Today marks my 40th birthday. For the past 15 years, I’ve been covering my gray hair, using wrinkle cream, and cringing at the creaks and cracks my body makes whenever I stand up too quickly. Yet, despite these signs of aging, I still don’t feel like a true adult.
I keep hoping for that transformative moment—the “aha!” experience—when everything clicks into place, and I finally feel like the grown-up I’ve always imagined I would become. However, that moment seems perpetually out of reach.
When I graduated from college, I thought it was perfectly normal to still feel like a kid. Securing my first job, renting my first apartment, and buying my own car were significant milestones, yet I often felt more like I was acting the part of an adult than genuinely maturing. I believed that marrying my husband would trigger a profound change, allowing me to embody the adult I’d seen portrayed in movies and on TV. We’d have mature conversations over sophisticated dinners on matching dinnerware. But, alas, no dramatic emotional shift occurred.
I can vividly recall how adult my parents seemed when I was a child. By my age, they had purchased their forever home, established college funds for my siblings and me, and shed the remnants of their youthful lifestyles. They traded pop music for news broadcasts and read every section of the newspaper rather than just the Lifestyle one. My mother dedicated her time to volunteer work, while my father referred to his younger colleagues as “those kids at the office.” They seemed to have it all figured out, too occupied with family and responsibilities to ponder their own fulfillment or search for purpose.
The birth of my first child marked a slight awakening for me, though it was more of a gentle nudge than a jolt. Being responsible for a tiny human is no small feat, and through my haze of sleep deprivation, I realized I was no longer a child. However, I also knew many people who had kids in high school or college, and they certainly didn’t seem to have adulting figured out either. Once I got the hang of caring for a newborn, I was still just a woman with a baby, happily flipping through gossip magazines. At 30 years old, I didn’t feel significantly different in my approach to life.
Then came preschool for my oldest. Sitting in the parent meeting, I surveyed the room and felt utterly out of place. These parents owned homes, drove minivans, and seemed well-prepared for the future with retirement savings. They crafted wreaths for their doors and consistently sent thank-you notes. They embodied the kind of parenting I had known as a child. Meanwhile, I was sporting Doc Martens, a nose ring, and no Erin Condren planner in sight, just trying to blend into this crowd whose collective parenting IQ seemed to drop with my presence. I wanted to emulate them, but I was at a loss for how to adopt the natural confidence they exuded.
Since then, I’ve made some progress. I now jot down important meetings in a notebook, occasionally wear nicer shoes, and have even learned to appreciate changing out the wreath on our front door. With four children, I’ve upgraded to a minivan—the fanciest vehicle I’ve ever owned. I’ve attempted to embrace adult behaviors I’ve observed from the genuine grown-ups around me, yet I still sometimes forget that I’ve been an adult for quite some time. I’m so adult now that I could actually be the mother of an adult. Maybe one of them could teach me how to truly “adult”?
This piece was first published on December 26, 2014.
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In summary, while I’ve made strides in my journey toward adulthood, I often still feel like I’m navigating this path without a map. The quest to feel like a genuine adult continues, reminding me that growth is a lifelong process, full of ups and downs.
Keyphrase: How to be an adult
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