blurry memories 

of sleepy car rides home

with everyone asleep 

but dad and me 

he points to the moon

and says to me,

if you look at the moon 

it looks back at you 

can you spot it?

he asks

it can always spot you

he tells me tales of when he was young

clouds of smoke would fill the sky 

and leave the night with darkness

monsters lurked in the trees

the city lay asleep

but he was wide awake

not one star to light the way

but the moon always did

he tells me about his bike rides at night

coming home later than he should

he would look at the moon

and they would return together

safe and sound

he tells me how he thought

there couldn’t be just one moon

after all,

how could only one moon always know 

his every move?

he had me convinced

and still does,

for my child-like mind 

finds comfort 

that in the scary darkness

the moon will light my path 

now as i walk

to my home away from home

i glance up at the moon 

just every now and then

and i can’t help but wonder

is he looking at the moon too?

As my 20th birthday creeps around the 

corner, I’m grappling with a lingering feeling 
of whiplash. Time has been racing by and I’m 
short of breath trying to keep up. It feels as 
if it was just yesterday that I was celebrating 
my 18th birthday in my basement with my 
friends back home. But the clock doesn’t slow 
down for anyone. Even though the days feel 
painfully slow, time passes by quickly when 
you’re living through a global pandemic. This 
has also meant downing more hard-to-swal-
low pills than I had accounted for. Neverthe-
less, in approaching this threshold into a new 
chapter of my life, I’ve had time to reflect 
on the past and the future, as daunting as 
it seems. The growing pains have not been 
easy, but they’re a rite of passage through any 
significant life transition.

For me, growing up is realizing that most of 

the time, life isn’t going to be like the movies. 
It’s so easy for me to get caught up in the overly 
romanticized depictions of adolescence that 
saturate the media. Spending a lot of time 
engaging with such media while growing 
up had me wondering when I was going to 
finally have my quintessential coming-of-
age moment — something akin to the iconic 
tunnel scene from “The Perks of Being a 
Wallflower” where Emma Watson gracefully 
stands up in the trunk of a moving pick-up 
truck under the city lights of the Fort Pitt 
Tunnel, or the scene in “Lady Bird” where 
Lucas Hedges and Saoirse Ronan are joyously 
running through a vineyard. There was a 
point at which I had to realize that, in most 
aspects, my experiences won’t be the same 

as the main characters in my favorite movies. 
A lot of the time, life feels less like the idyllic, 
rose-tinted, peaceful drive scenes of an A24 
film and much more like an experimental 
film: shaky, unpredictable and confounding. 
Still, this isn’t necessarily a bad thing, and last 
spring made that very clear to me. 

In March 2020, my friends and I were 

trying on our graduation gowns and 
planning for what was supposed to be the 
quintessential prom night. By the next 
month, these milestones were taken from us 
in the blink of an eye, leaving us all feeling 
cheated by the world. 

Fortunately, at the end of our school year, I 

got the chance to end my own pity party. On 
our graduation day, rather than tuning into 
an unceremonious virtual commencement 
ceremony, I spoke at a local Black Lives 
Matter vigil during the peak of national 
protests. I got to speak about local social 
injustices in our hometown and organize 
with community members to plan future 
initiatives to promote racial equity. Even 
though my senior year didn’t conclude how I 
expected it to, I got to be a part of something 
bigger than myself last summer. Since then, 
I’ve found much more long-lasting joy in 
letting go of unrealistic expectations for how 
my life is “supposed” to look. I now appreciate 
any time spent with loved ones more than 
ever, whether we’re riding the train on an 
adventure through the city or just laying 
around binge-watching “Gossip Girl.”

