I was 18, in my freshman year of college. My father had been killed in an auto accident three years prior and our family was suing the insurance company of the driver who hit him. There were a lot of mysteries surrounding the circumstances of the accident—mysteries that the defense would certainly use to poke holes in our case—and our lawyer thought it was important to our success that we paint a picture of the man, a picture independent of that fateful night.
The trial was to take place during spring break. Needless to say, I could not have been looking forward to my break less. I spent the train ride to Philadelphia silently cursing my friends who were headed off to warmer and more pleasurable pastures, wondering why my mom was burdening me with testifying on my father’s behalf for a stupid tragedy from which we had since recovered.
On the first day of the trial, I had spent the better part of the morning in the back of the room listening to the testimony of a series of witnesses and forensic experts. By the time we broke for lunch, I had concluded that we didn’t exactly have a lock on the win, in no small part due to the tenacity of the defense attorney. But I had seen enough episodes of LA Law to know this was just business.
At 2:00, I was called to the witness stand. Our lawyer asked the first question and I dutifully launched into a rehearsed soliloquy about how loving and supportive my father was: how he built me a tree house from scraps when I was seven, how he taught me to drive a stick at 12, how we shared a daily breakfast ritual during the school week.
It was while I was talking about our mutual love of fried eggs that I realized I was sobbing. The frozen recollections that I had impassively recounted myriad times in our lawyer’s office had somehow defrosted into clear and profound memories, and suddenly the emotions that I had been stifling for three years were streaming onto my face. At that moment I wanted nothing more than to flee from the courtroom.
The judge had us pause, handing me a tissue. As I wiped my eyes I noticed that the defendant’s attorney was crouched beside his client talking at him more animatedly than I had seen him all day. He kept looking over his shoulder at the jury, who were regarding me through collectively concerned eyes. When he put his hand up to indicate to the judge that he needed a few minutes, it suddenly hit me that the defense was going to settle.
Everything came into focus. I finally comprehended that the point of my testimony was not simply to tell stories about my father, but to humanize him in the eyes of the jury. What’s more, my participation was so much bigger than simply helping us win the case; it was helping my mom secure a future for what was left of our family. In other words, it was business for us, too.
And the mere fact that I had had this insight made me realize right then that I was an adult.
I was 15 when I moved schools, moved countries, moved continents, to a place where I was deemed a stranger, an outsider, unwanted. Specifically, I went from Cairo, Egypt, to a little Canadian town in Ontario called London. And in that move, I found my voice and my strength. I was unable to hide in the crowd and just be a face in the hallways. I became a spokesperson for my faith, my people and myself. It was terrifying but most liberating.
I like to think an “adult” cannot be defined in superficial terms, but rather the characteristics a person embodies. I believe a person becomes an adult when they are capable of holding opinions that may be deemed unpopular or controversial, but they have enough conviction and self determination to stand by those opinions.
If you have your own immigrant experience to share, drop us an email. From another reader, Mohammad:
My dad’s story appears to me as something unique and profound, but the truth is, it’s a very common American story.
Born and raised poor overseas, he worked his way through medical school in his homeland before telling his wife and newborn son to wait while he came to the United States in search of a better world for both his old and new families. There is a litany of aspects of my father’s life I find great poetry in, but one of my favorite is the fact that when he first moved to the U.S., when he couldn’t find a residency, he found a job in and moved to a city named Man, West Virginia.
I was born four years later in the Midwest. I was your average kid, with the exception that all popular culture and social integration I learned was self-taught. My parents were learning about it the same time I was, so I had to provide my own context. I learned about things like music, sports, girls, social interaction, even language to a degree, on my own.
One thing that was inherited from my dad, however, was a deep love of knowledge, specifically of news and world events. My very earliest memories of my father involve him coming home from work and sitting down on the couch to watch the national news broadcast, followed immediately by the Newshour on PBS. This didn’t change for many years, and along with some of my other social impediments, it helped me turn into the oldest 14 year old you’ve ever met. I was far more comfortable in a room full of adults discussing politics and news (and occasionally trying to chime in) than I was playing with kids in my own peer group. Even as I got a littler older, I held a deeply held view that education, getting a job, and getting married were paramount to a happy life.
So to answer the question honestly, I first felt like an adult around the age of 16.
Somewhere in the decade that followed, however, I had a pretty big reversion to the mean. My child-like wonder and idealism grew as the “responsible” decision making discarded risk aversion and embraced ideas like regular Kerouac-esque road tripping around the country just for the kicks and not worrying about words like “career path.” I gave the adult in me away and felt very much like a child, with all its benefits and denotations.
Three years ago, my father, my hero and role model in life, was diagnosed with very late stage pancreatic cancer. I was seated next to him in the hospital room when the oncologist came in and delivered the news and presented possible treatment options. Knowing the risk/reward proposition very well, my father stoically nodded and said he’d prefer to just go home and be with his family.
In the five or so weeks between that and when he passed away, I witnessed both beautiful and horrible things. I saw a man knowing his life was ending, and taking it with a grace I don’t think I’ll ever have the strength for. I moved in with my parents and, despite not being a doctor, served as his health provider, carrying out his medical orders. When he died, it was with all of his family by his side.
Reading “watching my father die” sounds horrific, but it wasn’t. Like everything else in his life, he approached it with an optimist and gravitas that brought comfort to everyone around him. It was certainly painful, but it was also poetic and reassuring to think of how beautiful a life he lived.
