The Time I Never Had

There are things you understand late, sometimes too late. Like the fact that I grew up long before I was old enough. Not by choice. Not to prove anything. Just because life pushed me there. In a few weeks, I will be 32. And yet, deep inside, something resists, something asks for the time I never had.

When I look back, I don’t really see a childhood. I see silence, heavy responsibilities, decisions made too early. I feel like I skipped an essential step. While others were discovering themselves and making mistakes without consequences, I was already learning how to stand on my own. I don’t have clear, colorful, carefree memories. Everything feels blurred and compressed, as if my childhood was swallowed by the urgency to become strong.

As a teenager, I had to be functional. Figure things out. Learn fast. Take hits without asking too many questions. I built myself through constant adaptation, with the idea that I had to keep moving no matter what. I wasn’t taught how to dream, I was taught how to survive. So I did what I could with what I had, pushing aside my emotions, my doubts, my vulnerabilities.

People often said I was mature for my age. But no one ever asks what it feels like to be “mature” too early. It is not a badge of honor. It is a mechanism. A form of protection. A shell you build when you have no choice. Behind that maturity, there was a kid who wanted to slow down, make mistakes, be taken care of. But I learned very early that no one would do that for me.

What I feel today is hard to explain without sounding ungrateful for my own path. I don’t reject who I’ve become. I know that growing up too fast gave me strength, clarity, and resilience. But it also left me with a deep, old exhaustion. A tiredness that doesn’t come from today but from yesterday, or even before.

As I approach 32, I sometimes find myself wanting to go back to my twenties. Not to party again or chase fake carefreeness. But to live what I never really had. Mistakes without consequences. Spontaneous energy. The feeling that everything is still possible. I feel like I was an adult before I was young, and now something inside me is asking for that missing time.

There is a constant sense of mismatch. As if my inner age never truly matches my real one. I was too old too early and now I sometimes feel too young inside for the image I give off. This paradox is exhausting. It creates distance — from others, and from myself. I know how to be strong, but I’ve forgotten how to be light.

This text is a way of speaking to the person I once was. To that teenager who managed alone without complaining. To that child who never had the time to fully exist. It is also a way to admit that growing up too fast leaves invisible marks. Scars you can’t see but that you feel in your body, in your thoughts, in that strange desire to go back without really knowing where to stop.

I’m not looking for pity. I’m looking for truth. Mine. The truth of a man who learned how to be strong before learning how to be happy. Of someone who keeps moving forward, while still carrying this quiet absence inside. Maybe the real work starts now. Maybe, even at 32, it is still possible to recover pieces of that lost youth. Not to erase the past but to finally allow myself to exist fully. Without armor. Without urgency. Just human.