Adulthood
Nobody really tells you when it happens.
There’s no ceremony. No official letter in the mail. No moment where someone taps you on the shoulder and says, “Alright, this is it. Childhood is over now.”
It just… sneaks up on you.
One day you’re a kid who doesn’t want to sit still for pictures. You’re annoyed your mom keeps saying, “Hold on, one more!” You don’t understand why she wants to freeze every little moment in time. You just want to go back outside. You want to move. You want to live in the moment.
And then somehow, without your permission, you become the person staring at those same pictures.
You notice how small you were. How big the world felt. How safe everything seemed.
As a kid, you have something you don’t even realize is priceless: time.
Entire summers felt endless. Afternoons stretched forever. Weekends were oceans of possibility. You could sit on the floor with toys for hours. You could ride your bike with no real destination. You could daydream without checking a clock.
You had all the time in the world.
What you didn’t have was money.
Or a car.
Or control over where you went.
You depended on someone else to take you places. To buy the things. To say yes.
You had imagination and time — but not the means.
And somehow, that didn’t feel unfair. It just felt normal.
Then you blink.
You’re a teenager. Everything feels urgent. Everything feels dramatic. You’re trying to figure out who you are, what you stand for, how you fit into the world. You want independence, but you still want protection. You push against boundaries, but secretly you’re still looking for guidance.
You think adulthood is freedom.
You think it’s the car keys.
The late nights.
Your own money.
Your own rules.
You can’t wait.
Then it happens again.
You blink.
Now you have the car.
You earn the money.
You make the decisions.
You pay the bills.
You answer the emails.
You schedule the appointments.
You can go wherever you want.
But now there’s something missing.
Time.
The same world that once felt slow now moves fast. Weekends disappear. Months blur together. Summer isn’t a season anymore — it’s just slightly warmer traffic.
As an adult, you finally have the means to do all the things you dreamed about as a kid. You can book the trip. Buy the tickets. Order what you want without asking permission.
But every yes costs something.
Your time.
Your energy.
Your attention.
That’s the tradeoff nobody explains.
As a child: unlimited time, limited means.
As an adult: expanded means, limited time.
And you start to understand why adults always looked tired — even when they were proud.
Then something else happens.
Your friends start getting married.
Start buying houses.
Start having kids.
The same guys you used to stay up with until 2 a.m. are now comparing daycare prices and talking about sleep schedules. The same girls you watched grow up are now holding babies that look like tiny versions of them.
And it hits you.
You’re not the youngest generation in the room anymore.
But here’s where it gets beautiful.
You remember being a kid.
You remember the adults who treated you like you mattered.
The ones who didn’t talk down to you.
The ones who actually listened.
The ones who got on your level and made you laugh.
The ones who made you feel seen instead of dismissed.
You remember hanging onto their words.
Valuing their attention.
Feeling bigger because they treated you like you were.
And now?
Now you get to be that person.
You get to kneel down and actually listen.
You get to answer their million questions like they’re important — because they are.
You get to joke with them.
Encourage them.
Show them patience.
Treat them like humans, not inconveniences.
And the full-circle moment is almost overwhelming.
Because these kids?
They’re the children of your friends.
The same friends you rode bikes with.
The same friends you sat in classrooms with.
The same friends you grew up alongside.
Now you’re standing in their kitchens, talking about mortgages and milestones, while their kids run through the room — and somehow you’re the adult presence.
Time didn’t just pass.
It layered.
The kid you were.
The teenager you were.
The young adult trying to find your footing.
The adult you are now.
They’re all still in there.
And maybe that’s the real gift of growing up.
Yes, you lose the endless time.
Yes, responsibility is heavy.
Yes, the real world doesn’t ask if you’re ready.
But you gain perspective.
You gain the ability to appreciate what once felt ordinary.
You gain the awareness to slow down for someone smaller.
You gain the chance to be someone’s “adult hero” the way you once had your own.
Adulthood doesn’t knock.
It just walks in quietly.
And one day you realize you’re not just living your life —
you’re shaping someone else’s childhood memories too.
That’s the trade.
Time for responsibility.
Simplicity for capability.
Youth for legacy.
And somewhere along this road of life, I went from being a kid who loved video games, four square, and geography to being a slightly older kid who still loves all of those things.
I guess that makes me a “responsible adult” now?
I still don’t know how to properly tie a tie — that’s why I use clip-ons.
No one has noticed yet.
I don’t know where the three knives and eighteen forks are supposed to go at a formal dinner.
Bread plate? Salad plate? No elbows on the table? Satin napkin on my lap when all I really want are some regular disposable napkins to occasionally wipe my face with?
There’s a lot of “fluff” in adulthood that legitimately does not matter.
Material things that will be presented as necessary — and they just aren’t.
A $500 watch? The $20 watch tells the same time.
A $150,000 car? The $15,000 car from a reputable brand will get you to the same location, on the same roads, without costing you a kidney in maintenance, repairs, and monthly payments.
$300 shoes?
The $60 pair will get you there too.
Now I’m not saying you shouldn’t buy the higher-priced things if you genuinely want them.
Just don’t feel compelled to get them because you feel the need to “fit in” or “keep up.”
Don’t put yourself into debt trying to impress strangers.
Trust me.
That’s 40 years of life experience talking.
And if adulthood has taught me anything, it’s this:
The things that actually matter were never the watches, the cars, or the perfectly folded napkins.
It was the time.
The conversations.
The laughter.
The people sitting around the table — not the table setting itself.
Because one day, the pictures being taken won’t be of you as the kid who couldn’t sit still.
They’ll be of you — standing there, a little older, maybe still not knowing which fork to use — but present.
Listening.
Laughing.
Paying attention.
And somewhere in the background, another kid will be growing up, not realizing yet that they’ll someday look back and understand it too.
Adulthood doesn’t announce itself.
It just keeps moving.
And if you’re lucky, you learn to move with it —
holding onto what matters,
letting go of what doesn’t,
and making sure the people in your life feel seen along the way.
Thanks for reading folks, until next week!
