dust of time that has made the aspirations I once sought long forgotten.
And I almost prefer it that way.
16, in the grand scheme of life, is not all that old. I am still legally a child. I remain under the guise of a curfew instilled by my parents that I adhere to with the fear that they will take my phone away if I refuse to comply. I am painfully bad at straightening my steering wheel and all types of parking.
But, simultaneously, the calm before the storm that I have found myself in is the reality of real life. No longer can I linger in my adolescence without taking into account the effect that such complacency will have on my future. I have one more year of this reposing age until one day, I will wake up, and the tick of what once was an irrelevant clock will count the seconds, the minutes, the hours, and the days until it is all over.
In those six years where my neon sweet 16 lay in waiting, I have begun to realize that two years go by faster than one realizes. There are two years until I will play my last soccer game under the blanket of an orange sunrise, surrounded by my best friends. I am all too wary that it will simply be here and then gone, every moment a blur, every memory nothing more than that, a product of the unavoidable rules of growing up. There are two years until I will lace up my hockey skates for the final time, and the past 11 years of my life, spending my Sundays at the ice rink, will earn their place on the shelf amongst the other articles of my past.
There are two years until I will drive past my town ice cream shop one final time. Then, I will be driving much farther away, past my mother and father, past my golden retriever and my twin brother, past the home I have laid my head at for the past 16 years of my being.
In a way, I am thankful to have what some might call a quaint 16th birthday. I crave little more this year than to pause. Although I cannot quite grasp this threshold of something unknown that lies up ahead, I am quite certain it is best to approach it with open arms—to breathe in what feels like an age of both holding on and letting go.
Man Cing • Jan 21, 2025 at 8:29 pm
Love the picture!:) Well-written column too Kathryn!:)
Man Cing • Jan 21, 2025 at 8:28 pm
Great message too!:)
Man Cing • Jan 21, 2025 at 8:27 pm
Love the picture!:) Well-written column Kathryn!:)