I took my final bow as the audience applauded. I pranced offstage to the sound of exuberant hollers. My light pink tutu bounced with each energetic step. The curtains closed, and I was backstage thinking, "When I grow up I want to be a ballerina."

My hands were always stained in vibrant colors whether it was due to paints or markers. Every surface was an empty canvass eagerly waiting for a creation. The sidewalk outside my house was always covered in chalk. Our refrigerator proudly adorned my drawings. Each time I looked at art I believed, "When I grow up I want to be an artist."

I sat in front of the television watching shows like "Totally Spies" or "Kim Possible." After the show ended I would leap from the couch to a coffee table and methodically balance on a rocking chair. The entire time I dodged smoldering lava in order to complete a top secret mission. I whispered codes into my imaginary gadgets all while thinking, "When I grow up I want to be a spy."

My childhood self always seemed to have my life planned out –– until I became interested in something new (which seemed like a daily occurrence). Every time an adult asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, my answer always changed. "I want to be a fashion designer, lawyer, teacher, photographer, princess, writer" –– and the list goes on.

No matter what my responses were, I never once deemed them unrealistic or absurd (granted, becoming a princess was lofty, but in my mind it was certainly achievable with the right connections). My childhood self dwelled in possibility and dreamed the unimaginable.

Nowadays, when I think about my childhood self, I wonder what she would think about twenty-year old us. She would see a woman who always calculates her decisions. She would witness her excitement but also fear toward the future. Her twenty-year old self is hesitant to pursue her passion because she's unsure if she will be successful making a career out of it.

I often think my childhood self would ask me, "What happened to us? Why are we so afraid of uncertainty?" I wish I wouldn't have to respond to her with the annoying adult-like answer, "You'll understand when you're older." But I don't know how else I would explain it.

Except when I imagine this conversation, I know my childhood self wouldn't accept an answer like that. Instead, she would retort, "We can do anything we want. If we do what we love nothing else matters."

And just when I think she's being naive and doesn't understand the actual stresses of becoming an adult: having to secure a job, buying groceries that don't just consist of cereal and milk, and remembering to do laundry so we don't wear the same outfit three days in a row (it was cute as a kid but now it's just unhygienic). I realize my childhood self is right.

When I put aside all of the worries and tedious fears, it really can be that simple. I can do anything I want in the world. I can think I want to be a journalist today and then completely change my mind tomorrow. Instead of pursuing dreams with hesitancy, I should be full of excitement again. As long as I truly love what I am doing, the rest will take care of itself.

I look at my childhood self who's still wearing her princess costume from Halloween even though it's March. I smile down at her and say, "You're going to look forward to being me when you're older."