Being a child or an adult is not a binary function. Rather, it’s an ebb and flow, a scale that is re-calibrated on a regular basis. Losing my father was the most difficult thing I have ever experienced and certainly made me an adult in so many ways. However, it also reminded me of the brevity in humanity, and to maintain childish behaviors. The fact that time passes and I should both enjoy it and make it count is perhaps the most adult lesson there is.
One of our previous readers was left alone by her parents as a teenager to care for her younger sister. Two more readers were basically abandoned after their parents divorced. Here’s the first:
This may be kind of a sad story, but I’m sure it won’t be the only sad one you’ll be getting. I’m now 37 years old, homeowner, wife, Registered Nurse, mother to a three year old and a two month old—all adult things. But I think I became an adult when I was 15.
My parents separated when I was 14 and I moved from a very rural area to a small town about 70 miles away. I went from a tiny rural school with seven kids in my grade level to a high school with about 300 kids in my grade. I was shy, or perhaps “slow to warm up” to new situations, as I still am today.
A year after their separation, my parents announced that they were getting divorced. I was told by my dad when I woke up one morning to the two of them arguing. When I got up for school that morning I remember asking, “What’s going on?,” and my dad saying angrily, “Your mom and I are getting a divorce and I’m going to treatment.” I was then expected to get ready for school as usual.
My dad went through an in-patient alcohol treatment program for 30 days shortly thereafter. I met my first boyfriend that school year, too, after the treatment and the divorce were underway. My mom, rather than talk to me about how I was feeling herself, sent me to a counselor. I quickly learned to tell this professional what she wanted to hear.
As far as the boyfriend, I had never even kissed anyone, and we quickly started spending a lot of time driving around in his little sports car and making out. We had sex for the first time just four months after we started dating, and we used a condom … but I was scared out of my mind about being pregnant. I decided to talk to my mom about it. I asked her, “You think I’m grown up enough to make my own decisions, right?” She looked sidelong at me. I proceeded to tell her that I had had sex with my boyfriend and we used a condom. She tried to awkwardly make a joke by asking, “Was it (the condom) blue?” I was mortified and immediately regretted telling her anything.
But I was smart enough to know that the possibility of pregnancy was a real one, and shortly thereafter I asked her again to take me to the doctor to talk about birth control options. She said, “I think that putting teenagers on birth control just makes them think they have permission to have sex.” Again, mortified.
Throughout the rest of my relationship with this boyfriend (a few more months), my mother would ask me angrily, “So what do you two do when you go out driving in his car?” and say things to me like, “If you get pregnant, I’m not going to help you take care of that baby.”
I was smart and assertive enough, though, to use a condom every time and never had an unplanned pregnancy. However, it was that year that I realized I was on my own. It wasn’t safe to confide in my mother and my father—he was, well, barely past the emotional level of a teenager at that point. That’s when I became an adult: When I realized no one was going to protect me but myself.
This reader’s parents were even more absent:
I became an adult when I was 16 and my parents split up. They are both drank excessively for the next several years and I had to take care of myself. I moved in with my older sister and I got a fast food job, which I worked 30 hours a week in order to pay for my necessities. I got health care at Planned Parenthood. I put off all dental work until I graduated college, because I had no dental insurance, but brushed my teeth carefully to try to avoid needing it. I realized I was having trouble seeing by senior year, so I saved up for some glasses out of my own paycheck. I was exhausted all of the time, because I had to keep doing well in school and keep up with my extracurriculars (which I also paid for) so that I could get scholarships to a good school where I could live on campus.
Being an adult at 16 and 17 was difficult, because colleges I was interested in attending took a lot of convincing that I should be considered an adult for their purposes, but legally, I was advised that I was too old for pursuing emancipation. Through the hard work of a really great guidance counselor, I did get to apply to college independently and got into a prestigious liberal arts college.
What made being an adult so young easier was the support of friends and teachers, and the fact that in my Midwestern high school I was not the only person taking on the responsibilities of adulthood early. There were young men and women with children in my class, another honors student spent her senior year pregnant, and a large number of people got married and/or had children within two years of graduating. One close friend was in prison by the time he was 20. And most of us had jobs throughout high school. Overall, we were a group of people genuinely on the cusp of adulthood, with both its joys and its sorrows.
Being an adult from 18-22 at a prestigious liberal arts college was harder. Most of the students around me did not act like adults, and plenty told me they did not feel like adults. Everything about the college was set up to serve students who had a supportive family ready and able to fly them home for every break. I still remember making myself sick eating macaroni and cheese and ramen for seven days of Thanksgiving break because the dining halls were closed and I had no kitchen in which to cook. Even with scholarships, I couldn’t live on my work study job (which could only give me eight hours/week), so I had a second job for the last two years of college. And I felt isolated by my experience on a campus where students who couldn’t figure out how to buy stamps on their own would make fun of my friends back home for getting married at 19. (Those friends are still happily married, 14 years later.)
Now in my early thirties, I have some of the trappings of middle-class adult life: I’m married, I have an advanced degree, a career, a bank account. Home-ownership is only frustratingly out of reach right now, instead of ludicrously implausible. To many eyes, I look like an adult now. But I was an adult then.
If you are wondering, I don’t feel as though I missed out on anything. I still had fun and friends. And, as much as I sometimes felt sad or resentful that there wasn’t a safety net beneath me if I flunked out of college, I mostly felt sorry for my friends who confessed that they did not feel like adults. They seemed unsure of themselves. Some asked their parents permission before getting a haircut, or deciding on a major. I really think I would have chafed at the lack of freedom.
I wish the circumstance had been happier, but I did not feel personally unready for adulthood at 16. As my husband and I prepare to have children of our own, a question on our mind is, “How do we instill the sense of self-reliance and resilience we felt as young adults in our own children, without the literal abandonment we both experienced?”
