Apparently I’m the Adult

Forty-three.

I’m sorry, but that cannot possibly be correct.

Because when I was younger, 43 sounded old.

Like very estabished, definitely-has-her-shit-together, probably knows how to fit a fitted sheet old.

And yet here I am.

I have a teenager. I have a career. I have an MBA. I own a home. I pay taxes and make decisions that have actual consequences.

On paper, I sound suspiciously like a legitimate adult.

In reality, I’m still figuring out what I’m doing half the time.

So no.

I don’t exactly feel 43.

But this birthday feels different.

Because getting older has never been quite as simple for me as adding another candle to the cake.

My Story Has Some Missing Chapters

The truth is, I don’t remember a lot of my childhood.

My parents were divorced, life was complicated, and there are huge stretches of those years that are just…blank.

I know pieces.

I remember certain moments.

But I don’t have the detailed childhood memories people seems to have.

Maybe someday I’ll unpack more of that here.

But for now, let’s just say I grew up pretty quickly.

So when people talk about wanting to go back and be a kid again?

I’m good.

I’ll take 43.

I Became An Adult Before I Really Knew How To Be One.

I got married at 18.

EIGHTEEN.

Now that I’m raising a teenager myself, that number sees completely insane to me.

At 18, I thought I was ready to make decisions about the rest of my life.

So I got married young. I moved around. I became a mom. And I built a life around a marriage I thought would last.

It didn’t.

There were things that happened during my marriage that, if you asked both of us about them today, we’d probably still tell you two very different versions of the story.

That’s a story for another day.

By 29, I was divorced.

So before I even turned 30, I had already been married, become a mom, lost my own mom, and gotten divorced.

That’s a lot of life before 30.

And I don’t think I really stopped at the time to process how much it was.

I couldn’t.

I had a child to raise.

Bills to pay.

A life to rebuild.

So I did what I knew how to do.

I kept going.

Then I Lost My Mom

This is the part of birthdays that gets harder to explain.

My mom died from cancer when I was 26.

She was only 45.

Forty-five.

That number has lived somewhere in the back of my mind ever since.

When you’re 26, 45 feels far away.

Until suddenly you’re 43.

And it’s not far away anymore.

It’s two years.

I don’t love admitting how much that scares me.

There’s no logical reason my life should follow the same timeline as hers. I know that.

But grief isn’t particularly interested in logic.

Every birthday brings me a little closer to an age my mom never got to be.

And there’s something incredibly complicated about that.

I’m grateful to be getting older.

And I’m afraid of getting older.

Both things can be true.

I want 45 to come.

And 46.

And 50.

And 60.

I want to complain about wrinkles and gray hair and whatever ridiculous thing my body decides to start doing next.

Because my mom didn’t get to.

So maybe getting older isn’t something I actually want to complain about too much.

Even if 43 still sounds fake.

I’ve Been Doing This On My Own for a Long Time

I haven’t really had another serious relationship since my divorce.

There have been dates.

There have been attempts.

There have been relationships that never became what I hoped they would.

But there hasn’t been another person beside me through all of it.

And when I actually stop and think about that, I’m proud of myself.

Because I’ve done a lot on my own.

I’ve raised my son.

I’ve built a home.

I’ve built a career.

I’ve gone back to school.

I’ve earned two degrees.

I’ve handled the emergencies.

I’ve made the decisions.

I’ve worried about the money.

I’ve sat throught the hard nights.

I’ve celebrated the good days.

I’ve figure out what to do when I had absolutely no idea what to do.

That’s not to say I’ve literally been alone.

I’ve had people who love me and people who have helped me along the way.

But at the end of the day, the responsibility for this little life of ours has been mine.

And somehow….

we’re okay.

More than okay, actually.

My Life Doesn’t Look Like I Thought It Would

This might be the biggest realization at 43.

If you’d asked me when I was younger what my life would look by now, I’m pretty sure this wasn’t it.

I probably would’ve imagined I’d still be married.

Maybe I’d have more children.

I’d definitely assume I had adulthood completely figured out.

Cute.

Instead, I’m divorced.

I’m raising a teenager who is getting closer and closer to being grown.

I’m single.

I’ve build a career I never originally planned on having.

I went back to school later in life.

I got my MBA at 42.

And then, because apparently finishing graduate school left me with entirely too much free time, I launched a blog called Apparently I’m the Adult.

None of this was the plan.

But I’m starting to realize that maybe that’s okay.

Maybe I’m Finally Building A Life That’s Mine

For a lot of my life, there was always something I had to do.

Grow up.

Get through whatever was happening.

Move.

Become a mom.

Lose my mom.

Get divorced.

Start over.

Raise a child.

Work.

Pay bills.

Build a career.

Go back to school.

Keep everything moving.

There wasn’t a lot of room to stop and ask:

What do I actually want?

And now, at 43, maybe that’s the question.

My son has his own life more and more.

School is finally done.

My career is established.

I’ve created a home and a life that I can support on my own.

For the first time in a long time, I can look ahead and think about what I want the next chapter to look like.

And that’s exciting.

Also mildly terrifying.

But maybe that’s okay too.

So…. 43

I don’t have some profound list of 43 lessons.

I definitely have’t figured everything out.

I’m still sarcastic.

Still ambitious.

Still overthinking.

Still hoping I’ll meet someone.

Still learning how to parent a child who doesn’t need me in quite the same ways anymore.

Still trying to remember to appreciate what I’ve accomplished instead of immediately asking myself what’s next.

Still occasionally wondering how the hell I got here.

And yes, still scared sometimes.

Especially when I think about my mom.

But maybe this birthday isn’t about how close I’m getting to the age where her life ended.

Maybe it’s about recognizing how much life I still want to live.

I want to see who my son becomes.

I want to see where my career takes me.

I want to travel.

I want to try things I’ve never done.

I want more ridiculouse stories.

More accomplishments I’m proud of.

More people who make life better just by being in it.

More birthdays.

Maybe love again.

Definitely more laughter.

I want 45.

I want all the years after it too.

So I’m going to try not to look at 43 as some giant flashing sign reminding me that I’m getting older.

Instead, maybe it’s proof that after everything – the childhood I barely remember, losing my mom, a marriage that didn’t last, divorce, motherhood, starting over, and doing so much of this on my own –

I’m still here.

And I’ve actually build a pretty damn good life.

It doesn’t look anything like the one I imagined.

But maybe the next part gets to be less about surviving the life that happened to me…

and more about choosing the life I want.

So happy 43rd birthday to me. 🥂

Apparently I’m the adult.

And for once, I’m kind of excited to see what she does next.