Trying to read my last book of the summer on the screen porch in the New Hampshire air, I was waiting for a text from my cousin. I hadn’t seen her in four years, after spending whole summers together defined by late night swims in the lake and running along the dirt road connected to the house we lovingly named “the white house.” She was going into her first year at college, and that day felt worlds away from those childhood moments. I was scared. It was like our childhoods were paused four years ago and I wondered if it would be the same.
     

Suddenly, Cate burst through the screen door. The rusty hinges screamed and the door crashed against the wooden frame. I snapped around, looking only at my cousin bounding towards me with arms open. In the following moments, we fell into the same friendship I remembered, pressing play on our childlike fun.
     

That night, we slept in the same room we did as kids, with five year old drawings on the floorboard behind a dresser we hid from from our grandmother. The room had a bit of a makeover in the years it sat empty: the curtains changed, the light fixture switched out, and the quilts replaced with newer ones. We did the same thing we did as kids, though, and pushed the two twin beds together, forming one giant bed for us both. We didn’t want to be apart for a minute as kids, and the feeling stuck.
   

We talked for hours until my cousin proposed an adventure. I immediately rejected the idea, naming the time of night, the fact we would be sneaking out, and a fear we would get in trouble. She insisted and started to bundle up in sweatshirts and socks. I begrudgingly compromised and slipped on my sandals. This being my first deemed “sneaking out” experience, I took every precaution. We avoided every squeaky spot we had memorized from our escapades as kids. Once we silently closed the ancient screen door, we began walking to the “troll bridge.”  When we got there, it was somehow much smaller. It probably could fit a small dog underneath but not much more. As children, this was the ultimate site of curiosity, but now it was simple and understated. It appeared changed, but really it was us who had grown up.
     

When we arrived at the beach, we sat barefoot on the dock and looked at the stars in silence. They were glowing bright and reflecting on the still lake. The fog shuffled across the surface of the water, unseen to the naked eye, but was illuminated by our flashlights. It was the stillest I’ve ever felt, especially amidst a summer of constant motion and activity. We were bound by our mutual presence and respect of nature. Someone talked first, I don’t remember who, which lead us into hours of whispering. We dipped our toes in, feeling the icy water run through our bodies. Walking up the stairs, I felt inherently warm and connected to something that felt easy and real. We felt at home as we fell asleep for a few hours before waking up to the smell of breakfast.
     

The night I spent with my cousin defines for me what it means to grow. Returning to the place where I was most a child with my partner-in-crime opened my eyes to how much we had grown up. Although we were coming back older, our relationship remained, just waiting for this moment. I realized that growing up is not leaving everything behind; rather, it is returning to moments of childlike joy with a new perspective, and fully jumping into the fun. I am excited for new adventures and new friends, as I have learned to trust that my memories will stay waiting for me. Unafraid of the future, I am ready to keep moving forward.