I remember turning eighteen. The joy, the anxiety, the dread.

I was 5 foot something. Plum highlights in my hair, dressing like a washed-up art student with aggressive eyeliner issues. I did the whole “chip on my shoulder, snarky, bite my ass” bit.

Looking back, I laugh at my teeny tiny teenage mind. I had been brainwashed by the countless American teen dramas and thought everyone wore heels and dressed like they were going into a nightclub and a board meeting at the same time. Pretty Little Liars has a lot to answer for.

I wore heels every single day for four years. I have no idea who I thought I was. Rocking up to sixth form in two-inch heels, bright red lipstick and absolutely no homework done. No clue how I got away with it. Each day that passed was another day closer to starting my degree.

“University is the best years of your life”.

I was so excited for the freedom that came with being an adult. Alcohol, sex and mischief. I remember moving into my first-year accommodation. The carpet was red, the walls a dull yellow-orange. A single bed on top of shelves, a weird wrap around desk. A wardrobe just big enough that you could scrunch up and sit in it. A small scratched mirror next to the door.

When I looked in the mirror, I did not see an adult but a small little girl who did not know what they were doing. I spent five consecutive years at two different universities. I felt like a child for most of it. I didn’t date until my second year. I had the amazing idea to once again date one of my friends. You would have thought that I had learnt my lesson from the last time.

I had grown up getting little snippets of academic valediction. I thrived on knowing I was clever. University stripped that away from me, no matter how smart I was, someone else was smarter. I spent four years wandering around lost, with no purpose except to survive. This is not what I thought adulthood was. I had freedom, I just couldn’t do anything with it.

In my fourth year my relationship ended and my friends had all graduated. Once more I felt like a scared child wondering how on earth I was going to make friends. I started going to classes full time again and I met one of my all-time favourite people. I spent most of my time at work or writing my dissertation. This was definitely a turning point in my idea of being an adult. I was working, that’s what adults do. They work.

I then moved to another city. I moved in with my best friend. And I started living again. I don’t know when I started cruising through life. Letting life just happen to me rather than participating. I made some wonderful friends, I started a new career, I opened myself up to the possibility of a relationship and I had a healthy social life. Parties, clubs, bars, fun. For the first time in a long time, I felt fun.

Then it happened. The inevitable crash. In the space of two months, I lost my career and broke my own heart. Now I’m picking up the pieces. I am once again looking in the mirror. I still do not see an adult; I see a confused twenty something not knowing what to do.

I have a new mission to be in some way a successful adult by the time I am thirty.

I welcome you to join me on my journey.

Well what is a successful adult?

Speaking with my housemate we have come up with a list of things we thought made a successful adult at eighteen.

Tidy

Has friends

Have a job

Career that pays them enough money that they can live

Stable relationships

Pets/kids

Cooks real food

I currently can tick off two of those things.

I have friends and I cook real food. I love cooking.

My love of cooking sadly did not come from being an adult. It came from heartbreak. Tale as old as time, a boy broke my heart and I needed a distraction.

My housemate spoke to their therapist about our conversation about what is a successful adult. Her therapist relayed back a story to her about his grandmother. She is in her 90s and still does not feel like a successful adult.

I do not find that as comforting as he thought it would be. Are we all striving towards an unattainable goal? I have been contemplating what being a successful adult means to me as a twenty something year old. By the time I am 90 I want to have achieved these following things.

A place of my own

A career/job

Friends

Keep my place tidy and organised

Have healthy plants/pets/kids

Stable, healthy, loving relationship

Healthy relationship with food

Remembering to do laundry regularly

Keeping on top of dirty dishes

Knowing what is in my wardrobe

Eat three meals a day
Skin care

Not be completely reliant on caffeine

Most nights I speak to one of my closest friends. I watch her nearly every night doing her routine. Each night it is the same. I am totally and utterly fascinated by how she has such a structured, well maintained routine. Even the way she rubs her face oil onto her pinkie fingers and then onto her face is the same. She is my hero.

I am aware that just because she has a skin routine does not mean she is a fully functioning adult. She is my best friend, I am aware she is not. I love her anyway. I am not so delusional to think that keeping my clothes clean will make me an adult. I think deep down, this is just about feeling normal and in control.

This is all personal to me. Every person has a different idea of what a successful adult is. What is yours?

How My Idea of Adulthood has Changed.

The Valentine Journal