Today marks my 40th birthday. For the past 15 years, I’ve been dyeing my hair due to premature graying, applying wrinkle cream, and my body makes all sorts of creaky noises when I stand up too fast. Yet, despite these signs of aging, I still don’t feel like a true adult.
I often find myself waiting for that remarkable moment—the “aha!” realization—when everything clicks into place and I finally become the adult I’ve always envisioned. But that moment has yet to arrive.
When I completed my college education, I thought it was normal to still feel youthful. My first job, my first apartment, and my first car were milestones I thought would transition me into adulthood, but I often felt like I was merely acting rather than genuinely maturing. Even when I got married, I believed that this would be my turning point. We would have sophisticated conversations over nice dinners, using our elegant dinnerware. Yet, there was no significant emotional transformation.
As a child, I clearly recognized how adult my parents were. By the time they reached my age, they had purchased their forever home, established college funds for my siblings and me, and left behind their carefree, childless lifestyle. They didn’t listen to pop music, chose more mature clothing, and followed the news closely. They read every part of the newspaper, not just the Lifestyle section. My mother volunteered at our local church, while my father referred to his younger coworkers as “those kids at the office.” They were too busy providing for our family and community to ponder over existential questions, inadvertently making themselves too occupied to share their insights with us.
The birth of my first child was a hint of adulthood for me. I had hoped for a more dramatic awakening, but a soft realization had to do. Being responsible for another human being is a tremendous responsibility, and in my sleep-deprived state, I occasionally recognized that I had transitioned from being a child to a parent. However, I knew others who had children in their teens or early twenties, and they didn’t seem any more grown-up than I felt. Once I adjusted to parenthood, I was just a woman with a baby who still enjoyed tabloid gossip. It was a comfortable phase, especially since I was the first among my friends to become a parent at 30. Yet, that number didn’t automatically grant me the status of a functioning adult.
When my oldest child started preschool, I looked around at the other parents during a meeting and felt out of place. They owned homes, drove minivans, and had retirement plans. They crafted seasonal wreaths for their doors and sent thank-you notes with ease. These were the kind of parents I aspired to be, but I struggled to understand how to embody that role. Sporting Doc Martens, a nose ring, and lacking a proper planner, I felt like an imposter among this group whose collective parenting experience was burdened by my presence.
Over the years, I’ve made some progress. I’ve begun jotting down important dates in a notebook, occasionally wear nicer shoes, and even enjoy changing the wreath on our front door—an activity I took on after purchasing our townhouse five years ago. With four children now, I also find myself driving a minivan, the best car I’ve ever owned. I’ve tried to adopt some adult-like behaviors from those around me, yet I still occasionally forget that I am indeed an adult—old enough to parent adults myself. Perhaps one of them could teach me how to navigate this adulting journey?
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In summary, transitioning into adulthood can feel like a long and confusing journey filled with milestones that don’t necessarily make you feel mature. Many find themselves grappling with the expectations of adulthood, often feeling like they’re just playing a role. Whether it’s through parenting, homeownership, or simply embracing new responsibilities, the quest for true adulthood is ever-evolving.