Growing Up

When we were younger, all we wanted was to grow up. Counting the years until we were “older,” whatever that even meant. I’m not sure why, but at 25, I thought I’d feel different — like life would finally click into place. Everyone says your twenties are for learning, but at 24 I found myself waiting to be 25. I don’t even know what I thought would happen at 25, only that it was meant to be a milestone. A marker. A moment where everything would feel steadier, clearer, further from the girl I had been. But the truth is… I’m basically at the back end of 24, and life keeps reminding me that growth doesn’t land neatly on birthdays. It doesn’t arrive wrapped up in an accomplishment or a timeline someone else invented.

People expect so much from our age — careers perfectly sorted, friendships polished, fulfilment glowing from our skin. Yet I may not have the job title I once imagined, or the relationships that once held weight, but I do have something else: I have freedom. I have walked away from many places and people that made me feel small, unsafe, or unlike myself.

It took me years to realise I wasn’t obligated to go down any path I’d already taken. I wasn’t tied to old versions of me. I wasn’t required to repeat the same stories just because they were familiar. And my journey — though messy in moments — has shown me that happiness doesn’t live in ticking boxes. It lives in choosing differently. And that’s what terrified me about moving back to Australia. Because last time, I made choices that hurt me. I walked streets that led nowhere good. I didn’t trust myself enough to stay standing, let alone grow. I was scared that returning here meant returning to her — the girl who didn’t know she was allowed to choose another sidewalk.

Moving back to Australia brought up a kind of fear I hadn’t felt before. Not fear of change — I’ve navigated change. This was the fear of repetition. The fear of stepping back into old versions of myself simply because I was returning to old streets. The worry that the environment I left behind would still recognise me, and worse — that I would recognise her. I think anyone who returns home after growing elsewhere knows this feeling. It’s not the place you fear. It’s the past. It’s the memory of who you were when you lived there. Just before I moved, someone introduced me to a poem. A simple one. Five short chapters that somehow understood me better than I understood myself. It was “There’s a Hole in My Sidewalk” by Portia Nelson. And because I want you to feel what I felt, here it is:

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There’s a Hole in My Sidewalk, By Portia Nelson

Chapter One:

I walk down the street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I fall in. I am lost… I am helpless. It isn’t my fault. It takes forever to find a way out.

Chapter Two:

I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I pretend I don’t see it. I fall in again. I can’t believe I’m in the same place. But it isn’t my fault. It still takes a long time to get out.

Chapter Three:

I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I see it is there. I still fall in… it’s a habit. My eyes are open. I know where I am. It is my fault. I get out immediately.

Chapter Four:

I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I walk around it.

Chapter Five:

I walk down another street.

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The first time I read it, I didn’t feel sentimental. I felt exposed. It described something I had never said out loud: the fear that my life might loop if I wasn’t careful. It mirrored exactly what I worried would happen when I returned home — that the roads I used to walk might quietly pull me back into paths I had once mistaken for normal. But then something softened. Because the poem isn’t just about falling — it’s about recognising. Recognition is what saves you. Awareness is what reroutes you.

And I realised:

I can see the holes now. I know the signs. I know the people I don’t align with anymore, the habits that drained me, the patterns I once confused for personality. I’m not walking blind this time. Coming home didn’t mean going back. It meant arriving differently.

Growing up, for me, isn’t about arrival — it’s about discernment. It’s about noticing the subtle shifts:

• The conversations you no longer indulge.

• The behaviours you don’t tolerate from yourself.

• The invitations you decline without guilt.

• The energy you protect because you finally understand its worth.

And here’s something grounded — something not poetic but true:

• We outgrow environments before we outgrow people.

• We outgrow patterns before we outgrow places.

• Growth doesn’t erase the past — it rewires your response to it.

That’s why returning to a familiar place doesn’t scare me anymore. I’m not returning as the same person. My mind isn’t the same. My awareness isn’t the same. My choices aren’t the same. And that changes the entire landscape.

What I didn’t write in my notebook — but what I felt deeply — is that coming home meant facing the version of myself I used to be here. The girl who didn’t trust herself yet. The girl who lived half in intuition and half in reaction. The girl who walked streets out of habit, not intention. But I’m proud of her. She got me this far. She kept me alive long enough to become someone who could finally choose better for herself. And that’s why this poem mattered to me. It allowed me to forgive her… and to step away from her. Both are essential parts of growing up.

So, I’m not here to prove that I’ve “made it.” I’m not here to prove that I’m perfect or healed or sorted. I’m here to prove that I’m conscious. That I’m capable of choosing another street — even when the old ones whisper my name. That I can live in the same country, breathe the same air, see the same people, and still move with a completely different awareness. I’m here to prove that I don’t fall into the same holes anymore. Not because the holes disappeared — but because I finally know where they are. I’m home. But I’m not who I was. And that is the most grounding truth I’ve ever stood in.

If a part of you has ever feared going backwards, I hope this reminds you that growth isn’t erased by returning to familiar places. You carry your lessons with you. You carry your clarity. You carry your awareness. And that means you will never walk the same way you once did. Wherever you are right now — beginning again, moving home, letting go, or choosing a different path — I hope you give yourself credit. You’re learning to walk another street, and that’s something to be proud of.