I’ve spent nearly every Christmas of my life in a Midwestern college town. 

In elementary school, I found it amusing that my parents referred to its inhabitants as “college kids.” What “kids?” I would protest. “Kids” meant me, studying multiplication in the backseat next to my cartoon character suitcase. I had nothing in common with these tall, facial-hair-sporting, driver’s-license-having, laundry-doing men and women.

Now that I am one, the label “college kid” feels more distinguished and mature than I am. Most days, only the “kid” half resonates. The “college” half feels like trying on a new pair of slightly-too-big shoes: stiff, unfamiliar, yet appealing.

On Jan. 25, I turned 19 in my dorm, passing cupcakes to friends while listening to my favorite music. After they left, and the glow faded, my cheeriness fermented into vague unease. Every tick of the clock inched me closer to 20. 

That number scared me. Looking ahead, I saw no career plan, no secured internship, no definites. I was ashamed: I had spent nearly two decades alive and was still eating cupcakes on the floor like a kid.

That awkward dichotomy between “kid” and “adult” quietly frames my day-to-day life. To be a first-year student is uniquely paradoxical—I feel simultaneously more adult than I have ever felt, and more aware of my childishness. 

On Feb. 14, I took the T alone to judge a debate tournament I once competed in. Riding in my backpack was a plush stingray (named Giacomo) from my cherished stuffed animal collection. On Feb. 21, I spoke at a protest. Directly after, I headed to Lower Live to enjoy a sophisticated meal of buttered pasta, Raisin Bran cereal, and apple juice.

These juxtapositions point to a pattern: I find myself using my newfound adult freedom to tend to the inner child I shoved so forcefully away in high school.

Like many other Boston College students, I bought into the college-acceptance grind as young as 15. I conflated academic prowess with self-worth, immersing myself in the world of AP exams and SATs. I eschewed childlike whimsy by chasing unattainable perfection.  

Now that I have adult agency, using it to nurse my playfulness back to health feels healing. 

I spent last year’s Halloween locked away in my room, cramming for a physics exam, deeming myself far too old to trick-or-treat. This year, I pulled on my witch hat, painted eyeliner spiderwebs onto my face, and wholly embraced the art of dress-up.

In high school, I spent every snow day I can remember on my laptop. During our last blizzard, I went sledding for the first time in nearly a decade and pelted my friends with snowballs. 

Getting back in touch with childishness is an affirmation of humanity beyond my grades and resume. Through it, I show myself that I deserve to experience forms of joy beyond academic validation.

Despite its high expectations of students, my high school, like most, also treated us as helpless—passing periods and bells dictated every minute of my day. I needed to raise my hand to use the bathroom. I could hardly so much as breathe without signed parental permission. I used to commiserate with friends about wanting to escape the restrictiveness of our families and Summit High School.

Adulthood is indeed as liberating as I had hoped. I love taking public transit into the big city alone. I love taking solo flights to places I choose. I love spending my big-boy paycheck on the clothes that I want and living each day on my schedule, in the company I choose. Role-playing as an adult (because that’s what it feels like) is thrilling and self-actualizing.

But relying on myself is a double-edged sword. As a result, I have found myself seeking guidance I used to resent. When I had to move dorms, the anxiety of packing my life into suitcases yet again had me sobbing with anxiety. 

The first phone call I made was to my mom. When my dad showed up the next morning to help, I collapsed into his hug like a 6-year-old with a scraped knee. I used to dismiss my school’s guidance services as feeble and useless (somewhat mistakenly, but not baselessly). Yet after illness derailed my first semester, I emailed as many BC services as I could for help getting back on track. 

I used to push away those I perceived as “treating me like a kid.” Now, those who understand that I am still a kid have proven the fabric of my support system. Sometimes even the toughest, most self-reliant of 19-year-olds simply need Mom and Dad.

I do not see my childishness or my maturity as subtractive. Crying to my parents and seeking help from the Dean of Students’ office does not counteract my resilience, independence, or ability to choose what is best for me. My Halloween costume and stuffed animal collection coexist with my intellect and ambition. 

Growing older is not a zero-sum game, but the next size up in a set of Russian nesting dolls. My 7- and 10- and 13-year-old selves are still alive within me—just as alive as the version of me who attends protests, coaches high-school debate, and makes her own doctor’s appointments. And whether through childlike playfulness or relying on others without hesitation, I cannot be whole without protecting them.