When I Grow Up

It’s late on a school night and I’m sat with my mum in her bedroom as she blow-dries my hair. I’m only 6 years old; my whole life lies ahead of me. But, I’m in a hurry to grow up. As we chat away, we start discussing my upcoming birthday: the big 07. Over the roaring of the hairdryer, I – in no uncertain terms – inform my mum that upon reaching this milestone I will become a certified adult and, as such, will have complete autonomy over what I do and when. Her parenting days are over. My feet don’t even reach the floor yet, but I feel so self-assured and already so grown up. Not in my poor mum’s eyes. I’m sent to bed with the firm reassurance that I’ve got a lot more growing up to do yet, and the warning I’d hear repeated many times throughout the rest of my childhood: ‘don’t wish your time away.’

Needless to say, the warning wasn’t heeded. Lying in bed, I daydreamed – as I did almost every night when I was younger – about the future. To my 6-year-old self, adulthood was marked at 17, if for no other reason than that was the age I’d be able to learn to drive. So, my daydream usually began with the appearance of my very own car. Freedom. It wasn’t about going anywhere, as such, but the responsibility and liberty that a car represented to my naive little eyes. Life in my vision was pretty great; I had it all together. There was the car, the independence and, of course – as every fairytale and rom-com had taught me so far was essential – a boyfriend. The dream was comforting and exciting. I knew who I was, and I had what I wanted. And this was the picture of the future to which I ardently clung.

Surprise, surprise, the dream never materialised. Now 22, I have no car (I only started driving lessons a year ago), I’m in no sense of the phrase ‘settled down’ and I’m yet to feel like a genuine ‘grown up’. What’s more, I’m beginning to believe that adulthood, as envisioned through our childhood eyes, is as much a myth as the saccharine Disney-fied fairytales I once so eagerly bought into. And I’m not alone. At university, my fear was echoed. In the unofficial congress of our pint-sized kitchen, surrounded by half-finished washing up and reused (fiercely treasured) novelty mugs, we all agreed that having reached 18 – the age at which adulthood legally begins – we would happily defer it until 21. Then, of course, we’d all have life much more together. We just needed three extra years to fully fly the nest.

But, as 21 arrived, those three years seemed suddenly like mere minutes. Just that week I’d shrunk my favourite jumper, burnt countless pieces of toast, and had to ring my dad in a panic when my laptop crashed. Adult I felt not. So, we amended the ruling, this time positioning adulthood at the still distant 25. (Just a few weeks later, I found an article claiming that our brains continue developing until we’re 30 and, relieved, felt the goalpost move yet again.)

As we stumble into the reality of adulthood, feeling like toddlers waddling around in our parents’ clothes, we’re confronted with an even uglier truth. Having once idolised our parents as the pinnacle of responsibility and general grown-up togetherness, we are forced to see them in a new light. Because just as we, aged 18, felt suddenly like impostors, thrust as unrehearsed understudies into the role of ‘adult’, so our parents have done their fair share of acting – with decades more experience. They themselves are still working things out because life really never stops changing. As my own goalpost for feeling ‘grown up’ continues to move, I’ve come to expect that, like my daydream, that feeling may remain elusive – an illusion likely never to be truly realised.

This uncertainty is hidden from us while we’re young. From career days to fancy dress parties themed ‘When I Grow Up’, we’re encouraged to envision ourselves on a set path and taught that those dreams are the coordinates fundamental to navigating the rest of our lives. 6-year-old me would have proudly told you: ‘When I grow up, I’m going to be a teacher.’ It was all I could see myself doing. And that goal continued until some time during secondary school. Eventually, like my nightly vision of adulthood, the dream waned, and, for a long time, I didn’t have a clear picture of what I wanted to be. It was like rifling through the overflowing fancy dress box only to find that not a single costume fit. That uncertainty, far removed from the picture-perfect view of the future I’d been taught to look towards, was terrifying.

Many people finishing school or university will relate to that feeling. When I graduated last year, I still felt so much uncertainty. I constantly compared myself to classmates who were off on graduate schemes, or further education, a future laid out plainly before them. Meanwhile, I was moving home with no secure knowledge of what was coming next. Back within the time-capsule walls of my childhood bedroom, my comforting daydream long since buried under 16 years’ worth of accumulated possessions, the future had never felt so uncertain. Over the course of the past year, things have thankfully become clearer. And, at the same time, I’ve learned to accept the uncertainty and the real messiness of adulthood, and (dare I say?) to enjoy it. Embracing the chaos has turned it into an opportunity for growing and for experiencing things that weren’t necessarily in the plan. Far from being something we’re anxious or ashamed of, it should be celebrated.

Talking to friends in similar circumstances, I quickly realised I was far from the only one feeling that way. So, I decided to start sharing all the ups, downs and in-betweens as I muddle through. I hope that it will resonate with people and make them feel less alone. Because, while it seems like many have it all together and that we should be constantly striving towards the unattainable yet mandatory goal of ‘adulting’, in reality we’re all really only ‘adultrying’, from the moment we meet that longed for milestone, throughout the rest of our lives.