Growing up is coming to terms with the 

fact that not all of my closest friendships 
will last forever. Whether we drift apart 
naturally or harshly cut off all contact, some 
friendships are just bound to end. After 
such an abrupt ending to my high school 

experience, this was made even more clear 
to me. I’ve had unfortunate falling-outs with 
people I once considered to be my ride-or-
dies. This is just a testament to the truth that 
at such a time in my life, when everybody is 
moving in different directions, relationships 
can be very impermanent. Even people that 
I’ve held close to my heart can be gone as 
quickly as they came. While this was one of 
the hardest pills to swallow, I’ve learned the 
importance of appreciating moments with 
the people around me for as long as I can and 
not spending too much time grieving faded 
friendships. 

Growing up is also realizing that I don’t 

always have to act grown. I don’t think 
I’ll ever fully grow out of my youth. 
And that’s okay. Though it isn’t 
always 
easy 
when 
scrolling 

through the latest news headlines, 
I’d hate to ever reach a point at 
which I’ve become entirely jaded 
by the world. Still, I think being 
able to silence my inner cynic at 
times is a necessity to maintain 
some peace of mind. For a while, 
I thought that one day I’d wake 
up and all at once be launched 
into adulthood. I figured that 
when the clock struck midnight 
on my 18th birthday, I would 
instantly be a grown-up. Yet 18 
felt the same as 17, except with the 
ability to vote and finally own my 
own Costco card. 

Even now as I’m reaching 20, I don’t 

feel too far removed from who I was 
two years ago. My friends and I still 
like to send each other stupid memes 
and make funny TikToks. Now, I just 

have to schedule time every now and then 
to file my taxes or tweak my resumé for 
a job application. The transition is much 
more gradual than I thought it would be. 
It’s as if I’m indefinitely teetering on the 
line between childhood and adulthood. 
Maybe I’ll be balancing on this line for a 
while, but I’m slowly beginning to find 
comfort in this “in-between” phase, 
especially with the knowledge that my 
peers feel the same way. I surely don’t 
have everything figured out yet, but really, 
who does?

Navigating this turbulent crossroad 

between 
adolescence 
and 
adulthood 

is anything but easy. It has been full of 
winding roads, sharp turns and dead ends. 
But I wouldn’t want the ride to be any 
other way. I’m surrounded by friends and 
family that I love very deeply, and I am 
better equipped now than ever to handle 
any curveball thrown my way. Usually, 
my birthdays are a bittersweet time for 
me. While it’s a time for celebration, it also 
means an increasing load of responsibility 
and having to confront my fears of the 

future. But this time around, I’m 

trying to face my 20th solar 

return with confidence that all 

things will work themselves 

out for the better. Cheers 

to growing older, 

in 
all 
of 
its 

perplexing 
glory.

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
Wednesday, September 22, 2021 — 7



























































Growing pains

UDOKA NWANSI

MiC Columnist

Core memories in poems

amma opens the top drawer

of the dresser that’s older than i am

and pulls out a chain

it lays twisted but not tangled

it glitters but does not sparkle

it is old yet it feels so new

for i have never seen it

but i know already 

i love it

the chain wraps around her hand

waiting to be worn around my neck

amma hands it to me reluctantly 

she urges me to not lose it

are you too young for this?

she thinks out loud

but gives it to me anyway

and i wear it proud

the moon and my father

Design by 

Sophia Kamien

the necklace and my mother

proud of my mother 

who spent her first paycheck on this gold

proud of my mother 

who wore this gold when she got married

proud of my mother

who immigrated to the states with this gold 

proud of my mother 

who is always so proud of me

always wear it inside your shirt

she fearfully says to me 

you can’t lose it

she cautions me again 

i’ve worn it for seven years now

and i always will

because for the first time 

i think to myself

maybe something gold can stay

By Meghan Dodaballapur, MiC Columnist

Every now and then, I need to remind 

myself why I write. 

Especially on days where I sit in front 

of an empty Google Doc for hours on end. 
Lately, that’s been every day. Days in sun-
lit coffee shops and cafes where my fingers 
hover over the keyboard as I contemplate 
which thoughts should make it to the page. 
No, this one might be too corny. Maybe 
this one, but I can’t find the perfect words. 
Then there are late nights in the library 
where the only button I can seem to click 
is “delete.” 

