Lately, it feels like every week, another friend turns eighteen. Group chats fill with celebratory emojis and inside jokes, Instagram stories flash with captions like “legal now” and “adulting begins,” and suddenly there are weekend plans to get tattoos, register to vote, or buy scratch-off lottery tickets—just because we can. There’s this quiet, collective assumption that eighteen is a line in the sand. That when you cross it, things change. You change. You’re now old enough to enlist, get married, sign a lease, be tried in a court of law. Supposedly, you’re responsible. Independent. Grown.
But honestly? I still feel like a kid.
May Term just started, and I’m spending my mornings in the SK classroom, surrounded by five- and six-year-olds. I help lead story time, set up activity stations, referee games of tag, and hand out Goldfish crackers. And every single day, I’m struck by how expansive their emotional worlds are. Their joy is unfiltered, their curiosity bottomless, their frustration loud and honest. They form intense friendships, fall out over crayon colors or whose turn it is on the swing, and then forgive each other ten minutes later with complete sincerity.
They cry when they’re overwhelmed. They dance when they’re proud. They ask questions without shame.
And watching them, I start to wonder—how different are we, really?
Yes, my friends and I are technically adults now. We can open our own bank accounts, vote in primaries, sign our own permission slips. We’re choosing majors, updating résumés, debating current events over dinner. But underneath all that, parts of us still feel five. We still panic when we don’t know what to say. We still get hurt when we feel left out. We’re still learning how to navigate conflict, how to be honest when we’re scared, how to sit with discomfort. Just like the SKers. Just with better vocab.
I used to think adulthood would arrive like a certificate—some kind of official stamp that says you’re ready. But it turns out growing up is quieter than that. Slower. It’s less of a finish line and more of a long, winding ramp. Some days you feel steady, other days you trip over your own feet. And most days, you’re just trying to balance everything you’re carrying.
Spending time with the SKers reminds me that emotional growth doesn’t follow a calendar. It’s not automatic. It happens through trial and error—through moments of reflection, through small choices, through the courage to keep showing up. They remind me of the value of presence: the joy of a daily routine, the delight in small victories, the honesty of a well-timed “I need help.”
The truth is, we’re all still learning to self-regulate. The difference is that we’ve learned to hide our learning curves. We’ve traded tantrums for scrolling, swapped out “I’m upset” for “I’m just tired.” We’ve gotten better at performing calm, even when we’re unraveling. We wear competence like a costume, hoping no one sees the seams.
And yet, being in that classroom makes one thing clear: development isn’t linear. It’s not just biology. It’s shaped by how we’re nurtured—by the people who model patience, who teach us how to listen, who show us what empathy looks like in action. We learn from what’s celebrated and what’s silenced, from how stress is handled around us, from whether questions are encouraged or brushed off. Those details matter more than just the number on your driver’s license.
At eighteen, we’re not done growing—we’re just beginning to internalize what we’ve spent years being told. We’re starting to practice it for ourselves. Not just in theory, but in action. In how we respond to rejection, in how we care for our friends, in whether we apologize when we’re wrong. We’re not little kids anymore, but we’re not fully formed either. We live in that middle ground—capable of a lot, but still figuring out how to carry it.
And maybe that’s the real shift of turning eighteen—not instant transformation, but the start of conscious becoming. Not arriving, but asking: Who do I want to be?
Not losing the younger version of ourselves, but integrating her. Learning that growing up doesn’t mean outgrowing wonder, or softness, or silliness. It just means choosing to hold onto those things, even when the world suggests you shouldn’t.
Maybe the best parts of adulthood come from the parts of us that never fully grow up.
