I want to go back because this feels like the first day of school. It’s like walking into a room, a party where I don’t know anyone. I know what’s back there, I know what’s behind me. Though I was uncomfortable there, I eventually mastered it, and it became familiar. This is not that. I’m scared to turn the page called tomorrow; it feels safer to remain on the familiar page called today.

I hear certain songs or watch an old movie and think to myself, “My mom was alive then.” Though I may have thought differently then, today I reminisce about how simpler things seemed back then. That nostalgic yearning, these feelings, present as evidence that I’m getting older. I now have evidence of aging, and it frightens me. Aging is not something I am accustomed to embracing, at least not at this stage.

In previous chapters, growing older symbolized freedom, adulthood, agency, independence. This stage of aging is drastically different, and for some, it can be the polar opposite.

Do you hear how fear has entered the room, accompanied by the unknown?

They taunt me; they are the new bullies. I turn around to find a portal, a door, or some means to go backward as a balm, as a shield to avoid what is to come. But I know I can’t. No one can. I must put my toe in the water; I must turn the page anyway, even if my hands sweat, even if my stomach does jumping jacks.

I have to go forward and take my cherished memories with me. I have plenty of practice, and in my experience, every next page has been better than the last. I might have gotten caught up on some chapters; I may have had to reread some pages until I could comprehend the message. Each page and chapter built upon the last. There really was something to always look forward to. Why would now be any different?