LIFE GOES ON, SO SHOULD YOU: The Pain of Growing Up

Life goes on. Time is as fluid as water—pooling when we wish to fast‑forward, sprinting when we beg it to slow. We clutch the softness of childhood in a quiet corner of the heart and dream, if only for a moment, of rewinding to days that felt wonderfully simple.

Seasons and the Shock of Mortality

But time waits for no one. It drifts like clouds, compressing weeks into days. Summer bows to fall, winter yields to spring, and suddenly we notice fine lines like penciled maps of where we’ve been. The aftertaste of mortality is unmistakable: we will not be here forever. Life can feel like a flashlight flicker in a vast dark—brief, bright, gone.

Owning Our Days

If time won’t stop, the only strategy is to own our days—one by one. Houses can crumble, companies can vanish, partners can leave, children can drift away, and savings can disappear with a single mistake. What remains is the question of legacy: not only what we make, but how we carry ourselves. What trace of character and kindness will outlast our names?

Hope, Reality, and the Myth of Greatness

Here’s a hard truth: only a tiny sliver of humanity is remembered by the world at large. As a valedictorian, I once delivered a speech flooded with youthful optimism about the futures awaiting us. If I could speak again, I’d tell a kinder truth: many of us will not go as far as we imagined, and that’s okay. Lowering expectations can protect the heart. Others will go further—steady job, marriage, children—picturesque from a distance. But who will paint the next Mona Lisa, cure a stubborn disease, or land on the moon again? Perhaps no one. And among us, how many will find a love that is both true and enduring? Maybe a few.

The Quiet Majority

For the rest of us—the vast majority—life is about playing the hand we’re dealt as well as we can. First jobs become second and third until we lose count, not from ingratitude, but because the feeling of “this is it” proves elusive. First loves feel precious until a hairline crack widens into a parting. We revise the script, try again, break, rebuild. Some of us eventually marry for fear of being alone, not because we’ve truly found home.

Envying Children, Learning Honesty

At this stage, I envy children. They rarely think about the future; their freedom is born from tender unknowing. The day we begin worrying about tomorrow is the day childhood quietly packs its bags. I miss the courage to ask, like Alice to the Cheshire Cat, “Which way should I go?” Because now I know—every path demands its consequence, and adulthood can be a thorny maze when we misstep.

Rereading Myself, Befriending Paradox

When I first read The Catcher in the Rye, Holden felt foreign to me. I wanted escape—some far‑off world beyond anyone’s reach. Two decades later, I understand him more. Adulthood sands away innocence, and life often plays like a satire—ironic, bittersweet, stubbornly human. It’s messy. It’s also in motion.

Small Practices for Moving Forward

• Choose three priorities each day; let them lead the rest.

• Keep simple habits: consistent sleep, daily movement, five minutes of journaling.

• Accept “good enough” for the non‑essential; save perfectionism for what truly matters.

• Tend relationships: reach out to one meaningful person each week.

• Measure progress, not perfection: 1% better daily beats occasional leaps.

Conclusion

Life will keep moving, regardless. Our task isn’t to stop time but to dance with it. If tomorrow isn’t guaranteed, then today deserves our full presence. We might never etch our names into history, but we can arrange our small corner of the world with sincerity. Sometimes, that is more than enough—for us, and for those we love.