Just Acting My Age

When I was two, life seemed a breeze,
I did just what I liked with ease.
If I threw fits or made a scene,
Dad simply said, “He’s only green.”

I stomped and pouted, laughed and cried,
And wore my feelings full and wide.
No one expected polished grace,
Or wisdom written on my face.

But then the birthdays hurried by,
And expectations climbed sky-high.
“Act mature,” my parents said.
“Use better judgment in your head.”

I learned to nod and seem so wise,
To hide confusion with disguise.
Pretending I knew more than me,
Became an absolute necessity.

The older I got, as I added the years,
The more I masked my doubts and fears.
I feared that someone soon might see
I wasn’t as great as I appeared to be.

That feeling has a fancy name,
Imposter Syndrome claims the blame.
It whispers, “You don’t quite belong;
They’ll know you’ve been wrong all along.”

Yet sometimes in a quiet pause,
I think about those toddler laws.
How free it felt to simply be
The age that matched reality.

Perhaps true wisdom isn’t found
In acting older all year round.
Perhaps maturity’s embrace
Means being honest in your place.

For every age beneath the sun
Has lessons meant for everyone.
And peace arrives when we agree
To be ourselves authentically.

So here’s a thought that’s worth a page:
Be faithful to your present stage.
The happiest hearts may well engage
In simply acting their own young age.