My whole life, I’ve heard the grown-ups say, “Things will be different when you’re older.” 

 

I won’t be able to lean on my parents for support anymore, won’t be able to slack off, have a dirty room, not take care of myself, spend all my days lying around in bed. I’ll have to be more careful about water bills, food bills, and the way I speak.  I’ll have to actually care about my grades, my performance, myself.  

 

Things will be different, sure. But what exactly will be different? Is it just the mundane things, added on responsibilities?  

 

I mean, will this guilt suddenly go away? The guilt that I don’t do enough for my parents, the parents who risked it all to love and nurture me? Will I be able to do what I want, without worrying that my father wishes I did it all differently?  Will I stop hating the body my mother worked so long on, and start embracing the similarities instead of the imperfections? 

 

Will I finally have energy? The energy to get out of bed, and do something for myself just because I can, not out of obligation to others? Will I get up and clean my room, instead of the clothes piling like a mountain of even more guilt? 

 

Will I take care of myself? Will I finally see myself as something worth taking care of? This older version of myself, are they able to believe it when my friends, my lover, and my family say I’m beautiful? Can I wear dresses without wearing a cardigan to try and hide the big body under it? Do I stand up for myself when people are mean to me, when they step all over me? 

 

Do I stand up for myself when I’m mean to me? That would be nice. 

 

Maybe this disgusting feeling will go away. I’d spend less time scrubbing at my skin, trying to get these hands pulling on me, pulling me down, off of me, even though they never do.  

 

For the first time, maybe I won’t be the boy who cried wolf, push aside the fact I never cried wolf. They just assume I did because when they look at me, with those judgmental eyes, my words fail. But maybe when I’m grown up, and things change, my words will come out just how I picture them. 

 

Maybe, just maybe, when the words stumble out, people will believe me without questioning. No more “I know that guy” or “They have a lot going on right now.” People will believe me, and they’ll help me through this agonizing weight on my shoulders. 

 

If I’m lucky, the weight will be gone entirely. 

 

I’ll go out to dinner with friends and people who care about me. We’ll laugh and joke, but never at the expense of one another. It’ll be a happy place, where I don’t have to do anything for anyone else to be truly loved and appreciated. 

 

And I won’t check the calories on the menu. 

 

I’ll have someone, a good someone. Someone who loves me, mind and soul, before he even catches a glimpse of my body, before I give him anything. I’ll finally know what it’s like to feel cherished, a genuine connection where I’m loved, and I can love back safely. 

 

I’ll be the same girl at heart; I know that much. 

 

I’ll make the same jokes, feel the same emotions, have the same face, have the same talent, and have the same heart. Maybe some of these things will even get better. 

 

But hopefully, when I’m older, I’ll believe in myself.  

 

I’ll laugh without covering my mouth to hide my teeth. I’ll feel how I feel without feeling guilty for being selfish, stop thinking my feelings are overexaggerated. I’ll look in the mirror and feel proud, seeing the same smile as my father, the same eyes as my mother, the same nose as my grandmother. I’ll perform for the world, and beam because I know that I have talent, and I know I did the best I could ever do.  

 

And I’ll love the way I always have, with everything I have. But things will be different because I will be loved back, loved for all that I am.  

 

I hope that things will be different when I’m older, because then maybe I’ll be different.