I walked past a mirror recently and, for a second, saw a girl looking back at me.
Not a literal child. More like someone in her early twenties. Lighthearted, excited, still moving through the world as though anything could happen.
Then came the brick of a realization: I’m turning 35. WTF.
Thirty five is as adult as an adult gets. If you had asked me when I was younger to picture a 35-year-old woman, I would have pictured an Adult with a capital A.
She would have married in her early twenties and had kids by 25, because that was the timeline we inherited from our parents. By 35, she would have had a ten-year-old with homework, activities and a strict bedtime. She would leave dinner early because the children had school in the morning. She would be sensible, serious and perpetually concerned about something.
She would not be seeking out thrills because she had responsibilities. She wouldn’t have much to look forward to after the mundane took over. That was how it was “supposed” to be.
I don’t think I was actively afraid of becoming her or ever looked toward this time with dread. I just assumed that was what adulthood eventually did to a person. The responsibilities accumulated, seriousness took over like a fog, and joy became more restrained.
Except I got here, and none of that happened.
The responsibilities certainly did arrive. I’ve worked for years, supported myself financially, built a career and businesses, done the house-and-mortgage thing, and acquired health insurance, life insurance, auto insurance and insurance for all my insurances. Got married, had the baby, run the dishwasher every night and the whole shebang that comes with life.
By every available metric, I am an adult.
And yet, when I’m walking down the street with my husband, it still feels like I’m walking around with my boyfriend. When I get dressed for dinner, I can still feel like a girl in a fun dress (with pockets – iykyk), going out to see her friends. I talk and laugh until I lose track of time. I still feel as though there is so much to see, eat, learn and discover.
It turns out adulting didn’t come with a plugin that killed joy. Whoever said, “Have fun while you’re young,” just decided to give up too soon.
The evening before my wedding, someone I considered a close friend at the time, pulled me aside at the pre-wedding party and asked, with genuine irritation, “When are you going to act like a married woman?”
I remember being completely taken aback.
WTF did acting like a married woman mean?
I was marrying someone I had already been dating for years. I wasn’t expecting the wedding ceremony to perform a personality transplant. The government was officially recognizing our relationship because society demands these kinds of formalities, but to me, this was a celebration of our love. Afterward, we would go home and live out our happily ever after, as Disney had instructed us to.
She made it seem as though “married woman” was my natural next stage of evolution. One that came with approved behaviours, rituals and an appropriate level of restraint.
Years later, I assumed motherhood really would change that internal feeling. Unlike marriage, becoming a mother had an enormous before and after moment. Surely being handed a whole baby would trigger my final adult form.
It changed almost everything about my life: My priorities, my routines, my body and the sheer number of things I carry every time I leave the house.
But I was wrong again! I didn’t lose the essence of who I was. On the inside, I was still me.
There has been change in me, though. My body is definitely adulting. It knows that multiple drinks will end badly and often opts for a crispy Diet Coke instead. I’ve looked at very short shorts and thought, lovingly, no. My tastes are different. My judgment is better. My idea of a good evening now includes getting enough sleep to remain a functioning person tomorrow.
But none of that has made me harder to delight. In fact, adulthood feels lighter than being young did.
When I was younger, my entire life was an open question. Who would I become? What would I do? Where would I live? School came with deadlines, grades and another report card measuring whether I was becoming a person correctly.
At almost 35, I am already somebody. My life isn’t finished or fixed. I can reshape it as many times as I want. I could start something new tomorrow. I could earn a PhD at 73. There will always be more places to travel, more things to learn, more food to try and more versions of myself to discover.
But the foundation has been built. I’m no longer standing at the beginning of my life wondering whether I’ll find my footing. I have found it, and from here, I get to look around.
There are so many things I still want to experience for myself. But now I also get to introduce my baby to the world – to watch him discover stories, music, places and tiny pleasures for the first time. I get to introduce him to Harry Potter, if he’s interested, obviously, and put classic rock into his system. I get to teach him why “while I pondered on this dangerous but irresistible pastime” is not simply a line you hear, but one you must properly absorb.
I thought adulthood would slowly replace anticipation with obligation. Instead, it has given me more things to anticipate. Turns out it’s not that serious.
Maybe growing up was never supposed to feel like becoming a different person. Maybe it is simply building a life sturdy enough to hold our responsibilities without letting them crush our sense of wonder.
I’m almost 35, and I still feel like the world is at my feet.
Long live the girl looking back at me in the mirror.
35 is not boring at all, brother. It’s equal parts chaos and revelry. You’re going to love it here!
– An Evening Person