When I was a child, I dreamt of growing up so I could do whatever I wished:
to eat whatever I fancied,
to go to bed whenever I chose,
to go out without asking anyones permission.
Now, I look back with a sad smile at that innocent childhood imagination.
Reality struck me the day I moved into my own flat:
laundry, cooking, cleaning, bills, rent, grocery shopping
all of it somehow balanced on a single salary that barely stretched far enough.
Back then, I thought freedom meant choosing what I wanted for supper.
I never imagined it would mean calculating whether I had enough coins left for both bread and soap.
One day, I realised it had been weeks since Id sat down to have a proper breakfast.
Id get up, wash, throw the duvet over the bed, and rush out to catch the bus.
On my way, Id remember that I hadnt replied to a work email, that the internet bill was due by Friday, and that my bank card was dancing on the edge.
The freedom of adulthood turned out to be a never-ending to-do list, not a childhood wish come to life.
Each evening as I returned home, weariness would hit me like a sack of bricks.
Id open the fridge, hoping it had produced something magical I could eat without effort but of course, nothing.
I had to wash up, chop, cook and then wash up again.
Sometimes I simply had bread and cheese for supper, just to avoid another round with the frying pan.
Yet, even then, rest eluded me, for my mind would poke at me:
the water bill was too high,
I needed to check the leak in the bathroom,
the laundry from this morning was already beginning to smell odd
My friends always said:
Lets meet up one of these days.
But there was always something in the way:
one was working late,
another was minding a relative,
a third was short of money,
a fourth, simply too drained.
As teenagers, we used to see each other nearly every day.
As adults, whole months would pass by.
And when, at last, we managed to get together
our conversations circled around exhaustion, rent, and our sore backs.
There we were, young people speaking like pensioners.
The worst realisation was that real rest never really came.
Even the weekends brimmed with demands:
laundry, tidying, decluttering, shopping, fixing something that had broken.
One Saturday, I found myself in tears as I was scrubbing the kitchen floor.
I thought to myself,
Even when I rest, Im not truly resting.
As a child, I called freedom all the things adults did for me.
Now I simply do them alone with no one to stand behind me.
Work itself was nothing like what Id pictured.
I believed a job was all about satisfaction.
Id no inkling it also meant:
forcing a smile when you just want to frown,
enduring foolish remarks,
chasing after goalposts that move each week,
and accepting that part of your pay vanishes for things you’ll never even see.
One day I caught myself debating whether to buy lunch or save those pounds for a travel card.
No one explains these decisions to you when youre a child.
No one warns you that adult life is an endless stream of mental arithmetic.
Id thought growing up meant freedom.
But in truth, it is a peculiar balance between exhaustion, duty, and fleeting, tiny moments of peace.
