How long can I describe myself as stressed, before it becomes a facet of my personality?

I think this as I sprint from the train, mind racing while I struggle to maintain all of the daily, mundane challenges wrapped up in my mind.

Little itty bits of responsibility, tasks that fall like snowflakes from the sky. They land in my hair, bits of icy fluff that melt after a moment or two.

I wait, shaking out my curls while I try to scrape together memories of being carefree.

These snowflakes are a different breed. They sit heavily on my scalp, a material I have never known that leaves a permanent weight on me.

I struggle to keep myself upright.

At what point do we learn to deal with stress? Unforeseen disasters seem to lurk around the corner of adulthood. It is bittersweet, accepting this independence I had once so desperately craved. Now I sit, craving early morning cartoons and the sweet milk leftover from sugary cereal.

There is a blind panic that hides like mold underneath the freedom of adulthood. So much choice, so much room for error. The idea of failure holds me back. The consequences of my choices are only mine to bear, a right of passage I never wanted.

Daydreams of sweet milk and cartoons sit in the back of my mind, but holding on to the past does nothing but prolong the acceptance of my place in life.

I peel back each finger one by one, while hazy memories slip between the spaces of my skin. I feel a rush of panic as I allow myself to cross the threshold.

And then, oh so gently, warm light filters in.

A golden haze overwhelms my thoughts, and I am at peace once more.