When I was a child, I dreamed of growing up so I could do whatever I wished: eat whatever I fancied, go to bed whenever I decided, head out without asking anyones permission. Now I chuckle at that small, naïve version of myself. Reality swept in the day I moved into my own little flat: dusting, cooking, paying rent, bills, dashing to the shopsall managed on a salary that barely stretched. I always thought freedom meant choosing my own supper. I never guessed it meant calculating if I could afford both rice and washing up liquid in the same week.
One day, it hit me that I hadnt sat down for a proper breakfast in weeks. Id get up, shower, hastily tug the duvet over the mattress, then dart off to catch the bus. On the way, Id remember a work email left unanswered, the internet bill needing paying before Friday, and my bank card skirting dangerously close to its limit. Adult freedom turned out to mean juggling lists of errands, not some long-awaited dream come true.
When I finally got in, tiredness would crash over me like a sack of bricks. Id stare into the fridge, wishing something inside would somehow cook itself. But nothere was washing, chopping, boiling, and scrubbing up afterwards. Sometimes Id just eat bread and cheddar, anything to avoid using a frying pan. And even then, my mind wouldnt rest: the water bills high, need to check that odd drip in the bathroom, the damp laundry from the morning is starting to smell because I forgot to hang it up.
Friends would say, Lets catch up soon, but every time we tried to meet, someone was working overtime, another was caring for a poorly relative, someone else was flat broke, another simply knackered. As teenagers wed met nearly every day; now whole months would slip by without seeing each other. And when we finally sat round a table, all we spoke of was exhaustion, bills, how our backs ached. We were young, yet we all sounded eighty.
The hardest realisation was there was never any real rest. Even weekends became checklists: laundry, hoovering, readying the week ahead, lugging groceries, fixing things that had broken. One Saturday I caught myself in tears while mopping the floor, murmuring, Even when I rest, Im not resting. As a child I called this freedom, but really, I was just doing all the things grown-ups once did for meand now, there was no one to help.
Work wasnt what Id pictured either. I imagined job satisfaction. I didnt realise it also meant grinning when I didnt feel like it, gritting my teeth through silly remarks, chasing after shifting targets, and watching most of my wages disappear on things I couldnt even see. One day I found myself calculating whether to buy lunch or save those pounds for a travelcard. Nobody tells you this as a child. No one warns you the business of adulthood is an endless string of mental calculations.
I thought growing up meant freedom. But really, its a strange balancing actbetween fatigue, responsibility, and those rare, fleeting moments of peace that vanish like wisps of morning mist.
