Brief thoughts on adulthood

Being an adult is as awful as it is awesome. At least that’s the easiest, most digestible way for me to sum it up… other than ripping off a Band-Aid.  

It’s so tempting and exciting, it hurts a little bit, but you’re so eager to see what’s on the other side that you feel ready to endure that pain. You also think it will only last a second, especially if you’re able to do it fast.

You may pick at the edges, shine a light between bandage and skin to try and peek while you work up the courage to go all in. But it’s constricting and dissatisfying not being able to tell what it fully looks like. 

However, as soon as the wound is exposed it somehow looks even worse than what you pictured through the beige, obstructive shield only moments prior. It also somehow hurts worse than before, now that the air and other outside elements can freely sting away.  

That’s adulthood. 

It’s a breath of fresh air until you realize it’s not blowing by you, but rather, right at you and you feel as though you may choke or drown; as much as a paradox either of those deaths would be.  

But of course, it’s not all bad.  

I love being an adult. I love the freedom of being my own person on my own terms, setting my next path, reaching new goals, and figuring out how to fit it all in on my own dime after a full day of work.

I'll admit, it's a lot to swallow, which is why sometimes I feel a bit cynical about it all.  

As a little kid all I wanted to do was grow up. Physically and mentally, I wanted to be bigger.

I remember vividly sitting on my dad’s lap as a little girl and telling him I was going to be taller than him. He’d laugh and shake it off. It wasn’t in the cards for me. Neither of my parents are very tall, and the prediction graph the doctors send you home with after your first measurements as a newborn contradicted my beliefs.  

I’m still not sure if it was early manifestation, big bones, or an even bigger appetite that helped me prove him wrong.  

My fascination with words started in middle school. I wanted to be one of those people who, during a casual conversation, could seamlessly throw in words that others just nodded to without fully understanding.

I used to loath grown-ups and literature that did this. I would agonize over reading higher level books with words I didn’t know, often skipping them or making up my own meaning because it felt like a chore to have to stop and look them up. But it got to a point that I disliked not knowing what they meant even more.  

I started by researching words. I'm not even sure what I typed in the search bar. As far as I remember, it could’ve been something as silly as, “The best words of 2012.”

Regardless, I took a sheet of paper, wrote down as many words and definitions as a could, then read them over and over again to try and learn them. I think I made two or three sheets and the whole self-initiated course probably lasted less than two months, but it’s still something I think about.  

Now that I am more grown, dare I say a grown-up, I still feel like I’m wishing for something. While it’s now less about age, or knowledge, or height, I still feel like I’m searching for a piece of the puzzle.

It’s a frustrating concept, especially since I haven’t been able to pinpoint if it’s something missing or just something that I have yet to achieve. I am partial to the latter as at 22 years old, I know it’s ludicrous to think I should have my life squared away.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t struggle to accept it.