Some kids play house. Others run it. Maybe you handled bills before you understood them, comforted adults when you still needed comforting, or learned early how to stay calm in chaos. There wasn’t really a choice, you just adapted.

Growing up fast teaches efficiency. You become good at reading the room, filling gaps, saying the right thing. You show up, fix things, stay ahead. It works, until it doesn’t.

Eventually, the pace catches up. You start to notice how tired you are in quiet moments. How hard it is to rest without guilt. How strange it feels to admit that, despite all your “capability,” you missed out on something soft and slow.

Slowing down doesn’t come easily. There’s always something left to do. But you start with the smallest acts, letting someone else lead, asking for help without rehearsing, saying “I don’t know” out loud.

You learn that rest isn’t laziness. That softness doesn’t erase strength. That you’re allowed to need what you weren’t given before.

The world doesn’t always make room for that kind of slowing down, but you can. Even in small ways. Especially in small ways.

And maybe that’s what growing up really looks like, learning how to stop rushing through a life you finally have the chance to live.