Sometimes, I get sad thinking about how I’m not “adult enough”. Being an adult, according to our parents, and their parents parents, means getting married young. Having a stable job. Having kids. And having to take care of a family. Responsibilities. That’s what being an adult meant to generations past.
Society has changed so much that the traditional family unit isn’t necessarily a possibility for everyone. We know better (for the most part) that it doesn’t make sense to have children if you can’t take care of them. Or to get married extremely young just because you have to.
That said, if people want to be able to have kids, they should be able to. And I applaud those that do.
However, when I was in my twenties, I was told that I could have kids but it would be difficult for me to because of my heart condition. Being a mother wasn’t something I had ever really thought I wanted. I had seen how difficult it was for the women in my own family, and I wanted to avoid becoming part of that endless cycle of getting married young and not getting to follow my dreams.
My grandmother was Irish Catholic. She was pregnant thirteen times, and had seven kids. She ended up having to raise them by herself because my grandfather walked out when my Mom was three. And she came to America from Newfoundland by herself.
I like to think that if my Grandma were alive, and knew I was thirty-five, living on my own, and getting my college degree she’d be really happy with me. That’s something I don’t think she could have imagined for herself, let alone her granddaughter.
So, while my being an adult doesn’t look like everyone elses, I don’t think that makes me less of one anymore. And someday, I hope my journey is an inspiration for someone else who thinks they have to conform to societies definition of adulthood to fit.
With love,
Diana
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