Am I an adult yet?
I’m often mistaken for an adult...
I turn 60 later this month. My kids are out of the house. I know how to make a dentist appointment without crying first. I own multiple plungers. And yet, I still find myself asking: Am I an adult yet?
Because here’s something I’m finally figuring out: “adulting,” as the kids call it, isn’t just about paying your taxes or choosing the salad on purpose. It’s this ever-evolving, confusing dance where one moment you’re buying anti-aging serums and the next you’re Googling “how to sign up for Medicare Part B” like it’s some elite club you’re begrudgingly being inducted into (and I’m still pissed at AARP for sending me stuff since I turned 50!).
I mean, Social Security is no longer an abstract thing my dad mentioned at the dinner table. It’s now something I have to make actual decisions about. Real ones. With forms.
And still, I sometimes walk into rooms and think, “Who left me in charge of this life?”
There’s a myth that adulthood brings clarity. Like we wake up one morning and suddenly have all the answers: steady hands, unshakable confidence, an organized spice drawer. (I do not. My paprika is currently living next to the Tylenol.)
If I were really an adult, I’d also have a proper filing system. Mine is just a desk drawer labeled “Important” that contains an expired Blockbuster video card, my kids’ kindergarten artwork, and three coupons that expired in 2017. Supposedly, adults also have a “favorite aisle” at the grocery store. I like to pretend mine is the produce section, but it’s really the candy aisle, which explains why my dentist is buying a second vacation home. (And yes, I also count popcorn as a vegetable. Don’t come for me.)
But what I’ve found, after many years of being (I think) a very convincing adult impersonator, is that real adulthood isn’t about having it all figured out.
It’s about knowing what actually matters.
It’s about knowing which worries to ignore (like the fact that I make a noise every time I stand up from a sitting position) and which ones to honor (like the quiet ache when I’ve gone too long without connecting with a friend). It’s about laughing at myself without losing respect for who I am.
It’s about letting go of proving and choosing peace instead. That means not getting into a three-day text thread over who’s “technically right.” It means deciding I don’t have to attend every argument I’m invited to. It means walking away from being the “perfect” mom, wife, or boss and just being present instead.
Being an adult means realizing you won’t be everyone’s cup of tea… and being OK with that, because you’re finally, (finally) your own damn cup of tea. Strong. A little sweet. A little spicy (I’m actually a chai drinker). Definitely too hot for nonsense. Plus, I have an earthquake kit with fresh batteries, so if that doesn’t qualify me as an adult, I don’t know what does.
So no, I don’t think I’ve arrived anywhere. But I have stopped trying to win a gold medal in the Olympics of People Who Seem to Have Their Lives Together.
And maybe that’s what being an adult really is: The moment you stop performing and start just being.
Love this!!