F#ck Being an Adult!!

I’m sitting here, staring at a pile of bills that look like they’re multiplying when I blink. Meanwhile, my three kids are in the next room asking for snacks that I just bought five minutes ago. It hit me like a ton of bricks: I am tired of the performance. I am exhausted by the costume. I am officially done with the scam that is "Adulthood."

We spend our whole lives rushing to grow up, only to realize that "being an adult" is just a fancy way of saying "professional stress-manager." We’ve traded our joy for a to-do list, and we’re cheating ourselves out of the one life we get by pretending that being "serious" is the same thing as being "successful."

We out here struggling, sweating the small stuff, and trying to be the "leaders our age requires." We take the high road so often we’re getting altitude sickness. We show up, we pay the taxes, we schedule the doctor’s appointments, and we hold it all together with sheer willpower and caffeine.

Then I look at my kids’ father—punk boy. This man is out here living his best, most irresponsible life. The jerk is literally out here chasing women, no stress, no "mental load." He’s shirking every adult responsibility like it’s a contagious disease. He’s out here playing with his dip stick while I’m the one finding the missing socks and the tuition money.

And you know what the kicker is?

I want to play with somebody's dipstick!!

While I’m over here aging myself with worry, trying to be the "perfect adult," he’s out here staying young because he refuses to let the world weigh him down. Now, don't get me wrong—he’s a bum for not handling his business. Yet, it makes me realize that I’ve gone too far in the opposite direction. I’ve let the "struggle" of being a grown woman steal my light.

We are cheating ourselves when we think we have to kill the girl inside of us to let the woman live. We’ve been told that to be a "good mother" or a "strong Black woman," we have to be a monolith of sacrifice. We have to be the pillar. We have to be the one who never breaks.

But who told us that being an adult meant we couldn't be young at heart?

We are out here pretending we don't want to skip down the street, or eat cereal for dinner while watching cartoons, or just scream into a pillow because the world is too much. We are struggling to fit into a box of "maturity" that was designed by people who didn't have half the weight on their shoulders that we do.

Yes, we have to lead. Yes, we have to raise these children because God knows their father isn't doing it. But we don't have to turn into stone to do it.

We need to realize that we are still those same girls who wanted to dance in the rain and laugh until our stomachs hurt. The same girl who likes to put that dress on!! (albeit the heels just might kill me this time) Our age is a number, our responsibilities are a reality, but our spirit? That belongs to us. Let's adjust what it means:

• Stop apologizing for having fun.

• Stop thinking that "self-care" is a luxury—it's a survival tactic.

• Stop letting the weight of your "adult" title crush the person you actually are.

  
  

So, f#ck being the kind of adult that society wants me to be. I’m going to be the leader my kids need, but I’m also going to be the woman I need. I’m going to handle my business, but I’m going to do it with a little bit of that childhood spark.

If my baby daddy can be out here living like a teenager with no consequences, the least I can do is let myself be "young" enough to enjoy the life I’m working so hard to build. I’m reclaiming my play, I’m reclaiming my peace, and I’m reclaiming my right to say: I’m grown, but I’m not finished being a girl.