There’s no doubt that turning 18 is one of the most important birthdays. That one number signifies adulthood and its many responsibilities, problems, and freedoms. And 17-year-old Aspen, the week before their birthday, was absolutely, positively petrified.
I mean, I’d been a kid all my life, and suddenly (or so I thought) I was going to be thrown into an adult world, full of danger, job searches, debt, and ugh, taxes.
As I lay in bed, one image kept circling through my head: a baby bird. After being dutifully raised and tended to for most of its life, the bird needs to leave the nest, jumping, without any chance of returning, or any knowledge of what’s below, into the real world. Some soar: others, not so much. I was terrified of being the latter.
But the reality is, being 18 isn’t so different from being 17. Of course, legally, it is; I’m responsible for myself in the eyes of the law. I have to know where my insurance comes from, my social security details, and how to register to vote. But so far, that’s pretty much it.
If I had to go back in time to comfort my 17-year-old self, I would have only good things to say.
My first fear, the one that I find the strangest in retrospect, was that I would feel different, and that the way I perceived the world would change overnight. I feared that all of a sudden hitting those magic digits would somehow erase any blissful naivete, imagination, and childlike joy I felt. Laying in bed, I clutched three stuffed animals tightly, almost apologizing to them for the fact that I was about to be a grown up.
However, the next morning, as I groggily got out of bed, I realized that the responsible and sprightly adult who was supposed to jump out was nowhere to be found.
It was just me, in my childhood bedroom, surrounded by the same bad childhood art hanging on my walls and the mess of an average teenage room. My incredibly slow and unwilling exit from my bed signaled to me that maybe my fears hadn’t come true after all.
My second fear was the amount of clerical work that comes with being a legal adult. I expected to have to fill things out, register myself for some list, some kind of insurance, tax form, something would be thrown at me the minute I became of true interest to the government. But all I was greeted with on the morning of my 18th birthday was waffles.
The only thing that came close to my prediction was having to fill out a bit of paperwork at the doctors’ office the week after my birthday. I had to know things like my insurance number and doctor’s name. Thankfully, my father was there to help.
That’s another thing that took up undue headspace, leading to my third fear. I had this concept that an adult is someone who doesn’t rely on their parents for anything. They’re capable, completely independent, with a stable job and a 401k.
While I knew overnight independence was a stretch, I was worried that I was expected to somehow start making concrete steps toward these things. However, the reality is that I, and most of my peers, are nowhere close to that. I don’t even really know what a 401k is.
And, I think that’s fine.
Talking to my parents about the future in the days after my birthday made me realize that I’m going to be under their wing for a while more, getting advice, help, and a warm bed when I need it.
This is not to say that turning 18 isn’t important. Many are in different situations than I am, and for them, turning 18 can free them from dire situations, or give a true sense of independence from living on their own. Turning 18 isn’t the same for everybody, and I have a suspicion that growing up isn’t linear either. My childhood and all the wonderful things I associate with it don’t stop as the clock strikes midnight.
We’re not birds after all.
