Adulthood in Progress
The readjustment when adulthood isn't quite what I thought it would be
When I was a child, I thought being an adult meant a state of infinite knowing. Knowing what to do, what to say, what came next. I imagined it would feel like stepping through a doorway into a brighter, sharper version of myself who was confident, certain, and composed.
I thought that one day I’d just… arrive.
That decisions would be simple, that conversations would flow, that life would be manageable because I’d finally know.
The reality, of course, is not quite that simple.
I still Google how long it takes to get to my office, even though I’ve done the same commute for years. I end up making a baked potato again when I can’t decide what to cook. And, I ask ChatGPT to help me weigh up decisions that probably don’t even matter that much.
And it isn’t just the little things. Every time I take a big step, like buying my flat, thinking about getting a pet, or considering a career shift, I feel like an imposter in my own life. There’s this voice in the back of my head whispering, “Who do you think you are doing this?”
Sometimes I joke to myself that even at the ripe age of 27, if I was to have a child, it would feel like a teenage pregnancy.
I used to believe it was just me who was the odd one out that hadn’t quite caught up to the rest of the world. But the longer I exist, the more I recognise that maybe it’s not just me. Maybe we’re all improvising and actually no one feels fully certain.
That realisation has softened me a bit. It makes me look back at the adults of my childhood with more compassion. The teachers who always seemed composed and the relatives who looked like they had all the answers, were just carrying their own uncertainties with a straight face, playing the same game I’m still learning the rules of.
And yet, I miss believing there would be a moment of clarity, a morning when I’d wake up and feel like I’d finally become the adult version of myself I’d been waiting for. There’s a grief in realising that adulthood isn’t a destination where things suddenly feel simple. That there won’t be a version of me who wakes up one morning with all the answers, never second-guesses, never hesitates.
So, what do I do with all this?
Well, all I can do is I lean into the process. I constantly have to remind myself: whatever decision I make is the one I was supposed to make. Some days that lifts the weight… other days it barely helps. But eventually, I’ve learned that not making a choice is also a choice. Life moves forward anyway, and I move with it.
I may never understand why things happen the way they do in the moment, and often the reasons only appear later, in hindsight. And when they don’t? I try to trust they’re still there, like the roots of a tree unseen beneath the soil.
Sometimes I think about the “coffee with your younger self” trend and wonder what I’d say to her. I’ve always struggled to decide, but now I think I’d simply hold her hand across the table and say:
“It will all work out. Your heart will heal. You’ll find your people. You’ll find your path.”
So, adulthood doesn’t mean certainty. It means one foot in front of the other, even when the path is hidden, and the next step feels heavy.
And maybe, just maybe, the arrival I imagined as a child wasn’t about knowing everything.
Maybe it was about learning that the joy isn’t in the certainty.
Maybe, it’s in the process.
So, I’m wondering:
What illusions did you carry as a child of what your future adulthood might look like?
How do you handle moments of uncertainty, big or small?
If you could sit down with your younger self for coffee, what would you want them to know?