Childhood blues

Some mornings, I wake up, and my brain goes straight into work mode.

An alarm blasts. My hand reaches for the snooze button like it’s a negotiation. I lie there doing math I didn’t ask for: how many hours I slept, how much time I have, how much energy I can fake.

I shut it off and stare at the ceiling for a second. Then I remember a different sound.

I remember waking up to my mom calling me to eat breakfast.

Not because I had somewhere to be, but because food was ready and someone was already taking care of the day.

Back then, mornings had a shape, a pattern. Someone else was already awake. Someone else had planned the day. I just followed the smell of food and sat at the table. The rest will be taken care of by my parents.

Now the table is still there, but it is empty until I do something about it.

Most days, it’ll be coffee and takeout.

Back then, sleeping was the easiest thing to do. It was natural, and I often woke up at 6 or 7 a.m. without forcing it. My body just followed the rhythm of the house.

These days, I go to bed late and get up late, but I still feel like I’m always catching up. Mornings aren’t as exciting for me as they once were. I tell myself that working late at night makes me productive, but really, I was just “postponing tomorrow” instead of getting some rest.

Finally, I remember waiting for my dad to come home from work.

When he arrived, the house felt complete, as if the day were officially over. Like we were safe because the person who carried everything finally came back.

I didn’t understand what it cost him.

Now I do.

Now I know the other part.

The tired that sits in your shoulders. The tired that makes you answer with fewer words. The tired that follows you into the next day.

That is what growing up does. It turns the people you admired into people you understand.

That’s what hits me when I think about childhood.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was a life built on someone else’s effort. Someone else’s routine. Someone else was absorbing the stress, so I could wake up and just be a kid.

I miss it sometimes. Not because it was perfect, but because it was covered. Someone else’s routine handled life, someone else’s patience, someone else’s love that showed up on time.

Now I am the one who has to show up on time.

No one is waiting at the table to tell me to eat. No one is coming home to make the room feel safe again. I’m the one who has to become home now.

And when I miss childhood, I’m not only missing being young.

I’m missing being taken care of without having to earn it. I’m missing the kind of love that showed up on schedule, every morning, every night, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

After all these thoughts, I stop. I take a shower and get ready for work. I grab my bag, check my phone, and step back into the schedule.

Blending in with the crowd in my commute.

Today is just another day as an adult.

I’ll also do my best today.

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I hope you find this insightful. Remember:

It’s not going to be easy,
But it’s not impossible.

Your friend,

Brian.