It doesn't come slow; it hits you like some terrible romantic metaphor when you're sitting in your bedroom in your pyjamas at 8 in the evening, the sun setting its blues through your window, overplayed pop hits from your alternative (ughh) years blaring through your headphones. You realise that you kind of... g r e w u p . Not in the Peter Pan way-- no freaking out, no #young5eva, no nostalgia or existential crises. You're as creative, imaginative, happy, and free as you e v e r w e r e . You've still got those wide eyes; you're still looking up like a kid.
But in other ways, you have grown up. You've learned.

You know that when you're emotionally bereft, when you're having a depressive episode, when you're struggling, when it's hard, when you're (what they call) 'falling apart' ;; you don't document it online. You log off, you curl up on bed, and you get through the pain you've got to.

You know not to worry the people who love you uneccessary with long talks about how much it sucks to be you right now -- because it does, and because they'll freak out unnecessarily, because that's just what friends do. They're the fussiest of mothers, the Mollyiest of Weasleys, and their hearts are too close to yours to prevent the hurt bleeding from one to the other.
(You know, but you still manage to do it, because you might have forgotten to tell them that, and a month of silence led to seventeen messages of 'is2g i'm gonna get on a plane and beat your tartan butt, TELL ME YOU'RE OKAY YOU A$$FACE, I LOVE YOU PLS BE OK'.)

You know that bleeding through your thighs and forearms won't make you feel better in the long run. That burns scar worse than you expected them to, and it's more trouble than it's worth. You know that you can tell when a numb night is coming by the state of your nails (and damn it, you knew how hard it was to break that nail-biting habit, but you are you and apparently you're a stoic nervous wreck). You're not as afraid of hurting, and of tears. (Well, you know not to be. You might have still panicked a bit. A lot. Too much-- But it's okay ;; you'll get it next time.)
You know when it's getting better, and w h e n you can peak your head around the door again. You can text back with 'Sorry for the late reply' and send a PM listing the playlist that you cried to for four weeks every night, and writing a quick blog post to let everyone know you're back.

You know you're vulnerable to depressive episodes. You know you'll get through it (eventually). And you know, 'cause you just do, that after trial and error and error and error, you'll come back.

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