When Tomorrow Comes: Am I an Adult Yet? (Anthology)

Butterfly

What does it mean to grow up? To be an adult? Is it a moment, a collection of experiences, or simply the act of surviving long enough to ask the question? Perhaps it's when we turn eighteen, step out from the protective shadow of high school, and face the world with wide, uncertain eyes. Or maybe it's when life hands us decisions weightier than which college to attend or which major to declare.

In my country, turning eighteen carries the weight of legal adulthood, a sudden shift from child to adult in the blink of a governmental eye. Yet, this transition, stamped and sealed by law, often feels hollow, like stepping into a pair of shoes far too large to fill. You're deemed fit to vote, marry, and wage war, but the simple act of purchasing a bottle of wine remains out of reach. The irony isn't lost on me—nor is the baffling reality that I could own a gun before I could toast my own adulthood with a glass of champagne.

Science offers little solace, suggesting our brains don't fully develop until well into our mid-twenties. This is a fact that feels all too real when faced with decisions that feel like guesses wrapped in choices. But if age doesn't mark adulthood or the sudden ability to make infallible decisions, then what is it? Is it a series of trials and errors, a collection of moments both triumphant and forgettable, or simply the act of moving forward, one uncertain step at a time?

They say the earliest memories we recall of ourselves are the ones that tend to stick with us the most. They shape who we are, and our personalities as human beings. They tell us that our early childhood between two and six is when we become what we are defined as. A little caterpillar that slowly moves and eats its full during the years of seven to eleven. By twelve, we have decided it's time to find somewhere to make our cocoon, and then we hibernate within it. The teenage years between thirteen and eighteen is where we begin our metamorphosis into a butterfly. By thirty, they say we've done it.

We've turned into a butterfly.

By thirty, we are adults. Fully grown and capable of handling the world on our own.

But is this metamorphosis, this becoming of a butterfly, as clear-cut and universal as they say? By thirty, are we truly the finished product, ready to flutter gracefully into the remainder of our days? Or is this just another arbitrary milestone, a societal checkbox that fails to capture the essence of individual growth and the ongoing nature of personal evolution?

I often ponder the milestones that supposedly declare us adults. Graduations, marriages, mortgages—these are but external markers, visible signs that others use to gauge our place in this shitting thing called Life. Yet, internally, many of us are still navigating the complex web of identity, purpose, and the sensation of belonging to somewhere or someone. The cocoon, it seems, is not a phase we shed, but a part of us that morphs and reshapes as we encounter life's myriad challenges and joys.

I've come to realize in this journey that adulthood is not a destination, but a continuum. The butterfly metaphor, while beautiful, is misleading in its finality. We don't emerge from our chrysalises fully formed and flawless. Instead, we continue to grow, learn, and adapt. Our wings, though spread wide, are not immune to the winds of change, the storms of doubt, and the occasional need to seek shelter and rest.

As I reflect on my own path, I see a landscape marked by peaks of achievement and river valleys of despair, by the steady climb of self-awareness and the sudden drop-offs of unforeseen challenges. Each step, each flutter of wings, has been a lesson in resilience, a testament to the human spirit's capacity: to endure, adapt, and most importantly thrive.