Wake up, go to school, go to soccer, get home late, do homework, go to bed. Or should I say, wake up, stress out, run the stress out of my body, and try not to stress out even more when I am trying to fall asleep. This is my routine, day after day, night after night. Rarely does it change only when I have a day off from soccer where I can catch up on all my work. These stressful days make my only wish to escape this life for a while, and go back to the times when life was simpler.
I blink.
 

I am four years old. I am in Long Beach Island with my entire family soaking up the sun for a week or two. The light wind is picking up the smallest grains of sand and the sun is burning our cheeks while the blue, salty ocean is lapping at the shore of the sand. Without a care in the world my cousins and I race to the cold, blue beauty. Relatives pack snacks and take us to our happy place. I grab a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, my savior. I walk towards the ocean now, lick my cheese-dusted fingers, and admire the beautiful ocean. I walk along the endless stretch of sand and I don’t stop. I am careless, fearless, and admirable. I suddenly realize what has happened and a chill is sent up the back of my spine, which stops me. My footprints in the sand vanish. I had ended up walking 10 streets down the beach, but a lady named Cookie saw my signals of distress. She took me to the lifeguard stand and brought me back to my family. Being separated from my family, never returning home, that was what scared me most at age four.

I blink.

I am now six years old. My best friend and I are going to my house before gymnastics like we usually do. We alternate whose house we go to, but I always had the better food. I was happy we were going to my house because I wanted our favorite, rolled up turkey and bologna that awaited us on my kitchen table. Later, we took a picture in my front yard in our tiny gymnastics leotards that will stay in my room for years to come. I was ambitious and determined to become a future gymnast. Well, that didn’t work out.

I blink.

I am seven years old and have met my best friend for the first time. My other best friend is making us the kitties while she is the princess. The worn down playground was our stage while we pretend to live another life. Our little bodies climb slides, hang on monkey bars, and praise our “princess”. Hands are worn down, raw from the gripping the metal. Little did we know that this was the base of our blossoming friendship. I meet her grandma before her mom, and we scheduled a play-date. This was the moment when my life would change for the better, with my new best friend. No drama could tear our friendship apart.

I blink.

I was in the third grade, performing my Great American presentation, when I was Helen Keller. Dressed like a blind and deaf lady from the 1800’s, I was ready to go. Parents and friends joined our class and awaited our presentations. This was the day I dreaded for the longest time. A presentation of five slides for about three minutes. The minutes seemed like hours and soon I was very nervous and talked faster than I could think. Good thing I had worn glasses, so my audience couldn’t have seen my eyes darting around the room, looking for a way out. The presentation was over, and so was my first real school presentation of my educational career. I was ready for whatever school had in store for me.

I blink.
It was the summer going into fourth grade. We had brought home my dog for the first time and named her Molly. Her original name was Mercedes, but that didn’t fit our family. She was not the dog that attacked us when we walked into the owner’s home, but the one that hid under the table beside her mom, not wanting to leave. My brother drops her, of course, but we somehow are considered the perfect family for this puppy. We fought over who got to hold her on the car ride home, but I win, as usual. I was happiest in this moment, cuddling my best friend. The only dog that can make me feel better when I’m sad is also the only puppy who had a heart on her head made out of her white fur.

I blink.

I’m now twelve, in my first year of middle school. I am happy, but not like I used to be. Laughing less often. I am bombarded by a ton of schoolwork but a lot of new friends. Homework and soccer take up most of my time. During and after school I check the weather, hoping for enough rain or even a thunderstorm for practice to be cancelled. Making new friends is easy because I only knew kids from one elementary school.  I remember inviting one girl over and deciding to make a snow globe because that was how awkward we were. I didn’t have to pretend to be someone else. Times were so simple.

I blink.

It’s now present day, and the homework load has only gotten heavier, happiness is replaced with stress, and laughing is replaced with panic attacks. School is no longer a breeze, as homework and tests eat up my time. Homework after school, homework on the long drives to soccer, homework at midnight. Fights with friends, parents, siblings. Drama: my worst enemy. Never feeling confident in what I do, I’m scared to be who I am. Sometimes I look in the mirror and hope to see the eight year old who girl didn’t care what people thought. I long for the days where I have no homework, where I have no soccer, where I have no problems, where I can just press pause and escape my messy life, catch my breath, and get ready to press play.

I want to skip and run and dance and live like I am five years old again. Those days are the days that never come back. Five years old and naive, but naive and free. I didn’t have guilt and embarrassment; I didn’t give myself doubt or rules. I didn’t have heartache or resentment. I had hope and determination with my whole life ahead of me. Nothing could tear me down. No one could hold me back. I was me and I was free. Some days I just want to run away from all of my problems. I want to let go of all of the responsibilities, the ones I used to wish for as a kid.
Oh how I wish I could be a kid again.