Update from a reader with a somewhat similar story:
I became an adult when I was 16. My parents separated when I was 14, and over the course of the next 18 months my mother moved across the country to live with her parents, my older brother went to college, and my father got a job in a city two hours away, so he lived there from Monday through Friday.
I don’t have a great recollection of how long this lasted or the exact details of the arrangement, but I remember there was always food in the house and some cash in a bag in the freezer. My father came home on the weekends and sometimes on one weeknight, but that was mostly to go to his match at the local tennis league. I recall feeling distinctly like I could no longer rely on anyone but myself from that point on. I bought most of my clothes at charity thrift stores and limited the number my college tests and applications because I couldn’t afford to pay for more.
The strange thing is that I don’t think I realized how wrong the situation was until about ten years later. When I was in my late 20s my best friend’s mother told me she was appalled by what happened and that she considered stepping in but held off because I seemed to be keeping things together and I spent enough time at her house that she could keep an eye on me there. After I went to college, the house I had lived in was sold and I haven’t felt like I’ve had a “childhood home” since then, except maybe at my best friend’s mom’s house.
I’m 35 now and married with two kids. I own my own home, have a professional degree and career, and I think the things that kept me from flying off the rails were my friends’ parents looking out for me, the sports teams I was on, and determination I found after realizing that I had nobody but myself to catch me if I fell.
I had not yet menstruated, not yet become a woman, but I was an adult. And there was no question in my mind that it should be reported. The responding police officer accused me of making it up. He made jokes. He implied that me wearing a pair of shorts inside my own house had seduced the rapist. When I forgot that I’d met the man once, briefly, then remembered, the officer used that to imply that I was lying. The officer had to be kicked out of the examination room during the rape kit because he made jokes about my lack of pubic hair. When I picked the rapist out of a photo lineup, he sabotaged the photo lineup. When I found out that this man had raped two other girls my age from the neighborhood, I understood why they did not report to the police.
In those days, it was standard for any rape victim to be blamed for the crime, no matter what the circumstances. The prank calls and slurs I would endure from neighbors and other kids and their parents were a defense mechanism, a way for them to convince themselves that their children won’t be raped as long as they aren’t slutty (which I must have been) or had the right parents (which I must not have had) or attended church regularly (which I did not). Victim-blaming is easier for most people than thinking that it could happen to them.
I was an adult when I realized that the only sense of justice I could trust in this world was my own. I vowed that I would use my voice to make up for those other two girls whose families told them to keep quiet.
In my high school, girls were date-raped often, but they could convince themselves it wasn’t really rape because they were wearing the wrong clothes or drank a beer or didn’t get their own ride. I remember three of the popular girls discussing how they didn’t want to go to a party that weekend because they were still healing from their last unwilling encounter, but they were resigned to the inevitably that sex was not their choice to make. Surely they’d learned as much from their parents’ reactions to my “scandal.” These girls could (and did) spit on me during the day, and then lean on my shoulder after school because I was the only one who was publicly identifiable as a survivor. I was different in a bad way as far as they were concerned, but having to rely on my own sense of fairness and compassion because I found almost none in my town made me stronger than those who fit in. By listening to and empathizing with my bullies in those secret sessions, I hoped to lend some of that strength to them.
In college I took academic work related to sexual assault, particularly the prosecution of rape as a war crime. Not that I was ever a leader in that fight, but it takes a lot of people to form a movement. I spoke at Take Back The Night. I’ve done a lot of other things professionally; sexual assault hasn’t taken over my life. I do struggle with PTSD (mostly from something else, not from the rape). So mine is not a neat linear tale of recovery, but a story of how strength comes from a lot of different places. I am unapologetically and publicly a survivor of a rape, and since the moment I felt his hands grab me, I knew I would neither capitulate nor retreat. Not inside, and not to a rapist, not to a badge, and not to a slew of cowardly victim-blaming phone calls.
I was raped on July 20th, 1987.
I was married on July 20th, 2002.
We could have chosen any date, any year. I’ve planted a flag on that date and redefined it. I took July 20th from my rapist and gave it to someone far more deserving. I have a fantastic husband who loves me for all my faults, just as I love him for his. We had happily been living in sin since high school. He had to grow up too fast as well, and maybe we wouldn’t have found each other if not for that.
I’m not fully an adult, and I’ll be damned if I ever consent to becoming one. But standing on my own two legs during a time when everyone seemed to judge what once happened between them was the major formative event in my life. For all its ups and downs, I like my life. I am secure in it. If I want to look like a fool crawling on my belly chasing after a bug with my camera, I will. If I want to be overjoyed at simple pleasures, I will. If I want to follow my bliss professionally, I’m blissful. Call me childish, because I’ve been called worse in the course of that one adult moment. The ways in which I am an adult enable all the ways in which I refuse to fully become one.
I was really jazzed to make and eat a beet salad one day—luscious beets, crunchy walnuts, and sweet cranberries on a bed of baby spinach drizzled with balsamic vinegar and oil. The realization hit me as I took my first bite: I was, quite officially, an adult. Non-adults simply don’t get excited about beet salads. By this point, I had blown by several adultish milestones without feeling like an adult: I had earned a PhD, lived with someone whom I referred to as my “partner,” paid bills and taxes, and took care of a dog. It wasn't until I felt that excitement for that beet salad, however, that I knew I had become adult.
