Eighteen and Echoes of Past

What comes to mind when you think of a certain number? A birthday? A special or memorable day? A public holiday? Or something far more personal and significant?

Recently, one such number made me rethink my past gullibility. The number I’m referring to—you’ve probably guessed by now—is eighteen. Looking back on my past brings a flood of bittersweet memories. But the most unsettling realization was the expectation I had built around this number. I believed that once I crossed the threshold of eighteen, I would finally step into the world of adulthood, free to indulge in the life I had imagined.

Back then, it felt like I was trapped inside a crystal ball, with freedom just beyond my reach—guarded by that single number. I often likened myself to the frog in the well, a story that had always intrigued me. I, too, longed to escape my small world and explore the vast ocean beyond. I constantly wondered what life would be like once I crossed that threshold. Would I be happier? Would my dreams come true?

But as everyone knows, all good things must come to an end. Time slipped through my fingers, and before I knew it, I was eighteen. I had expected something grand, something miraculous to happen the moment I crossed that line. But looking back now, I can’t even recall what exactly I was waiting for. It feels as though I had crafted a fairytale for myself—one that dissolved as soon as I stepped into what I thought was reality.

The school I once despised turned out to be my safe haven. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that the very place I considered my personal hell would become the one I long to relive. The "real world" I thought I understood was nothing more than an illusion. As friends drifted apart and memories faded, I came to a harsh realization: the barrier I had once viewed as a prison had actually been my protection.

The time in life when one has no worries, when happiness is found in the simplest of moments—that, I believe, is the best time of all. It may sound like I’m complaining, and life beyond that point isn’t as bleak as I make it out to be. But I think most people would agree that childhood holds a kind of magic that can never truly be recaptured.

Now, as I take slow but steady steps forward, I realize that taking responsibility—for myself and those around me—is one of life’s greatest joys. Self-sufficiency, I have learned, is the key to contentment in this so-called "real world" I once longed for. Without realizing it, my past experiences became my source of encouragement. The memories I made found a permanent home in my heart. And perhaps, when a new phase of life begins, I’ll look back at this moment with the same fondness and nostalgia.