I'm getting older. And I don't mean that in the rickety bones sense, although my eyes have creases that weren't there before, and there are some around my mouth, too. I mean that I'm starting, finally, after five years of marriage and a year of being a mom and several more of being a college graduate and working professional, to realize that others view me as an adult too, and not just as a kid or entry-level.

I spoke to some teenage girls in church and they were telling me how strange it is to no longer be the kids in primary. "I know!" I said. Because I am just like them, right? I am just as young and fresh as they are - aren't I? Are we ever the age we feel we are?

I have dreams about the weight of adulthood. Dreams where I have nowhere to run and I have to protect my family and myself. I tell Kevin about them and he shrugs, used to bearing this weight of responsibility. "It's just life," he says, but it's terrifying in ways that I'll never again be as young as I am right now, in this moment. I'm always getting older, and along with that so is my baby and my parents and everyone else I love. We're all getting older at the same rate.

These are not new things to say. If anything they are the naive words of a twenty-something who in three years will be a thirty-something, but they are still my realizations. Blank, terrifying and sweet somehow, the knowledge that our biological, chronological, spiritual clocks tick-tick-tick, and we, as humans, can only tip our heads to time, and promise that we will do more in the unknown space ahead.