Several readers answered the adulthood question by recalling the time they had to become a caretaker for someone who once raised them. Here’s Kate Hutton:
I’m steadily approaching 28, and I thought I was an adult when I got my first “real” job—salary, benefits, a commute to complain about—at 25. Turns out I was wrong. I don’t think I was truly an adult until I had to take care of my parents. Moving back in with my mom to help her through a new disability, staying by my father’s side through a week at the hospital, burying him unexpectedly—all in the span of a few months. You do a lot of growing up when you transition from being taken care of to a caretaker.
Another reader prefers that we “please post this anonymously so as to preserve my father’s privacy.” She recalls a grisly experience:
I think that I finally became an adult when my dad got very sick last year, when I was 25.
Previously, I had been through college, graduate school, and my first year of full-time employment and lived on my own. I had always paid my own bills and been generally self-supporting, but I relied on my parents a lot for emotional support and help with daily things, like knowing when to take my car to the mechanic or how to deal with difficult landlords. I suffer with a lot of anxiety, so I’ve been pretty emotionally needy at times.
I moved back in with my parents for a few months while I looked for an apartment. During this time, my dad—who had generally been in denial about his diabetes despite desperate pleas for him to seek medical care—took a turn for the worse. He burned his foot on a space heater, and the sore (which he kept hidden from us) slowly worsened from sore to infection to gangrene. The smell of his foot became unbearable and we realized how truly ill he was. We soon realized what was going on despite his secrecy and begged him to go to the doctor, but he violently refused.
Then one night I came downstairs and he was shivering so badly he couldn’t speak in complete phrases. I’ve never seen someone so ill in my life. It was so raw and horrific that I felt like he was slipping away as I watched. The instinct of “I need a real adult to handle this situation” kicked in, so I went to find my mother, but I soon realized that she needed me as much as I needed her. She too was paralyzed by his anger and our own fear for his life. We joined forces, begging, threatening, and bargaining with him to go to the hospital.
After an hour of screaming (between shivers and gasps), he caved in and agreed to go to the hospital. When he finally arrived, he had a temperature of 105. He was diagnosed with sepsis from the gangrene and part of his foot was amputated.
In the months that followed, he still resisted many lifestyle changes that doctors asked him to make. My mother and I had to present a united front and often had to fight with both my father and his doctors. For the first time, I realized that my parents were not in a position to handle my trivial emotional, physical, and lifestyle baggage, and so I wanted to protect them from it. I finally felt like whatever happened in my life was my own problem to solve, and also that I was capable of handling it.
Luckily my father has since recovered and my parents are doing okay again, but something in me changed that night. I handle my own issues to a much greater extent. I’ve since moved out and purchased my own home. I don’t feel like an “emerging adult” anymore; I’ve become a full adult.
A 53-year-old reader shares the “one moment that stands out in my mind” about becoming a true adult:
It was around 2009, when my mother had to move from one assisted living facility to another. She was suffering from Alzheimer’s at the time, so in a nutshell, I had to lie to her to get her in the car. The new facility had a lock-down unit, which was then the only practical option for her. It was not the first time I had told her a “white lie” in order to get her to do something, the way you might tell a child. But it was the only time I can recall when she realized I had lied to her, tricking her into leaving her apartment. She gave me a look of realization that I will never forget.
I was once married but never had children. I suppose if I had ever had children, I would have “become an adult” at some point during the parenting experience. Maybe there are certain “micro-betrayals” that go along with being responsible for someone. I don’t know. I prefer to remain ignorant about that.
The most common theme among all the emails we got from Julie’s callout involved the experience of becoming a parent. Here’s our first reader, Jack:
On a cool, rainy, Sunday morning in July 1952, I received a telephone call that the love of my life had been admitted to Bethesda Hospital in St Paul, Minnesota. She was having our first child and I had been on “Alert” at an Air Force station in Wisconsin. I drove, recklessly, to the hospital, approximately 40 miles away, and as I approached the parking area I realized for the first time I had become an adult. I was a father at 18 years old and the love of my life was 17. It is now 64 years later and we are still together.
Carol looks back 24 years:
It was 7 am on Christmas morning, 1991. I was in labor ready to deliver my first child. I couldn’t reach my parents by phone and no one knew we were at the hospital—just my husband and me. I distinctly remember thinking “this is my family now.”
Jeff Carter’s first child was also born that year:
I remember the moment of my adulthood quite vividly. I was 23. It was April 19, 1991, and I was standing in a hospital corridor. My wife at the time had to have general anesthesia for the Caesarian, in a room from which I’d been excluded. Nobody was around, and the silence was broken by the cries of a newborn. *My* newborn. My blood ran cold, and afterwards I never just did anything randomly again. My daughter and her sister figured into every decision I made and still do, even though they are both well into their 20s.
Deb Bissen remembers her momentous day:
I think I only truly felt like an adult driving home from George Washington University hospital, sitting in the back seat of our Honda Accord with our tiny, premature daughter.
While my husband drove more carefully than he ever had before, I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. I worried that she seemed much too small for her car seat, that she might suddenly stop breathing, or that her little head could tip over. I think we both couldn’t believe that we were now in charge, by ourselves, of this teeny, tiny human. Armed with our What to Expect the First Year bible, we were totally responsible for this baby’s existence, and it felt enormously overwhelming, and so grownup.
Carly Callison didn’t truly feel like an adult until her second child was born:
I was 29 years old, had been married for six years, a homeowner for almost seven years, and I had an almost two-year-old little boy. On February 22, 2009, my youngest son Wilson was born. A very easy and uneventful labor turned into a dramatic turn of events. The nurse practitioner believed he had trisomy 21 or Down Syndrome. He also had what they suspected was a heart defect.
Fast forward two days and I’m sitting in the NICU with my mom rocking my baby boy. The neonatologist came over to me and started explaining how Wilson was doing and what tests they were ordering, including an echocardiogram. After he finished speaking I looked at my mom and said “Was he talking to me or you?” She replied, “He was talking to you.”