I wish it were as easy as sitting at a desk 

for two hours and walking away with 
a draft at the very least. Instead, I find 
myself up at three in the morning typing 
away loose thoughts in the Notes app. 
Sometimes the sun sets into a beautiful 
pink as the perfect song (probably by Steve 
Lacy) begins to play, making all the words 
seem to come out just right. Most times, 
however, a successful day of writing looks 
like spacing out in calculus and squeezing 
out a dramatic line or two, like “I miss 
you, just not the way you made me feel,” in 
between scribbles of sinusoidal functions. 

And yet most often, the pressure of having 
six hours left to a deadline and iced chai 
lattes are truly what get me writing. 

By the time I’ve hit submit, I am 

convinced I’m a shitty writer. I think about 
8-year-old Zafirah telling anyone who 
would listen that I was going to be a writer. I 
remember how my mom nervously laughed 
every time I went into detail about traveling 
the world and writing stories along the 
way. I didn’t get it then, 
but now I nervously 
laugh at the thought 
of it too. She worried 
about me living off a 
writer’s salary, while 
I now contemplate if 
I can even become a 
writer. I am sure there 
are long lists of tips and 
tricks 
on 
improving 

one’s writing process 
— talking through one’s 
ideas, planning ahead, 
reading a whole lot 
more and so forth. But 
writing doesn’t exactly 
work like that for me. 
I can’t exactly plan 
how each piece will 
take a part of me with 

it. Writing in its simplest form is a way to 
get my voice and thoughts on paper. To 
write everything down allows the moment 
to live on forever. It calls for honesty and 
vulnerability, all while internalizing the 
inherent demand to sound great. And once 
it’s all out on paper and I see things I didn’t 
before, I start to understand my emotions 
and 
experiences 
with 
a 
heightened 

awareness. This clarity that comes from 

writing is a double-edged sword. While it 
brings peace and growth, it also replaces 
blissful ignorance with the pains of self-
awareness. So after the grueling process 
behind each piece, I have to ask myself — 
why do I write? 

I love writing, I do. I love writing long 

birthday cards, reminding others of 
how appreciated they are with run-on 
sentences and lots of adverbs, and dotting 

my I’s with hearts in 
lengthy love letters. I 
love writing about my 
plans for the day on 
pastel post-it notes or 
filling a blank page with 
entire dreams for the 
future. I love writing 
with authenticity and 
excitement, hoping my 
voice and emotion are 
heard clearly. I write 
like this because I 
remember how it felt 
to read as a kid. The 
way 
authors 
could 

craft whole beings and 
worlds 
with 
words 

was magical to me. 
Books 
presented 
an 

opportunity 
to 
live 

and learn through others. Even more 
special was how a string of words could 
easily make my heart jump. I aspire to be a 
writer who can make their reader feel. I’m 
especially thankful that I have the means 
to become that writer through Michigan 
in Color. 

But the truth is I write for myself before 

I do for anyone else. I write to remember 
all the delicate and pretty moments of life. 
I scribble down all the epiphanies, daily 
updates, growing pains and fears in a little 
blue book. I write to capture all that I feel 
onto a page or several. I want to be able to 
flip back and revisit these memories fondly 
through my words. I reread them months 
later with the foresight I didn’t have then, 
adding new reflections in the margins. 
I write to understand myself better as I 
continue to grow and live life to its fullest 
extent. 

So it’s okay if things are too corny or 

don’t sound entirely perfect because I write 
for me. And with the hope that my writing 
leaves the reader with a familiar memory 
or feeling. Right now, I’m writing this piece 
knowing I’ll revisit it a few weeks from 
now. It’s to remind myself that through 
writer’s block and shitty writing, it’s always 
a beautiful thing to give my thoughts a 
space to live. 

Why I write

ZAFIRAH RAHMAN

MiC Columnist

Design by Zafirah Rahman

