I’m not the girl I imagined I’d be at sixteen.

I’m not very tall, the defining word for me isn’t hot and I don’t wear jeans or fishnet sleeves like I always thought I would.Im not especially popular and I don’t have a boyfriend.I’m not in art school anymore and I haven’t spoken to Kamryn and Eden in years.We don’t ride in my imaginary convertible and I don’t have long luscious hair and my voice isn’t as grown as I thought it would be.

When I look in the mirror I don’t see a young woman like I thought I would be at sixteen.

I see a teenage girl.

A girl.

A girl that still giggles and smiles big and has short choppy hair that bounces around when she dances and runs like a child.A girl that has stuffed animals in her bed.A girl still scared of the dark.A girl that still likes holding hands and still can’t handle scary movies and has barely had her first kiss.

I didn’t become the sleek model girls in coming of age movies with boyfriends and no curfews but I became something better.

I became an actual kid.

Instead of rushing growing up I am relishing the feeling of sunlight hitting my acne and falling asleep daydreaming and cuddling my stuffed animals and burning my hands when I bake and tripping when I run to catch up with my friends and rolling down hills and skipping and the point is

I quit counting my years from how much longer I have to wait to be grown to how many more summer evenings I can spend climbing trees with my cousin or how many times can I mess with my friends before they graduate.

My womanhood is not measured by the years I have on my belt but by my own decision.