At that moment everything changed. Decisions I never imagined considering were part of our lives now. Six and a half years later, Wilson is a thriving, healthy little boy who does have Down Syndrome. I wouldn’t change a thing, and it’s a happy memory realizing that he is responsible for me growing up.
Mike Anderson reached that threshold even before his kid was born:
I feel like I became an adult when I found out I was going to be a father. I was 23 and had been married for three years. I had a bachelor’s degree but really hadn’t started a career yet. When I knew that I had to be responsible for my child for a very, very long time, I had to stop living my life day to day; I had to plan for the next 20 or more years.
Milt Lee went the adoption route:
I think I was 23 before I started to think of myself as an adult. That was when we adopted our first child and brought him home. It was then that it was clear that my life was not just about me; it was about this little guy who needed to be cared for every day. Every hour of the day somebody had to be sure to be paying attention to him, and if it wasn’t you, then you needed to find somebody to watch him for a few hours, until you were back to keep watching him.
It’s interesting that lots of things happened to me before then that someone would think would make you feel grown up, such as getting two women pregnant, and various other things that have had a huge effect on my life (my mom died when I was 17—that was a big deal). But none of those things, or another dozen or so major events (such as getting married), felt like I was an adult. They merely made me feel like I was a dumb kid (or helpless).
P.S. I’m a documentarian, and we are working on a play and a video called “Tribe: Blood and Belonging.” My wife, Jamie Lee (she publishes under Patricia Jamie Lee) wrote a book on rites of passage (The Lonely Place) that addresses many of these issues of becoming an adult.
Here’s Matthew in D.C., a stay-at-home dad:
I would say that I really felt like an adult when I held my child in my arms for the first time. It’s when I started to deal with real compromise and financial sacrifice. It’s when I stopped living only for myself.
Before this event, I felt like an adult on and off throughout my 20s and early 30s, but never really had a grasp of the thing. When I was going to bed at a decent time and waking up on time to get to work, refreshed and ready to go, I generally felt more grown up. Yet if I started going through a bout of partying, playing lots of video games, and looking for drunken hookups, I stopped feeling like an adult. I spent most of my 20s like this, so I never really grasped the upper rings of adulthood.
Nowadays, when I very rarely wake up late in the morning with a hangover, I have brief flashes of guilt that make me feel like an irresponsible college kid again. But I power through because I don’t have choice.
That makes me think of Jim Breuer’s brilliant comedy special, “And Laughter For All,” when he talks about parenting with a hangover:
One more email on parenthood, from P.J., who merges another Notes thread:
After reading Julie’s callout for coincidences, I just so happened to be reading Hanya Yanigahara’s A Little Life before bed and came across these lines in the book describing the story's four best friends grappling with their own perceptions of adulthood:
But he and his friends have no children, and in their absence, the world sprawls before them, almost stifling with possibilities. Without them, one's status as an adult is never secure; a childless adult creates adulthood for himself, and as exhilarating as it often is, it is also a state of perpetual insecurity, or perpetual doubt.
As a non-parent, I found this description to be spot. Regardless of how many other metrics of adulthood I master, there's a societal stamp of approval as an adult that comes with having a child that will always be waiting. Until then, if ever, I'll be charting my own course, continually attempting to convince myself and others of my adulthood.
Coincidentally, Julie just posted her essay on coincidences, before I started putting this note together. A thread on your own crazy coincidences is coming soon.
A reader reflects on her freshman year of college, in 1978:
We had been watching one another in the dining hall from the first day of school and finally danced together at the Halloween party. By Thanksgiving, we were an item. He was a DJ on the college radio station and took me from my hippie music to dancing wildly in his room to The Cars, The Clash, and the new Rolling Stones album. His bed was up high on the frame so we could look out the window at the mountains and meadows and watch the dawn light fill the room from under his thick duvet.
Frank went out running. He collapsed in front of the main buildings on our campus. Someone who happened to be teaching CPR at the health center came out and kept his heart beating.
He was put on life support in the hospital. I was not welcome to see him because his parents were upset that he was dating a Jewish woman. (My friends described seeing his toes sticking out from the bottom of the sheet on the hospital bed.) I was wildly pained by their rejection and stayed in my room crying.
Two days later, his life support was shut off. His sister came to pack up his room and I helped her, holding each one of his shirts up to my face and inhaling his smell. She let me keep two of his favorites—one a worn grey cotton with a red fist that he had slept in just a few night earlier, with me snuggled up by his side.
She and I cried together, and she told me that the pain for her parents was terrible. She said, “No parent should ever have to bury a child.” I was so angry that her words didn’t penetrate.
I didn’t go to the wake, but I did go to the church service and then to the funeral, which was held beneath a tent on a cold and rainy afternoon. His parents welcomed his friends and ignored me. I stayed back a few rows, not wanting to make things anymore horrible than they already were.
At the end of the prayers, his sister walked back through the crowd to find me and handed me a white rose to put on the coffin. When I pressed that flower to the polished wood and said my goodbyes, I thought about what K. had said about her parents grief. They were holding one another up, still standing at the edge of the tent, reluctant to leave their baby.
I understood and I forgave them. And in doing so, I left my childhood behind.
I became an adult after my first marriage ended. Up until that point, I was living my life in service to and at the direction of my husband, my father, my mother, and every other figure of authority that moved through my world. When my marriage ended I was faced with the reality that those to whom I had I trusted my life had not actually agreed to accept that responsibility.
