I handle taxes, manage a mortgage, juggle a job, pay bills, clip coupons, schedule doctor visits, and grumble about current events and aches in my back. I even carry ibuprofen in my purse. In every conceivable way, I embody adulting.
Yet, the irony is that I’m still waiting to genuinely feel like one. I always imagined that upon reaching a certain age, I would feel truly legitimate. I anticipated it when I moved into my first apartment, when I bought my first car, when I voted for the first time, and yes, even when I finally hit drinking age (though perhaps my maturity took a bit of a vacation back then).
I thought it would come when I became a wife, when I embraced motherhood, and when I took on the role of a homeowner. I kept thinking, “Any day now, I’ll wake up and feel like I’ve got everything under control, that I deserve to be taken seriously.”
But here I am, still feeling as though I’m navigating life in oversized shoes. I present as an adult, entrusted with the weight of responsibilities involving my four children, yet I often feel like an outsider among my peers. I keep waiting for someone to call me out, to declare me an impostor.
There are moments when I feel my age, especially when chatting with a college student born the same year I graduated high school—those moments just leave me feeling more washed up than grown-up. On particularly exhausting days filled with obligations, I sometimes catch a glimpse of that elusive “real adult” feeling, but it’s always so short-lived.
I begin to think I have it figured out, only to face situations that seem second nature to everyone else my age, leaving me feeling like a rookie despite having been an adult for years. Any fleeting notion that I might finally be a legitimate grown-up quickly vanishes.
Perhaps it’s because I’m a woman in my 30s who still runs up the basement stairs as if being chased by monsters when I turn off the lights. Maybe it’s that I find hilarity in ridiculous memes or quote Napoleon Dynamite with enthusiasm. I even catch myself practicing twerking (not well) in the mirror when I think no one’s watching, or indulging in ice cream for breakfast after sending the kids off to school.
I envision other adults sipping coffee—something I’ve never quite acquired a taste for—and perusing the morning paper, their heads filled with serious thoughts. While they appear to have plans and purpose, I’m merely reacting to situations as they arise, hoping for the best.
Time marches on, and I’m acutely aware that I’m not getting any younger. I’m managing to get through life, but it’s a clumsy journey, far from the self-assured adult I always imagined I’d become. I still wait for the moment when someone will call my bluff, revealing that I’m not as adult as I seem.
Perhaps when I’m done raising children, when I’ve finally accepted my grays, or when I hear a little voice calling me “Grandma,” I’ll finally feel validated and secure in my place among grown-ups. Or maybe those milestones will pass just like the others, leaving me with the same lingering question: if not now, then when?
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Summary
Despite appearing to be a fully-fledged adult at 30-something, the author expresses feelings of impostor syndrome and a longing to truly feel grown-up. They navigate the challenges of adult life while grappling with the realization that maturity may be more of a journey than a destination.