Moving around furniture has never felt so sentimental.

It's the first official day of summer, and that marks the annual reorganization of my room. I give myself twenty four hours to completely revamp my haven of paradise into whatever I desire. Interestingly enough, each year, my style seems to take a complete 180 turn. Within the past few years, my room has been decorated from  magazine posters of the Jonas Brothers and High School Musical to doodles probably overcompensated for in its so-called brilliance and artistry. My walls have been kissed by the millions of hipster-chic pictures that made up Seventeen and Teen Vogue, but sometime last year, I decided, on a whim, to paint my room. Before painting, I relied on the color of the magazines and posters to bless my room with pops of the rainbow, but afterwards, I felt like a woman. No more cutouts and stickers to cloud up the spaces of my walls; I wanted something sophisticated and classy -- something that would truly define me as the grown-up I was: a high school upperclassmen. So I stripped my walls and rid it of any remnants of tape, nails, and glue. When I was done, I thought for sure that I'd be satisfied with the designs. I was right for the most part. I'm quite content with my furniture and basic accessories, but when I woke up on the faithful first day of summer 2014, I knew something was off. Turns out I have a lot more growing to do before I can accurately brand myself as a woman.

Of course though, summer wouldn't be complete without the initiative Netflix marathon and binge watching. I decided to honor the blessed feeling of sleeping in and comfortably wading in my comforters by enjoying the most recent season of Psych. But after hours of watching a quasi-psychic detective solve countless murders, I knew I could conjure enough energy to be more productive than a burrito, so I got to work. Four comforter sets later, I felt hopeless. I couldn't even decide on a bed set, so how was I supposed to completely redecorate my bedroom?

9 hours later, I have a semi-new bedroom, and a fleeting feeling of utter jubilance, but out of those nine hours, it's safe to say that at least 3 of them were spent cleaning out the drawers in my desk, the papers in my binders, and the pile of papers I hoarded. Through those, I found myself feeling nostalgic, vengeful, melancholy, and blissful. I ventured upon old assignments from seventh grade, letters written to me out of spite from ex-friends-current-enemies, cute little awards from middle school, and journal entries outlined in pure happiness. Every single paper, plastic trophy, and assignment took me back to whatever time it was dated. I could feel myself reminiscing that time I got an 80 on a history quiz, or that time I submitted my essay in for a competition, or even that time I got so angry, I ripped the papers I was venting on. And looking back, I know I'm not a woman -- not even close; I'm simply a high school student on my way to experiencing all that life has to offer, but I'm definitely not a child. I'm in the process of finding out who I am, of defining myself, of configuring all the little kinks that will work and piece together to truly form my identity.

So after a few hours of nostalgia and seventy-five gasps and "Oh my god!"'s later, I threw out the old chemistry and literature papers, changed my bed sheets, painted my dresser, and proudly stood at my doorway -- hair (barely) in bun, and dust on shorts -- admiring all that my room had become yet again this year. I felt a scent of growth and development engross my room and seep through my carpet. And then I decided to play some relaxing music and just lie on my floor, and I closed my eyes and felt my smile dominate my body. I knew I wasn't at the finish line; I still have plenty ahead of my time. As a whole generation, my peers and I still have college, grad school, a career, our first wild night, our first (or twenty-third) mental breakdown, our first car accident, our first random make out, and even our first encounter with our future husband or wife. We have so many firsts to come that it'd be so overwhelming to think that we are grown-up, but we aren't children. We're past the days of no homework and nap time at school. We've outgrown being able to dive into the 3 feet part of the pool and ask if anyone actually has cooties. We're no longer the blank canvas that coincides with childhood. We've been handed the paintbrush of experience and emotions, friendships and relationships. We've splattered paint on corners and delicately brushed up on the textures of backgrounds. We've slowly started to master the piece that will become our identity -- our maturity, our manhood or womanhood.

We've emptied out past drawers of emotional and psychological baggage, and we've reorganized and redecorated ourselves. We grow every year, and every year we think back on our innocence the year before. We are today's youth, and we are on our way to being the next moms and dads, employers, and politicians of the world, but for now, we're still wrestling with adolescence and naivety. When we're sixteen and almost seniors, we're growing. When we're twenty-three and lurking at a party, we're growing. When we're fifty-seven and waiting to babysit our grandchildren, we're growing. Every year, we'll redecorate the chambers of our hearts and the veins of our personalities because every year, we grow.