I used to think growing up meant learning that monsters weren’t real.
Monsters
As we got older,
the monsters crept from under our beds
to inside our heads.
We stopped checking closets.
Stopped leaving
the hallway light on.
Stopped pulling blankets
over our faces
because someone told us
there was nothing there.
And we believed them.
For a while.
We laughed
at the children we used to be.
Afraid of shadows.
Afraid of footsteps.
Afraid of something
reaching from beneath the bed
and grabbing our ankles.
We didn’t know yet
that monsters grow up too.
They stop hiding
beneath mattresses
and start answering
to ordinary names.
Anxiety.
Grief.
Shame.
Trauma.
Loneliness.
The voice that says
everyone you love
will eventually leave.
The memory
that waits until 2 a.m.
to remind you
it never really went anywhere.
The fear
that maybe you are difficult to love.
The thought
that everyone else
was given instructions
for being alive
and somehow
yours got lost.
As children,
we could run
to another room.
Climb into someone’s bed.
Whisper,
“I’m scared.”
And sometimes
that was enough.
Someone would check the closet.
Look beneath the bed.
Turn on the light.
Promise us
nothing was there.
God,
I miss when fear
could be proven wrong
with a flashlight.
Because now
the monster knows my name.
It knows my history.
It knows exactly
which memories
to pull from the shelf
when I am finally
having a good day.
It knows
which insecurities
still have teeth.
It knows how to sound
exactly like me.
That’s the cruelest part.
Eventually,
you stop knowing
which thoughts
belong to you
and which ones
belong to the monster.
So I became
my own night-light.
My own open door.
My own voice
in the darkness saying,
“There’s nothing there.”
Even when
I wasn’t sure.
Especially when
I wasn’t sure.
As we got older,
the monsters crept
from under our beds
to inside our heads.
And maybe growing up
was never about
discovering
that monsters
aren’t real.
Maybe it was realizing
no one else
can check beneath the bed
for us anymore.
So now,
when the darkness comes,
I sit beside
the frightened child
still living inside me.
I take her hand.
I turn on the light.
And together,
we remind the monsters
that this time—
they’re the ones
who should be afraid of us.
Between the Lines
When I was little, monsters were easy.
Not necessarily less scary—but easier.
They lived under beds.
Inside closets.
In dark hallways.
Behind doors that looked completely harmless during the day but somehow became suspicious as hell once the lights went out.
And when you were scared, you could call for someone.
Someone bigger would come into the room, turn on the light, open the closet, look underneath the bed, and show you there was nothing there.
Fear could be proven wrong.
I think that’s what sits underneath this poem more than anything else.
God, I miss when fear could be proven wrong with a flashlight.
Because somewhere along the way, the monsters changed.
They stopped having claws and shadows and glowing eyes.
They became things like anxiety.
Grief.
Shame.
Trauma.
Loneliness.
Memories.
The things we tell ourselves when it’s late and everything feels heavier than it did during the day.
And nobody can walk into the room and prove those things aren’t there.
Nobody can shine a flashlight underneath your thoughts.
That might be one of the cruelest parts of growing up.
But while writing this poem, I realized something else.
When I was a child, I needed someone else to turn on the light.
Now I can do it myself.
Not always.
Not perfectly.
And sometimes I turn it on with shaking hands.
But I can sit beside the younger versions of myself who are still scared. I can remind them that we survived the things we once thought we wouldn’t. I can question the voice that tells me every fear is a fact simply because it sounds like my own.
Maybe that’s part of growing up, too.
Not becoming fearless.
Not finally reaching some magical age where the monsters disappear.
Just learning that when they come back, you don’t have to hide beneath the blankets anymore.
You can turn on the light yourself.
And maybe, eventually, the monsters learn to be afraid of you.
Until next time,
—Destiny
P.S. What was the thing you were most afraid of in the dark when you were a kid?
destinylaharris 