When I was little, I dreamed of growing up, imagining that adulthood meant doing whatever I pleased: eating whatever I wanted, going to bed when I chose, leaving the house without anyones say-so. Now I chuckle at that small, hopeful version of myself. Reality hit the day I first moved into my own flat: scrubbing, cooking, rent, bills, shopping all with a single salary that barely kept me afloat in chilly London winds, the pounds and pence slipping away. I thought freedom meant deciding what to have for supper. I hadnt known it meant standing in a supermarket aisle, palms sweating, calculating if I could afford both a bag of rice and a bar of soap.
One day, it bubbled up inside me: I hadnt actually sat down for a peaceful breakfast in weeks. My mornings tumbled together: waking to the blue-grey light, dashing through a too-quick shower, yanking the duvet straight, then racing for a bus that always threatened to vanish. Somewhere between the cracked pavement and the lingering puddles, Id suddenly remember a work email left unanswered, that the broadband bill needed paying before Friday, and my debit card was teetering on its limit. The so-called freedom of adulthood was really just an ever-growing to-do list, not a childhood wish come true.
When I finally came home, fatigue draped over me like a sodden winter coat. Id swing open the fridge, desperately hoping some magical meal had cooked itself. Of course not: there was washing up, chopping, stirring, then more scrubbing. Sometimes Id settle for bread and cheddar, anything just to avoid wrestling with the frying pan. But even then, my mind wouldnt quiet: the water bill is sky-high, check for leaks in the loo, the laundry is probably already musty because I forgot to hang it up this morning.
My friends would say, “Lets meet up.” But every time we tried, something tripped us up: one was working late at the office, another was looking after a poorly grandparent, someone else was skint, another just too worn out. As teens, wed see each other most days; now, grown, weeks slipped by, and when we did finally meet, our chat was all stiff backs, exhaustion, and council tax. We were young but sounded eighty.
The strangest thing was realising theres no such thing as real rest. Even weekends turned into itemised chores: laundry, hoovering, ironing, making lists, a trip to Tesco, mending that handle on the bathroom door. One Saturday, I caught myself wiping the floor and weeping, thinking, “Even my days off arent really off.” As a child I had called this freedom, but in truth, Id started doing every dull grown-up task adults once did for me. Only now, there was no one left to help.
And work it was never what I pictured. I thought having a job would feel rewarding. I hadnt realised it meant forcing a smile, nodding through daft remarks, chasing targets that shifted like mist over the Thames, and watching my paycheque dissolve on things I hardly ever noticed. One lunch hour I sat, tallying up whether to spend my last tenner on a sandwich or keep it for my Oyster card. No one tells you this as a child. No one explains that adulthood is a lifelong mental arithmetic.
I once believed growing up meant freedom. Instead, its a strange balancing act between tiredness, responsibilities, and fleeting, tiny snatches of peace the odd, crooked dream of adulthood.
