By: Ava Johnson
Updated: Jan. 29, 2023
Originally Published: Dec. 26, 2021
Today marks my 40th birthday. For the past 15 years, I’ve been dyeing my hair due to premature graying, I regularly apply wrinkle cream, and my body emits creaky noises whenever I stand up too quickly. Yet, I still don’t feel like a true adult.
I find myself waiting for that transformative moment—the kind where everything suddenly clicks into place, and I finally feel like the grown-up I’m supposed to be. But that moment remains elusive.
When I graduated from college, I assumed it was normal to still feel like a kid. Landing my first job, moving into my first apartment, and purchasing my first car were all significant milestones on the path to adulthood. However, I often felt more like I was playing a role rather than genuinely maturing. Even when I married my husband, I thought that would signal my transition into adulthood. We would engage in meaningful conversations over elaborate dinners served on our coordinated dinnerware. But, as it turns out, there was no dramatic emotional shift.
As a child, I distinctly remember how adult my parents appeared. By the time they reached my age, they had bought their forever home, set up college funds for us, and removed all remnants of their youthful lives. They didn’t listen to contemporary music, dressed in a mature fashion, and engaged with the news. They read every section of the newspaper, not just the Lifestyle portion. My mother volunteered at church, while my father referred to his younger colleagues as “those kids at the office.” They weren’t on a quest for meaning or fulfillment; they were busy providing for our family and community, too preoccupied to share their wisdom with us.
The birth of my first child was my initial glimpse into adulthood. I hoped for a more profound revelation, but I settled for a subtle awakening. Being responsible for another human being is an enormous responsibility, and amidst the sleepless nights, I began to realize that I was no longer a child—I had brought one into the world. Yet, I knew people who had kids in high school and college, and they hardly seemed like grown-ups either. Once I adjusted to being a new parent, I was just a woman with a baby, still reading gossip magazines. At 30, I was technically an adult, but that number felt irrelevant to my ability to function.
When my oldest started preschool, I found myself in a room full of parents at a meeting, wondering what I was doing there. These individuals owned homes, drove minivans, and had retirement savings. They crafted wreaths for their doors and consistently sent thank-you cards. They embodied the parental figures my own parents had been. Meanwhile, I was clad in Doc Martens with a nose ring, lacking an Erin Condren life planner, hoping to remain unnoticed by this group whose parenting prowess seemed diminished by my presence. I longed to be like them but had no clue how to fit into their world.
Over the years, I have made some progress. I began jotting down important meetings in a notebook, occasionally donning nicer shoes, and even learned to appreciate switching out the wreath on the front door of the townhouse we purchased five years ago. With four children now, I drive a minivan, the most luxurious vehicle I’ve ever owned. I’ve pushed myself to adopt some grown-up behaviors modeled by the adults around me. Yet, I still occasionally forget that I’ve been an adult for quite some time. I’m now at an age where I could be the parent of an adult myself. Perhaps one of them could teach me how to truly embrace adulthood.
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Summary:
In reflecting on my journey into adulthood, I grapple with the feeling of never fully transitioning into the role. Despite milestones like marriage and parenthood, I often feel disconnected from the mature, responsible adults I observe around me. As I navigate this complex journey, I find myself seeking guidance on how to truly embody adulting, even as I embrace certain responsibilities.