It’s that time of year again when everything seems like it’s in free fall, spiraling toward the end of the school year and the false allure of yet another lazy summer. Those nothing-filled days of seasons past will be a little more elusive this year. I’m seeking out summer jobs—a teenage rite of passage in themselves—and volunteering opportunities. If I can work out my schedule for next school year in time, I could be taking an intensive Portuguese class at the local university come fall semester, and I’ll need to prep for that. I’m going to finally put in my hours behind the wheel and try to get my driver’s license. I’m going to fully rehabilitate my ankle and spend my mornings readying myself for my next competitive season, especially if that comes at the end of this year rather than in the spring of next.

My English course this semester is on the coming-of-age novel, so in class we’ve been talking about the entire concept of “coming of age” and how we each perceive it. One of the hottest debates, predictably, is whether coming of age can be described in a single moment, or even a series of moments, or whether it’s a subtler shift that takes place over time, best viewed in hindsight. I’m not sure what my stance on the matter is. I feel like I’ve had a lot of experiences—and many more ahead of me—that could be viewed as my coming-of-age moments. But I still don’t feel like it’s happened. I don’t feel like I’ve come of age. I’m chasing all these loose ends this summer like maybe I’m hoping one of them will lead me to some definitive future and I’ll be slapped in the face with a sense of maturity and adulthood.

There are things that only my journals and Spotify playlists know. I think they might know me better than I do myself.

(This entry has been a little confusing for me, too.) ♦