Seated crisscrossed on the wooden floor and enveloped by pink walls, I delicately brushed the tangled, blond hair of my beloved Barbie doll with my mini plastic hairbrush. I placed her in a glittery toy car in front of my hot pink Barbie Dreamhouse as my back ached from hunching over on the hard floor.

Step. Step. Step.

As the echo of footsteps approached the door, I darted to hit the light switch, jumped into bed, pulled the pink sheets over my blushed face and shut my eyes real tight. I felt the soft, sheer, light-pink canopy hanging on the ceiling slowly fall onto my bed. I peeked over at my alarm clock: 9:02 p.m. Way too close to bedtime. I squeezed my eyes shut again, bracing myself for the stream of light pouring in, hitting my face as the door opened.

“Ashley,” my mom whispered.

I held my breath.

She approached on the tips of her toes, her fingers gently brushing through my hair. With a tender kiss on my forehead, she murmured “Jal-ja nae ye-ppeun ttal.” She walked out and softly closed the door.

Contrary to what she had just told me in Korean, I wasn’t going to sleep well. And she always calls me her “pretty daughter,” but I know she tells my older sister that too.

So I jumped out of bed and grabbed my Barbie dolls again.

The following day, I went to school holding my dad’s pinky finger with all five of mine. I patiently waited for my favorite time of the day: recess.

The bell rang, and I eagerly rushed out to the playground, heading straight for the area where only the fourth and fifth graders could play. I sprinted up the mulch-covered stairs and launched myself onto the monkey bars.

I could finally skip to the fourth bar on my first jump after months of what I considered hard work, which I felt was very rewarding. I kept swinging with a tight grip on the cold metal bars that left my hands burning, but in a good way.

Hopping down onto the mulch, I stared at my dirty hands. My once soft skin had formed white bubble-like patches that felt tough when I touched them.

There were calluses. I was full of genuine pride. I had to tell my dad.

Six years later, I’m cleaning my room, encircled by boring light gray walls, and I find a large box under my bed. Through the translucent plastic, I see my precious Barbie dolls, their hair all tangled and covered in dust. Beside them rested my mini plastic hairbrush. I see the broken pieces of my once-vibrant hot pink Barbie Dreamhouse and glittery, now dull, car.

I wanted to pull them out and play. Like the old times. But I couldn’t get distracted. I sat back down at my desk and opened up my pink laptop.

After a couple of hours of homework, my back ached from hunching over my computer. So I stretched, reaching my arms back to relax the stiffness in my muscles, and looked across my room toward my alarm clock: 1:02 a.m. Perfect, time for bed.

Step. Step. Step

I heard footsteps and the door opened. My mom peeked her head through the crevice.

“Jal-ja, Ashley,” she whispered.

She closed the door.

No more goodnight kisses, because isn’t that too affectionate and immature for a teenage girl? No more “pretty daughter,” because she doesn’t call my older sister that anymore either. Only “sleep well.”

I slowly sunk into my bed, staring at the white ceiling.

When did I stop playing with my Barbie dolls?

When was I too big to swing on the monkey bars?

When did I stop holding onto my dad’s pinky finger on the way to school?

When did I grow up?

I gazed at my hands and spread them out as wide as I could until my fingertips turned white.

I had a rough bump on the side of my middle finger from gripping my pencils too tight. And I had rough, hard skin on the tips of my fingers on my left hand from pressing on violin and guitar strings too hard.

I turned my hands over and looked at my palms.

No more calluses.