Growing up can be a living hell. It's confusing, glorious and terrifying, all in one, kind-of like the all-you-can-eat buffets your parents would drag you to on Sunday's. The upside? You're not the only one that's ever gone through the somewhat maniacal process. As a 25-year-old woman, I thought my most wrenching growing pains would be behind me already. Enter the proverbial curveball that is my life.

I was going through the closet of my teeny one-bedroom apartment when I came across my old softball bag full of my personal memorabilia. My helmet, bat, catcher's gear, batting gloves and red dirt from the fields came tumbling out as I unzipped the bag. I'll admit I smiled the widest when I pulled out my prized possession, the catcher's glove. For posteriority, yes that is me with my beloved glove up top! Anyways, I slid my hand into the well-broken-in leather and experienced a flood of memories that I wasn't quite prepared for.

The hours spent in the sun at practice, the hundreds of games, the thousands of hours spent on the road. It all came back like it had been yesterday. But then, something peculiar happened.

I started examining the glove, with its perfect pocket and light-tan leather and thought to myself, "What a perfect canvas for poetry." Needless to say, my inspiration sprang from reading "The Catcher in the Rye"some years ago when one of the characters wrote poetry down on an old baseball glove. My creative spirit started to churn and amass and I envisioned my script, albeit messily, scribbled over the treasured memento.

It was then I experienced my second shock of the day, I slammed the door shut on the reverie, thinking to myself, "Shame on you, how dare you write all over one of your most treasured possessions? What if you need to use it again, someday? What if dad-"

Enter the third surprise in the span of thirty seconds. My father had passed away in 2011 and had been my most loyal and fervent supporter during my athletic days and I had seriously just thought to myself, "What am I to do if dad calls and wants to go to the ballpark and my perfectly good glove has ink scribbled all over it?" It very nearly made me sick.

I came to the strange conclusion that my past still fought quite viciously with the present for control of my mind. I thought I had accepted my dad's death, the passing of my softball, tough-girl days, and moved steadily into my adult years. I suppose, in part, I have. I am pursuing my passion in writing my getting a second BA, writing nearly daily and loving every moment of it. I am also loving the life I'm beginning to build with my husband of nearly 3 years, my mixing-pot family and dear friends.

I want other young adults like me to understand that it's okay to look back on your past and smile, to remember those long-gone memories fondly because they do have a rose-colored tint. But we can't allow those fond memories to hobble us or to prevent us from seeing our future. My dad will never call and want to go to the ballpark again, on a conscious level, I know and understand that. I suppose I still need to work on pursuing my future and not holding, white-knuckled, onto my past.

Although it's painful for me to acknowledge that letting go of some memories is in my best interest, I know that I will never forget them. Life isn't about forgetting. It's about moving, changing and learning.

My old softball glove taught me just that.