It took another year and a half to fully grasp what this meant. January 4, 2010. The day I broke. This is also the day that I found my bootstraps, grew up, and moved into adulthood. Today I have designed a lovely life that looks and feels and sounds and behaves exactly like me.
From a woman in her early 30s:
I was always a tiny adult from a young age—an only child of an only child, with a single mother who herself was the daughter of a single mother. I related better to adults than children and couldn’t wait to grow up. I knew what all the signifiers were, and I was on track to attain them all.
I moved away from home to attend college, graduated college, and moved to the big city to get on with my life. I got a job that turned into a career. I went to graduate school. I bought a little bachelorette pad, got a dog, and my career took off.
I met someone, and married him. We bought a bigger house. But every single day, I woke up feeling like a child in an adult body. “Who let me make million dollar decisions? Who are these fools who pay me to advise them? Don’t they know I still eat potato chip sandwiches and would rather be in sweatpants?” I felt like an imposter despite my credentials and evidence that I was as adult as anyone else.
Then my marriage crumbled under the weight of his addiction and we separated. When I told my friends, I learned that I had been a better imposter than I realized: No one had any idea that my he was an addict, that our marriage was troubled, that I was unhappy. I put so much effort into faking it that there was no energy left to make it.
When the divorce was finalized, I looked at what I had left: friends who supported me no matter what, a career that was taking off despite personal setbacks, the house I kept, my dog, my ever-supportive family. And I realized that I didn’t have the interest or energy or time to fake anything anymore.
I had to be brought to my knees to realize that I could just be me. When I finally stopped building an image of myself for public consumption, I learned authenticity—and with it, true adulthood, inside and out.
This reader seems on the verge of divorce:
I’m an obgyn and I watch women struggle through many life changes. I see my late teen and early 20s patients acting more grown up and thinking they “know it all.” I see my patients learning to be new moms and wishing they had a guide book, feeling lost. I see women through divorce and trying to find themselves afterwards. I see them trying to hold onto youth during menopause and after. I see them embarrassed to be incontinent in their later years or embarrassed they have to use a walker. As a result, I have been reflecting for a while on this very topic of “becoming an adult.”
I am a mom, have three kids in elementary, married (unhappily unfortunately), and I still feel like I’m growing up. My spouse cheated on me—that was a wake up call. I started asking myself “what do YOU want?” and “what makes YOU happy?” I think I had gone through life not questioning many things along the way.
As a 40-year-old woman, I feel like this is the time I’m becoming an adult—it’s now, but it hasn’t completely happened yet. During my marital conflicts I started therapy (I wish I had done this in my 20s). It’s now that I'm learning, really learning, who I am. I don’t know if I will stay married. I don’t know how that will look for my kids or for me down the line. I suspect that if I leave, then I will feel like an adult, because then I did something for ME.
I think the answer to “When do you become an adult?” has to do with when you finally accept yourself. My patients who are trying to stop time through menopause don’t seem like adults even though they are in their mid-40s and mid-50s. My patients who seem secure through any of life struggles—those are the women who seem like adults. They still have a young soul but roll with all the changes, accepting the undesirable changes in their bodies, accepting the lack of sleep with their children, accepting the things they cannot change.
My men and I had spent the last two days driving from Kuwait to just north of Baghdad and had arrived at Taji the previous night. It was too dark to move into our CHUs—the metal trailers we would live in for the next year—so we’d spent the previous night on our vehicles.
On the morning of the seventh, me and everybody else in the unit were unpacking our gear and moving it into our rooms. I was in a fellow lieutenant’s trailer, complaining about something insignificant that I can’t remember, when it happened: a whump that shook the ground and made all the metal walls flex. We poked our head out the trailer—just like everyone else in the unit—as if we couldn’t believe what we’d just heard. In retrospect, of course it was a rocket or a mortar, but even though we’d been relentlessly trained how to respond, the first time it happened, everyone just stared at each other in disbelief.
For about three seconds.
When the next one landed—even closer this time—the ear splitting boom was accompanied by the zip-ping of shrapnel as it lanced through our metal trailers. We all flinched, and then there was the sound of feet scurrying on gravel and shouts of “Incoming! Incoming!”
I found myself—I don’t even remember running—in the middle of the low, U-shaped concrete bunker on the north side of our trailers, along with at least 20 other soldiers, pressed together in the sweat and heat and fear, staring at the whites of each other’s bulging eyes. At the east end, farthest from me, two medics were already crouched down whispering and cursing to each other, working on a soldier who was laying on his back in the gravel just inside the bunker entrance.
A sergeant and a soldier dragged another soldier in to the west entrance, closest to me, and shouted “Medic! Medic, goddamn it, we need a medic!”
“I’m already down here, working on him!” came one of the medic’s shouted replies from the eastern end. There were so many people in the bunker and it was so low, the medic had no idea the soldiers nearest me were calling for help for a different soldier.
“No, I need another one!”
The whole bunker went quiet while everybody processed what that meant. The second soldier they’d dragged in was a color of pale green I’d only seen described in books. I stood in the bunker, pressed among my men, with a dying man on my left and a dead one to my right.
I was 23 and had never seen a man die.
It was there, that day in Iraq, that I became a man. It wasn’t the four years I’d spent at West Point, not being commissioned as a lieutenant, not my time in training, not even when I’d married my wife right before deployment. No, it was there when I really realized that life was a short, fragile thing, and that its end can come like lighting out of clear blue sky, whether in the US or in Iraq.
I understood that my charmed American life up to that point had been a blissful extended childhood compared to what was coming next. It was then that I was an adult, because in a flash I understood that what I had thought normal before was instead an aberration, and that violence and hate and blood was what the rest of the world lived on a daily basis. I entered the bunker a wide-eyed child and came out aged a 100 years.
