Neverland

It’s been harder to sleep lately. Time seems more precious with each passing day. But I think part of me hopes that if I can fight off sleep, time will wait. Twenty won’t be here so soon. I won’t have to grow up. It’s funny how most of us rush toward adulthood. That’s the tragedy of being human—not knowing what you have while it’s there. We long to grow tall and independent, to leave our chubby cheeks and wild curls behind. I did too. But now, sitting on the edge of midnight, it all feels like some sick joke. Is this what had seemed so alluring just a few short years ago? Where’s the restart button? Where can I get my refund? I promise I’ll spend it all more carefully. Just give me one more day. One more pancake breakfast. One more game of Barbies. One more dance in the rain. Please. One more moment.

But it’s midnight, and I’m twenty, and there’s nothing I can do.

So I cry. Not loud, not hard. Just big, silent, regretful tears. I lie down, defeated. Sleep can take me now; it’s too late. But minutes turn to hours, and sleep rejects me—as if to punish me for going through with it all and growing up. And I can’t help but laugh. I’d spent many nights like this as a child. Maybe not this late, but awake nonetheless.

You see, when I was a little girl, I loved Peter Pan. I watched the Disney cartoon, the live-action film, the Broadway proshot, that one random Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade version, and of course all of the Tinker Bell movies. I was adamant that I did not believe in Neverland—and I didn’t. But I hoped. So some nights I’d lie down in my bed after goodnight hugs, and as soon as I was alone, my eyes would pop open. On the off chance that Peter did exist, I wanted to be awake to hear him knock at my window. Maybe his shadow would slip into my room, or he’d just know there was a child in this house longing for an adventure. In the end, of course, I would lose the battle to sleep and wake up in my own bed the next morning, shaking my head at how stupid the whole thing was.

I didn’t believe as a child. But the funny thing is that now, as a twenty-year-old crying on her birthday, I do. And I know that sounds backwards and silly. But I’m convinced that Neverland must be out there somewhere, because I can’t find another explanation for where that little girl went.

Peter must have come to her window one night, finally answering her hopeful whispers. She must have been swept up in pixie dust and led away—second star on the right and straight on till morning. She must be somewhere up in the clouds, dancing with fairies, fighting pirates. While I got left behind in her place.

I don’t know that I’ll ever live up to her. And I think everything I do is some sort of effort to make her proud, or a prayer that she’ll return. All I can do is clutch her favorite stuffed animal while I sob. It doesn’t seem fair.

All I want is to meet her. Just one time, face-to-face. A chance to apologize, really—for getting taller, and for not becoming a fairy-princess ballerina. But I’d assure her that my favorite color is still pink, and that I never got over my love for baby elephants and piglets. That I still melt at the sight of stuffed animals and babies, even if the idea of motherhood is more scary than exciting now. I’d tell her I finally found friends—and yes, they really do love me. I’d hope she wouldn’t be too disappointed that I haven’t married a prince yet. Or that falling in love is no longer a dream but a fear. I’d have to inform her of the very frustrating news that I haven’t managed to make our birthday an everyday occurrence. But I would happily show her the new pair of “ruby slippers” I bought in her honor.

And of course, there are some things it might be better she didn’t know. I wouldn’t tell her that I never quite got over our fear of eye contact or talking with strangers. I wouldn’t tell her about the mean kids I met at school, or the friends I lost. I’d leave out the part about how I disappointed Mom and Dad. I wouldn’t tell her that her favorite movies make me cry now, or that I no longer care for cotton candy the way she did. She’d be shocked when I told her I prefer dark chocolate and would probably scrunch up her little nose. But she’d smile to hear that her favorite food is still mine too, and that I learned to love my freckles—and even gained some new ones.

I wouldn’t know what to ask her, as she took most of our imagination with her. But I think the answers that matter most would be in the questions she posed. She wouldn’t ask what size jeans I wear or how much money is in my bank account. She’d ask me to pinky-swear that I really do have a best friend, and ask me what her name is. She’d cry happy tears to see I hung on to our Bolt stuffed animal. And she’d be so excited that we finally got a real dog. Then she’d ask what I decided to be. I’ll leave that one there.

Soon it would be time to let her go. I would hug her and take a good look at her eyes—forever full of wonder. Mine would be full of tears she’d wipe away. I’d wave, and she’d smile over her shoulder before flying back to her dreamland in the sky.

And of course I wish she would’ve taken me with her the first night she left. I struggle with the same questions each night: Why had I lost her? And how did I not notice? Is there anything more I could have done to keep her?

The answer isn’t one that’s very comforting to realize if you’re crying on your birthday—or any time, really. It’s confusing, at least to me. But it’s the sad truth: I couldn’t stop her from going any more than she could stop me from growing. She was always going to slip through my fingers, and it was always going to be my responsibility to grow up.

But if she taught me anything, it’s to discover. There are always two sides to every coin.

So I found that the opposite is also true. In some ways, I can’t get rid of her. She’s there in the moments when I’m unable to control my laughter. Or when I’m creating something new. In Trader Joe’s. When it rains. On walks to the library. When I hold our favorite stuffed animal. In short, she’s there when I love. Untethered and naïve, she can’t help it. And I wouldn’t change her if I could.

It’s nearly morning now, and the nightmares of twenty have subsided. I think there will always be a tinge of pain. But I choose to smile when I look up at the stars, knowing that Neverland is up there somewhere. Because so is a little girl I miss very much—a little girl who’s proud of the woman she’s becoming.