Growing Up Too Soon
I was the “mature for my age” kid. The one who understood rules not just as boundaries, but as logic. I didn’t rebel loudly—I calculated. I had fun, but it was always safe, strategic, and well within the lines. I was the goody-goody, the caretaker, the one who could explain why Nanny did things the way she did—because she actually explained them.
When Nanny died, my mom tried to step into the role she’d never really held. She had always been more of a big sister than a parent. Suddenly, she was trying to “mom” a 14-year-old with hormones and grief and a brain wired for nuance. Her approach was rigid, reactive, and disconnected: “You can’t do this,” “You can’t do that,” “Do as I say, not as I do.” No teaching. No listening. Just control.
Eventually, during a midnight heart-to-heart, I told her I’d already lost my virginity and tried a cigarette. I was 15. That confession shattered her illusion of control—and she pivoted hard. Overnight, she became my best friend. We talked about everything. And while that openness kept me safe in some ways, it also meant she stopped parenting altogether. Her mental health was unraveling, and I was too young to see the full picture.
She encouraged me to have a baby at 16. My boyfriend was manipulative, immature, and just as lost as I was. But I was tired. I had already cared for Nanny for four years. I was already managing my mom’s decline. I was already “grown,” or so I thought. I saw motherhood as my escape hatch. My rite of passage. My proof that I was ready.
The Illusion of Adulthood
Mom signed the papers for me to get married at 17. She said, “Your Nanny was married at 14, and she raised you. You deserve that opportunity too.” Never mind that Nanny was married in 1955, and I was living in 2010. Context didn’t matter. Legacy did.
Less than a year later, Mom died.
By 22, I was a mother of two, navigating a rollercoaster divorce, and carrying more trauma than most people twice my age. When my ex and I split, it was the first time I was truly on my own. I thought that was the moment I “grew up.”
Then came another move, another relationship, another baby. We came back to Texas, got engaged, and tried to build something stable. But the last year of that relationship was rocky—layered with grief, miscommunication, and unmet needs. Three months before our wedding, we broke up.
Surely I was grown by then. I was back in college. I co-owned a photography studio. I had three kids, a dog, and a house. I was checking all the boxes.
But I still didn’t feel like an adult.
The Realization
Somewhere around 26, it hit me: being a “grown-up” and being an “adult” aren’t the same thing.
Being a grown-up is about survival. It’s about doing what you have to do because no one else will. It’s about being the one who holds it all together, even when you’re falling apart.
But being an adult? That’s something deeper. It’s about choosing your life, not just reacting to it. It’s about independence—not just in finances or logistics, but in thought. It’s about confidence—not in being right, but in being real. It’s about stability—not in your bank account or your relationship status, but in your sense of self.
And that kind of adulthood? It doesn’t usually come until you’re 30. If you’re lucky.
The Lies We’re Sold
Millennials were raised on contradictions. We were told to be independent but obedient. To chase dreams but stay realistic. To grow up fast but never lose our youth.
TV told us adulthood meant a house, a spouse, a job you hate, and kids who hate you. Our parents told us to do better than they did, but often couldn’t show us how. Our peers were either picture-perfect or quietly falling apart.
After Nanny died, all I saw were broken homes, performative happiness, and secrets. My mom never really got her life together. My dad wasn’t around. And the world around me seemed to echo the same message: adulthood is a performance. Just make it look good.
But real adulthood isn’t a performance. It’s a process.
Redefining Adulthood
Now, at almost 33, I still don’t feel like I’ve “arrived.” But I’ve evolved.
Through therapy, shadow work, and a whole lot of trial and error, I’ve learned that:
- Independence isn’t about being alone—it’s about being authentic. It’s about knowing who you are when no one’s watching.
- Confidence isn’t about being certain—it’s about being okay with uncertainty. It’s about trusting your own process.
- Stability isn’t about what you own—it’s about who you are when everything else falls apart.
- Balance is the glue that holds it all together. It’s the quiet wisdom that says, “I don’t have to be perfect. I just have to keep growing.”
These four pillars don’t come with age. They come with experience. With healing. With choosing yourself, over and over again.
Growing Beyond “Up”
We spend our youth chasing the idea of being “grown.” We think it’s a destination—something we’ll reach when we hit a certain age, get a certain job, have a certain number of kids, or finally buy the house with the big kitchen and the walk-in closet.
But here’s the truth: growing up is just the beginning.
The real work starts when you realize that adulthood isn’t a finish line—it’s a threshold. And crossing it doesn’t mean you’re done. It means you’re ready to begin again, this time with intention.
There’s a dangerous myth we don’t talk about enough: the myth of arrival. The belief that once we hit a milestone—30, marriage, parenthood, a degree, a promotion—we’ve “made it.” That we’re done becoming.
But the moment we believe we’ve arrived is the moment we stop growing. And that’s the only way we truly fail.
Because life doesn’t care about your checklist. It will keep evolving, whether you do or not. Your kids will grow. Your relationships will shift. Your body will change. Your dreams will stretch or shrink or shapeshift entirely. And if you’re not willing to keep learning, keep unlearning, keep becoming… you’ll get stuck. And stuck people break things—relationships, trust, themselves.
So no, I don’t think you’re really an adult until you’re at least 30. Not because of the number—but because by then, you’ve probably lived enough to start living for real.
And if you’re not there yet? That’s okay. Keep growing. Keep becoming. Keep evolving.
Because growing beyond “up” is the hardest phase of all. It’s the phase where you stop performing and start aligning. Where you stop chasing someone else’s version of success and start defining your own. Where you stop asking, “Am I doing this right?” and start asking, “Is this right for me?”
And if you’re lucky, you’ll never stop asking.
Because the moment you think you’ve arrived—that’s the moment you stop becoming. And becoming is the whole point.
