Growing Pains

the ache of a coming-of-age story

I will never forget my last summer as a kid. I spent it in the suburbs of Las Vegas, where the weather was hot enough to melt my flip-flops, thwack-twacking on the blazing asphalt.

I replay that summer like a favorite VHS tape – rewinding and pausing at the good parts: rapping to Eminem’s music with my older cousins, giggling as I land on Free Parking and grab the stack of fake bills from the Monopoly board, shrieking with glee as I plunge down the water park slide. Suddenly, I’m ten again, flashing a grin of (mostly) adult teeth. A few loose baby ones still hang on.

Much to my chagrin, puberty hit me that summer, and kid’s clothes no longer fit.

I wake in the middle of the night to pain shooting down my back. What the heck is going on? I hobble to my Auntie Jill’s bed to wake her. “Something’s wrong,” I sob. Her jaw drops, but as I describe the symptoms, her face relaxes into relief. “Oh, honey, don’t worry. Those are growing pains. You’re growing!”

Auntie Jill gives me two Motrin and walks me back to bed. I lay there, watching the ceiling fan spin along with my thoughts: another summer nearly passed, another school year approaches, another shoe size up. I’m growing. I’m growing up.

Growing pains signal that I am aging out of adolescence. Beneath the physical pain in my back, another sensation pulses through my being – existential dread. We have so much to see, so much to do, and so much to accomplish. Yet, aging means we have less time to do it all. When we die, will what we’ve seen, done, and accomplished even matter?

A few days later, Auntie Jill surprises me. “Honey, let’s go pick out your new clothes for school.” Due to my growth spurt, I had graduated into the Junior’s department. I contemplate important questions. Do I have to wear low-rise jeans? Does a comfortable training bra exist? Thankfully, God sent me an angel of an auntie to help me brave this new world of young womanhood.

I pop out of the dressing room wearing a pink polka blouse and matching plaid skort.  “Look at you!” Auntie Jill gushed. If only I could take her with me on every shopping trip. Through the passing years of being a pre-teen, a teenager, and a twenty-something, I would spend most moments in the fitting room alone – reprimanding and pleading with the woman in the mirror.

At 29, I still feel like I’m in my youth.

As a kid, I used to think that grown-ups had it all figured out and that one day, when I reached my parents' age, I’d have finally outgrown any lingering childhood tendencies such as impulsivity, impatience, and insecurity. Only then, I’ll consider myself a true adult.

This begs the question: When do we stop “growing up” and start “growing old?” From the moment we’re born, we’re aging, but we really only use the term once we’ve reached middle age. When puberty stops, so do the physical growing pains, yet, we continue to experience emotional growing pains through our mistakes, losses, and setbacks. We never stop growing up.

Our conception of puberty overemphasizes the physicality of growing up. Fuller breasts, wider hips, and a fertile womb signal the making of a mother, assuming she is no longer a child and indeed, ready to bear and care for a child of her own. But this conception diminishes the importance of one’s emotional growth spurt. Despite my early blooming, my resistance to moving back in with my parents after moving out at 18, and my stubborn urge to prove that yes, I can handle life on my own, thank you very much, the ten-year-old within me still yearns to be comforted. I yearn to wrap myself in the soothing hugs of grown-up women – my mother, my grandmother, and my Auntie Jill. On sad days, I wish we could jump in the car, forget our troubles, and float through the aisles of the department store. But alas, life has no rewind button.

They all endured growing pains, too. The most severe ones are emotional – invisible and silent. Much ink has been spilled to explain women’s high tolerance for pain. And I believe that carrying physical and emotional pain strengthens our capacity to love deeply. We are ever-changing and increasingly capable of more compassion.

I will not let pain fester in my soul.

I’ll massage it tenderly, healing myself so that I can heal others. Perhaps one day I will have a daughter or niece of my own. And when she wakes up in the middle of the night crying of growing pains and the existential dread that haunts her in slumber, I’ll smile, pull her into my arms, and soothe her back to sleep.

In the meantime, I’ll keep on collecting summers with each passing year, hoping to make the next one better than the last while still daydreaming of the Las Vegas heat, soothing my growing pains.

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Thank you to my writer-friends for their gracious feedback:

Rychelle Moses

Earthly Fortunes

Oscar Obregon

Silvio Castelletti

Thank you for reading Connection Crave ❤️

I’m curious, dear reader: What’s your favorite end-of-summer or back-to-school memory?