I turned 15 last Tuesday, December 12. I am 15 now, numerically and technically. I can learn how to drive. I can get a part-time job. I am 15 in legal terms, in societal status and in the years subtracted from my date of birth.

But I don’t feel 15. No, I am still a one year old, just a toddler, wobbling into the world, crying and laughing at the same time. Oh, to be cradled in my mother’s arms again, to go back to the time when I had done no wrong, and she held me without reservations.

Maybe I am really five years old, ready for school, meeting new people, learning new things, babbling incoherently. The excitement I used to have for school alludes me now, talking is hard, nap time is fleeting.

I feel more seven than 15. I wish I could climb trees like I used to, graceful in a manner only seven-year-olds can master. To joke carelessly with friends who are distant now. She makes small talk in the hallway, but we both know there hasn’t been any real conversation in years. I miss her. Moving on is too hard, so instead, I move back or sideways, horizontal, diagonal, left and right, any direction except forward.

Perhaps 12 was the best age: mature enough to know what I’m doing, but also have no idea what I’m doing, which is pretty indicative of how I am now. At this point, I started realizing maybe I wasn’t the Einstein of the generation. Maybe there were other people in the world with valid opinions. I’m still realizing that day after day, year after year, second after second as finals week approaches.

Heck, I even want 14 back. The difference a day can make. When I was 14, I was still a child. I was allowed to make mistakes. Now, I’m 15. I’m a teenager, a high schooler and a grown up. Everything I do has an impact on how people view me, how my grades are and what colleges will take me.

I am 15 now, so I am no longer a human being. I must be better, work harder and have no feelings until I succeed. Only then, when I become valedictorian, may I squeeze out a single, perfect tear of joy.