When I turned 18, I thought everything would click. The noise in my head would quieten and all the questions constantly milling around my brain would answer themselves. I'd be wiser, more mature and have a better understanding of myself and others.
I'd read more. I'd pick up new hobbies that would likely become side hustles and then six-figure-earning businesses. Life would be hard, sure. I'd make mistakes. Lose friends and maybe myself, too. I could have done a bunch of things wrong but of course, in true adult fashion, I'd prevail.
Because I was an adult. A perfect, professional, responsible adult.
At 18 years old.
Yes, at 25 years old, I now see the irony.
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A few months ago, I grew another year older and a few things have happened since. Actually, for the sake of transparency, I guess it actually began happening about six months ago. Something my friends and I have dubbed 'The Shedding'.
I've lived out of home since I was 19 years old. Paid my own bills. Lived independently and never went without a job. I technically tick all the boxes of what it means to be 'an adult'.