As you start this week, may you be courageous and bold enough to do the things that are good and healthy for you, the things you know make you a better grownup and more in to who you’re made to be.

I distinctly remember this one evening after visiting some family friends late into the night, when I was soundly sleeping in the backseat, my head propped on the side of the car and my body rolled up in a self-made cocoon. I’m guessing I was about 8 or 9, and we had just pulled up into our driveway; my dad turned off the ignition and my mom gathered my younger brother, also sleeping, in her arms.

“Tsh. Tsh. Time to wake up. We’re home,” my mom said, and then she turned toward the house with her arms full. I wondered—if I sat still long enough, would one of my parents return to the car to carry me, too? Maybe they’ll think I’m sound asleep and didn’t hear them. Or maybe they’ll have pity on my too-big body and schlep my dead weight over their shoulder.

A few seconds passed of stillness and silence, and no one came back for me. This is when I realized: I was too big to be carried in any more. I was growing up, and part of that meant not getting to be a baby. Most of the time, that was cool. But at 11 p.m., when I wanted someone else to do the getting out, the walking up the driveway, the clothes changing, and the teeth brushing, I was bummed that I didn’t get an official memo when that part of my life ended. Somehow, I blinked and missed that phase between being small enough to be babied and big enough to now do some big things myself.

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