My parents and I just assumed I was mentally ill, lazy, and/or a bad person. I thought if I found the right psych drug cocktail or figured out what I was doing wrong, I’d be better and like everyone else.
I wasn’t diagnosed as autistic until about a year and a half ago (although I suspected I might be autistic before that). I was kind of scared of getting a definitive diagnosis, honestly. Psych problems are fixable; autism isn’t.
Diagnosis has really improved my life. An autism diagnosis means accepting the things I cannot change. (I’ve written a little about it here.) It’s OK that I can’t do some things my peers do, or that those things come easily to them but not to me. It doesn’t make me a bad person; it just means I have a disability.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve continued to have trouble doing a lot of “adult” things. I’ve just come to accept that I’m a different kind of adult instead of berating myself about it. I’m happier, healthier, and much better at dealing with problems.
Sometimes I get disappointed in myself that I’m 26 and just starting my career. My friends from college are doctors, lawyers, managers, founders of nonprofits, and distinguished researchers. I’m an assistant. My friends are getting engaged or married. I’m living with a partner for the first time.
I’m 33. I’ve been married for eight years. My kids are nearly seven and four-and-a-half. I’ve had three “real,” “good” jobs. I’ve moved across the country twice with babies. I’ve bought and sold three homes.
Yet it was only this year that I started feeling like an adult. I fell in love with one of my friends. I came out of the closet.
I realized my needs conflicted with those of my family in a way that was more substantial than the everyday exhaustion I had learned to handle. I understood, for the first time, that sometimes there really are no perfect solutions, and I started to see that everywhere in my life. I realized everyone has needs that aren’t being met. Everyone is a little bit broken. All of those people who hurt me in my life were probably doing the best they could. I can hurt people. The best I can do sometimes is to minimize the damage, to apologize when apologies are due, to offer empathy and validation of others’ perspectives.
My husband and I decided to stay together. I understood over time that I was bisexual, but there was a very long moment when I was not sure. I feel like I grew up in that moment.
The surprisingly short life of new electronic devices
Updated on March 22 at 9:06 p.m. ET.
Two years ago, Desmond Hughes heard so many of his favorite podcasters extolling AirPods, Apple’s tiny, futuristic $170 wireless headphones, that he decided they were worth the splurge. He quickly became a convert.
Hughes is still listening to podcasters talk about their AirPods, but now they’re complaining. The battery can no longer hold a charge, they say, rendering them functionally useless. Apple bloggers agree: “AirPods are starting to show their age for early adopters,” Zac Hall, an editor at 9to5Mac, wrote in a post in January, detailing how he frequently hears a low-battery warning in his AirPods now. Earlier this month, Apple Insider tested a pair of AirPods purchased in 2016 against a pair from 2018, and found that the older pair died after two hours and 16 minutes. “That’s less than half the stated battery life for a new pair,” the writer William Gallagher concluded.
Our birth-control methods failed, and we can’t afford a second child financially or career-wise.
My wife and I recently discovered she's about six weeks pregnant. This is devastating news for both of us. We have a 17-month-old daughter and we planned on having only one child. The birth control we had been using failed. I tried to have a vasectomy nine months ago and my wife objected at the doctor's office without citing reasons. She said she would get an IUD instead, but she was unable to get the IUD, because doctors had to remove a fibroid first. She learned about the pregnancy at the doctor's office during a consult on removing the fibroid.
Since hearing the news, I have been honest with her about my feelings. I reminded her that we simply cannot afford a second child and we can kiss our joint career aspirations goodbye if we have another baby. She agrees with me. More important, I said our marriage will be over in the sense that we will just be co-parents rather than lovers because I will resent her, and the baby will always be a reminder of my career sacrifice and our indebtedness.
In hindsight, there were plenty of indications over the past decade that American politics were headed toward the partisan sniping and low-stakes media obsessions that crowd the news cycle today. Take Arugulagate. In 2007, Barack Obama was in Iowa, speaking as a presidential hopeful to a group of farmers who were worried about the stagnation of their crop prices while America’s grocery bills continued to rise.
In his speech, Obama referred to the inflated cost of arugula at Whole Foods, which was a small gaffe: Iowa didn’t have a Whole Foods, and the leafy vegetable wasn’t then familiar enough to be name-checked in a broad point about American grocery costs. But political media turned arugula into its own news cycle, with conservatives charging Obama with elitism. Around the same time, lattes were also being slandered. It was a big moment for food as proof of one’s true ability to govern.
The scandal is how much corruption it exposed—and how much turns out to have been perfectly legal.
So much about the rise of Donald Trump defied reason. But in the spring of 2016, he displayed one habit that I found beyond perplexing: He couldn’t stop praising Vladimir Putin. What made his obsequiousness so galling was that it often came in response to questions that warranted moral disdain: What about the assassination of journalists critical of the Russian government? Are you bothered by the invasion of Crimea? Whereas most of Trump’s policy positions shifted over the course of the campaign, his apologetics for Putin were a rare source of constancy.
As Trump raced to the Republican nomination, I began to search for ulterior explanations for Trump’s adoration of Putin—and the fact that his campaign served as a magnet for so many advisers and consultants with ties to Russian interests. On July 4, 2016, I published a piece in Slate pointing to Putin’s pattern of intervening on behalf of candidates hostile to the Western alliance, and arguing that we were seeing the same sort of interference unfolding in the United States. And I spent much of the next three years trying to understand the nature of that interference.
The attorney general’s letter will do little to bridge the partisan divide.
