Save Me a Seat At The Kid's Table
Save Me A Seat at the kid’s Table
Written by Lindsay Gould
Ferris Bueller once wisely said, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around every once in a while, you could miss it.” Honestly, he really did say it best, didn’t he? It’s one of those lines people repeat because it feels true, even if we don’t fully understand it until we’re older. We hear versions of that idea everywhere—stop and smell the roses, YOLO, be present—but nobody ever talks about the actual cost of trying to live in the moment.
And the cost, at least during the holidays, is blatantly obvious. You return home, maybe for the first time in months, and suddenly you’re surrounded by people who knew you when you still wore velcro sneakers.
“Yes, school is good.”
“No, I still don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Yes, basketball is going well.”
And my personal favorite: “So what’s your plan for the future?” A question that somehow always sounds simple and impossible at the same time.
I don’t have a large extended family, but among the relatives I do have, I’ve always been the youngest. The last one to hit every milestone. The last to start high school, the last to earn my drivers license, the last to head off to college—always arriving after the novelty had faded and everyone around me already knew the unwritten rules. Being the youngest often feels like being in the slow lane of your own life, even when you’re trying to keep up.
Growing up, I felt that gap constantly. It wasn't dramatic, but it was always there, the quiet awareness that everyone else had more experience, more confidence, more knowledge about the world than I did. I found myself wanting to catch up, wanting to be older faster, wanting to be taken seriously. It’s a feeling that starts early. As kids, we dress up because there’s a desire to try on adulthood, even for a moment. We slip into pink tulle dresses or too-big jackets and pretend we’re versions of ourselves that don’t exist yet.
Kids know when they’re being overlooked. They know when they’re being talked down to, when their thoughts are being dismissed as “cute” rather than heard. I certainly did, and that simple awareness sparked a lifelong urge to grow, to be acknowledged, and to become someone others listen to.
As I got older, that urge never fully went away, it just changed forms. The people I wanted to emulate changed: first my mom, then my cooler older siblings and their friends, then teachers, then coaches. There was another rung on the ladder, another group of people who seemed more put-together or more sure of themselves. I started chasing that feeling of “being grown,” hoping it would finally make me feel like enough.
But now, freshly twenty and supposedly entering the “best years of my life,” I’m surprised by how fast everything is moving. I can feel the pace of adulthood picking up around me, and instead of excitement, there’s a small tug of fear. Suddenly, I miss things I never thought I would. The simplicity of recess games on the soccer field. The quiet concentration of learning multiplication tables. The awkward charm of middle school dances.
More than the memories themselves, I miss who I was during those moments: unguarded, curious, and unaware that the future could be heavy or complicated. Back then, life felt like a long, open road with endless bends. Now, I sometimes feel like I’ve stepped into a maze, where I occasionally get stuck in my own head and forget how to move. I wanted to grow up so badly that I didn’t notice I was sprinting past the present.
It’s not just personal milestones that make time feel slippery. It’s the world around me changing. Places I loved growing up have faltered–the Toys “R” Us that drained my allowance, the local coffee shop that never seemed to find its footing. Even the neighborhood movie theater, the one with the sticky floors and the ticket booth that always smelled like popcorn butter, finally shut its doors after years of barely hanging on. Everything grows up. Everything changes. Things end. Life shifts. And honestly? That’s terrifying.
Sometimes, I wish I could return to being that little kid again: wide-eyed, hopeful, blissfully unaware of the phrase “networking opportunities.” I feel like life is on fast-forward and I’m missing scenes I’ll want to remember one day.
But maybe the answer isn’t trying to freeze everything. Maybe it's just finding that spark again, the one that tells you it’s okay to be exactly where you are. That you’re enough as you are, no ladder-climbing required.
So if you're like me, and when you go home for Thanksgiving you somehow always end up at that kids table—the table that doesn't even hit your waist, in a chair so low your knees are practically at your ears—don’t stress.
Sit down at that table.
Take a bite of your grandma’s mac and cheese. Look around. Notice the love and the chaos and the comfort and the familiarity.
Because maybe—just maybe—the kids table is exactly where you’re meant to be right now.