Whoever needs to come needs to come now.

I read out the text as I typed it from my dad’s phone and sent it to our family group chat. It was Nov. 11, 2020, 10:24 a.m., and I had just watched my dada (grandpa) take his last breath. 

But there was no time to take things in; I had phone calls to make.

At 13 years old, I watched my world crumble. Seconds later, I called my cousins telling them Dada was gone and that they needed to be at my house as soon as they could. The next day, I stood in front of his lifeless body, holding up an iPad so that our family abroad could attend the funeral and pay their respects. I was only 13 years old; I was just a kid, but it felt like I was one of the oldest in the room.

Ever since then, I’ve fought an internal battle of being the responsible adult everyone expects, while getting to be the kid I am and have every right to be. It wasn’t until I turned 18 that I realized the importance of allowing myself to just be a kid and that it’s entirely OK to do that. 

At 18 years old, I still hold Nanu (grandma) up when she’s breaking down because of how much she misses Dada. At 18 years old, I still visit my Dada’s grave every chance I can — especially on milestone days — to find a way to do something for him that makes me feel his presence more. 

It may have been 13-year-old me watching him take his last breath, but it was the little kid in me who couldn’t find a way to say goodbye. It may have been 13-year-old me who had to find a way to accept that she’ll never go on another chukar (drive around the neighborhood) with him again, but it was the little kid in me who just wanted one more chukar filled with moments that will live longer than him. It may have been 13-year-old me making phone calls that day, but it was the little kid in me who chose to hide her grief and take on everyone else’s. 

It may be 18-year-old me holding Nanu together, but it’s the little kid in me who recalls the moments where it was the other way around. It may be 18-year-old me visiting my Dada’s grave, but it’s the little kid in me waiting to see him again. 

Through all the loss and responsibilities, I’ve learned the importance of letting myself be a kid, even as an adult. Life is different when you live like a kid — you find a way to make even the little, random things fun or fulfilling. Life as a kid adds meaning into things that are rarely looked back on as adults. 

I’m 18 years old and legally an adult. But when I’m around Nanu, I’m the little kid who needs her mango and eggs fed to her, and I’m the adult who holds her together. I’m 18 years old, but when I’m around my parents, I’m their little girl who just wants to fall asleep in the backseat, and I’m the adult driving them around wherever they go. I’m 18 years old, but when I’m with Dada, I’m the adult who draws from her faith as I visit his grave rather than letting her grief consume her, and I’m the little kid who wants to crawl into his lap and ask him to make everything OK again. 

I’m 18 years old, but I’ll forever be a kid at heart.