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Today marks my 40th birthday, and I’m feeling a mix of nostalgia and confusion. For the past 15 years, I’ve been dyeing my hair to cover up those pesky gray strands, I slather on wrinkle cream like it’s a magic potion, and let’s not even talk about the symphony of creaks and cracks my body makes every time I stand up too quickly. Yet, in my heart, I still don’t feel like a grown-up.
I keep anticipating that defining moment—the one where I suddenly feel like everything clicks into place, and I transform into the adult I’m supposed to be. But alas, that moment has yet to arrive.
When I graduated from college, I thought it was perfectly normal to still feel like a kid. Landing my first job, getting my own apartment, and buying my first car were all great steps toward adulthood, but I often felt like I was just playing a role rather than truly maturing. And when I married my husband, I thought, “This is it! Now I’ll finally be that poised adult I’ve seen in movies.” I imagined us having deep conversations over fancy dinners, complete with matching dinnerware. Spoiler alert: no life-altering transformation occurred.
I vividly recall how adult my parents seemed when I was young. By the time they reached my age, they had settled into their forever home, created college funds for each of us, and waved goodbye to their youthful pastimes. They didn’t listen to the latest pop hits; their wardrobe was definitely more “mature,” and they were glued to the news instead of the latest reality show. My mom volunteered at church, while my dad referred to his younger co-workers as “the kids at the office.” They were too busy building a life for us to ponder their own purpose or fulfillment. In doing so, they inadvertently left us without their sage advice.
The birth of my first child was the first real hint that I might be an adult after all. I expected it to hit me like a ton of bricks, but it was more like a gentle nudge. Taking care of another human being is no small feat, and through the fog of sleepless nights, I did occasionally realize I was no longer a child—after all, I had just given birth! However, I knew plenty of people who had kids in high school and college, and they were far from grown-up. Once I figured out the whole parenting-a-baby thing, I still felt like just a woman with a baby, keeping up with celebrity gossip. That was my reality for a while, especially since I was the first of my friends to become a parent. At 30, I was still just figuring things out without the age number having any real impact on my adulting prowess.
Then came preschool. Sitting in a parent meeting, I couldn’t help but feel like an imposter among a sea of accomplished adults. They owned homes, drove minivans, and had retirement savings. They made wreaths for their doors and sent out thank-you cards like it was second nature. They represented the kind of parents my own had been. And there I was, sporting my Doc Martens and nose ring, hoping not to draw attention to myself in this group of seasoned parents whose parenting IQ was probably lowered by my very presence. I wanted to be like them, but had no clue how to bridge that gap.
Since then, I’ve made some progress. I’ve started jotting down important dates in a notebook, occasionally slip into fancier shoes, and even found joy in changing the wreath on the front door of our townhouse—purchased five years ago. With four children now, I proudly drive a minivan, the fanciest vehicle I’ve ever owned. I’ve pushed myself to adopt some of the adult behaviors I’ve observed in those around me, yet truthfully, I still sometimes forget that I’ve been an adult for quite a while. In fact, I’m now old enough to be the parent of an adult. Perhaps one of them can teach me how to truly adult?
This article was originally published on Dec. 26, 2014.
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Summary:
Turning 40 has brought a mix of reflections on adulthood and the unexpected realization that growing up doesn’t always come with age. From the pressures of parenting to fitting in with seasoned adults, the journey of discovering what it means to be an adult is ongoing. Despite moments of self-doubt and feeling out of place, there’s a humorous undertone to the quest for maturity, highlighting that many of us are still figuring it out.