I’m flying — my blue butterfly t-shirt mimicking my arms sprawled in the air. My knees hit the ground and the whistle blows. Recess is over. I skip back to the big red doors, hand in hand with my classmates. My untamed curls are stuck to my face with sweat, and my legs are coated in grass-stains and wood chips.

In third grade, my sister Eva gave me an old pair of her Khaki shorts. They were too big, but that didn’t stop me from feeling older, like Dora the Explorer. In my khakis and butterfly shirt that I was now growing out of, Eva and I explored into the depths of our backyard. We played “survive the wild” by collecting pine cones and moss to eat for dinner. We lived on the island, which was the big rock behind the line of trees. With our cheeks flushed pink and fingernails stuffed with dirt, we were unaware of the ticking clock of our childhood.

I wanted to grow, to be as old and brave as my sister, but I never thought my clothes wouldn’t grow with me. It only became clear when my blue butterfly shirt got tight around my armpits and my khaki shorts no longer fit over my thighs.

As I ventured into high school, I clung to the clothes that once fit me. I wore my favorite yellow Converses until they were ripping at the seams and my toes were pressed to the ends. I wore my blue backpack I had since second grade, even when the zipper broke from the weight of government and chemistry text books. I feared growing up; the thoughts of my future shook me to my core, where I was still a little kid.

The day I turn 18 is inevitably approaching, and my clothes from my previous years no longer fit. Even my favorite jeans from freshman year cut short above my ankles. I feel an evident fear for the future, but there is also a lingering excitement. Excitement that I will find new clothes to fill the spaces in my closet and new experiences to grow my memory bank of adventures, outside of my own backyard — maybe a state away, or maybe on the other side of the world.

I still want to fit into my blue butterfly shirt and my little khaki shorts; I still want my cheeks flushed pink and my knees stained green. But if I can’t bring back the clothes that once fit me, I can at least go back to that rock and eat some moss with my brown curls stuck to my face

Being little, I always wanted to be bigger. I wanted to be grown up and cool like the people I saw on TV; I wanted to be like my babysitters, like my parents. In my mind, a marker of maturity, especially due to my parents’ frequent use of them, was jeans.

I remember buying jeans with my dad online from Gap when I still wore kids’ sizes. I was little, but in my mind, due to my great responsibleness and jean-wearing, I had the maturity of someone much older.

I don’t know exactly when I got my first pair of jeans or when I started to love them, but I estimate they really started to take over my wardrobe before or at the beginning of eighth grade.

In the summer before seventh grade, I got my first pair of women’s jeans with my grandma. I wanted flare jeans badly, so off we went to a Hollister, where we found the smallest size they had. When the ends piled at my feet, my grandma assured me that she would hem them to fit me just right: so she did, and they did. I just loved that I fit into women’s jeans.

Despite their wonderfulness, my flare jeans weren’t the most practical, and the perfectly fitting quality didn’t stay true. The same happened with my Gap jeans. They began to get too small, so I once again advanced in the world of denim. With my mom, my next pair of jeans was Levi’s 501 jeans, and these didn’t need to be hemmed. These had no hint of costume or child. They made me feel powerful, and I was finally ready to be someone who wore women’s jeans.

In the winter of eighth grade, I visited my best friend, Willa, in New York City, and I met her friend, Alice. There is a picture of us — wearing jeans, sitting on the floor, talking, laughing. We went shopping by ourselves, and we shopped in the women’s section. Later on our trip, my mom and I went to the Levi’s store in Times Square and bought a pair of Levi’s Low Loose jeans that I still have. I don’t think I expected them to fit me forever, of course, but they were my jeans. I love jeans. I wear jeans to bed sometimes. And I loved these jeans.

These jeans don’t fit me anymore, and two weeks ago, my new jeans arrived in the mail. They’re a darker wash, and they will sit in my drawer of the many jeans I love, even when they don’t fit me anymore.