We cannot yet see the report that Special Counsel Robert Mueller submitted to Attorney General William Barr on Friday. But we can see its shadow in the four-page letter Barr sent to the chairs and ranking members of the House and Senate Judiciary Committees on Sunday afternoon. The letter will be touted as vindication by President Donald Trump and his supporters, but will do little to bridge the partisan divide over Mueller’s nearly two-year investigation, and will inspire more vociferous demands to release the entire report.
Barr’s letter thoroughly quelled some of the fondest hopes of the anti-Trump “resistance.” The letter revealed that Mueller closed his investigation without recommending more criminal charges, and that no further indictments are under seal, as some had speculated. That’s a great relief for Trump and his family and associates, but it’s not the end of their federal criminal jeopardy. Barr also pointed out that Mueller “referred several matters to other offices for further action.” For instance, the special counsel sent the investigation of Michael Cohen’s hush-money payments to Stormy Daniels to the U.S. Attorney’s Office for the Southern District of New York, which secured Cohen’s guilty plea for federal campaign-finance violations. That office is still actively investigating the matter—we know this because it carefully redacted the details of the investigation when it released the Cohen search warrants last week. But the special counsel’s investigation was the most prominent legal threat to the president and his family, and its closure without further indictments is a major victory for him.
A former Jehovah's Witness is using stolen documents to expose allegations that the religion has kept hidden for decades.
In March 1997, the Watchtower Bible and Tract Society, the nonprofit organization that oversees the Jehovah’s Witnesses, sent a letter to each of its 10,883 U.S. congregations, and to many more congregations worldwide. The organization was concerned about the legal risk posed by possible child molesters within its ranks. The letter laid out instructions on how to deal with a known predator: Write a detailed report answering 12 questions—Was this a onetime occurrence, or did the accused have a history of child molestation? How is the accused viewed within the community? Does anyone else know about the abuse?—and mail it to Watchtower’s headquarters in a special blue envelope. Keep a copy of the report in your congregation’s confidential file, the instructions continued, and do not share it with anyone.
Good news, America. Russia helped install your president. But although he owes his job in large part to that help, the president did not conspire or collude with his helpers. He was the beneficiary of a foreign intelligence operation, but not an active participant in that operation. He received the stolen goods, but he did not conspire with the thieves in advance.
This is what Donald Trump’s administration and its enablers in Congress and the media are already calling exoneration. But it offers no reassurance to Americans who cherish the independence and integrity of their political process.
The question unanswered by the attorney general’s summary of Special Counsel Robert Mueller’s report is: Why? Russian President Vladimir Putin took an extreme risk by interfering in the 2016 election as he did. Had Hillary Clinton won the presidency—the most likely outcome—Russia would have been exposed to fierce retaliation by a powerful adversary. The prize of a Trump presidency must have glittered alluringly, indeed, to Putin and his associates. Why?
Newsmakers, pundits, and hustlers banked their future on the investigation taking down the president. The jig is up.
In a letter to Congress on Sunday, Attorney General William Barr declared that while Robert Mueller’s report found evidence of Russian meddling in the 2016 election and did not exonerate President Donald Trump, it also did “not conclude that the president committed a crime.” And so the special counsel’s months-long investigation into Trump’s dealings with Russia ended with an inconclusive conclusion: No smoking gun would result in Trump’s hasty removal from office.
Not just Democratic lawmakers had been banking on a final blow to the Trump administration. Pundits, commentators, and opportunistic entrepreneurs had all held up Mueller as a hero for their cause—and, in the process, constructed a cottage industry of Mueller-pegged media content and accessories.
Between 1965 and 1969, more than a million American soldiers served in combat in Vietnam. One can argue that they should never have been sent there, but no one would argue that, once committed to battle, they should have been given inferior equipment. Yet that is what happened. During those years, in which more than 40,000 American soldiers were killed by hostile fire and more than 250,000 wounded, American troops in Vietnam were equipped with a rifle that their superiors knew would fail when put to the test.
The rifle was known as the M-16; it was a replacement for the M-14, a heavier weapon, which was the previous standard. The M-16, was a brilliant technical success in its early models, but was perverted by bureaucratic pressures into a weapon that betrayed its users in Vietnam. By the middle of 1967, when the M-16 had been in combat for about a year and a half, a sufficient number of soldiers had written to their parents about their unreliable equipment and a sufficient number of parents had sent those letters to their congressmen to attract the attention of the House Armed Services Committee, which formed an investigating subcommittee. The subcommittee, headed by Representative Ichord, a Democrat from Missouri, conducted a lengthy inquiry into the origins of the M-16 problem. Much of the credit for the hearings belongs to the committee’s counsel, Earl J. Morgan. The hearing record, nearly 600 pages long, is a forgotten document, which received modest press attention at the time and calls up only dim recollections now. Yet it is a pure portrayal of the banality of evil.
Even without a physical state, the Islamic State can still fund its main product: political violence.
BEIRUT—If you’re looking to transfer money here, there’s a chance you will be directed to Abu Shawkat. He works out of a small office in a working-class suburb of the Lebanese capital, but won’t give you its exact location. Instead, he’ll direct you to a nearby alleyway, and whether he shows up depends on whether he likes the look of you.
Abu Shawkat—not his real name—is part of the hawala system, which is often used to transfer cash between places where the banking system has broken down or is too expensive for some to access. If he agrees to do business, you’ll set a password and he will take your cash, then provide you with the contact information of a hawala broker in the city where your money is headed. Anyone who offers that specific password to that particular broker will get the funds. Thus, cash can travel across borders without any inquiry into who is sending or receiving it, or its purpose.