In many ways, I embody the characteristics of a bona fide adult. Having entered this world over 30 years ago, I have the physical markers of maturity: childbearing hips, emerging fine lines on my face, and gray strands in my hair, which I affectionately refer to as “age highlights.” My children often stare in disbelief when I share stories about life before the internet and the days when phone conversations required staying tethered to the wall.
I handle adult responsibilities with a sense of routine—I pay taxes, manage a mortgage, hold down a job, juggle bills, clip coupons, schedule medical appointments, and lament about current events and my achy back. I even carry ibuprofen in my purse, which seems like a rite of passage into adulthood.
Despite all these indicators of maturity, I find myself in an ongoing quest to feel like a “real” adult. I always thought that reaching a certain age would ignite a sense of legitimacy within me. I waited for that feeling when I moved into my first apartment, bought my first car, voted for the first time, and even when I celebrated my 21st birthday—though admittedly, that may have resulted in a slight regression in maturity. I anticipated that with each milestone—becoming a wife, a mother, and a homeowner—I’d wake up one day feeling like I had it all together, ready to be taken seriously.
However, I still find myself feeling like I’m wearing shoes that are just a bit too big. I may look the part and carry the weight of adult responsibilities, especially as I navigate life with four children, but I often perceive my peers as “real” adults. I feel like an imposter, waiting for someone to expose my façade.
There are moments when I truly feel my age, particularly when I converse with a college student who was born the same year I graduated high school. Those instances often leave me feeling more out of touch than mature. Occasionally, after a particularly exhausting day of managing responsibilities, I catch a glimpse of what it might feel like to be a “real adult,” but it’s always a fleeting sensation. Just when I think I’ve got it figured out, I encounter a situation that leaves me feeling clueless, a novice despite my years of experience.
Perhaps it’s because I’m a 30-something woman who still sprints up the basement stairs to turn off the light. Maybe it’s my tendency to laugh too hard at absurd memes or to practice twerking (poorly) in front of the bathroom mirror. I still indulge in ice cream for breakfast after my kids head off to school. I imagine other adults sipping coffee, engrossed in serious thoughts while reading the morning news. They seem to have their lives meticulously planned, while I’m merely reacting to life’s challenges as they come.
Time continues to slip by, and though I’m not getting any younger, I navigate through life in a clumsy fashion, far from the self-assured adult I always envisioned becoming. I still wait for someone to call my bluff, to recognize that I’m not as mature as I appear. Maybe once my children are grown and I’ve accepted my gray hairs, or when I hear a little voice refer to me as “Grandma,” I’ll finally earn my rightful place in the adult world. But then again, perhaps those moments will mirror other milestones I anticipated would validate me, leaving me to wonder… if not now, then when?
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In summary, as I navigate adulthood, I grapple with the ever-elusive feeling of being a “real” grown-up. Despite the responsibilities I manage, I still find myself questioning my maturity and waiting for a moment that may never arrive.
Keyphrase: Feeling like a real adult in your 30s
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