Maybe this traditional distinction between children and adults is a false dichotomy. There is no clear threshold age. It’s a gradual transition.
I know what you mean. I remember when I was a toddler, the 12 year olds in school seemed so huge and grown-up and all that. Then it was my turn to be twelve years old, and it turned out it doesn’t mean squat. I still felt just about as much like a kid.
No, those teenagers at high school, those are all old and mature. Just imagine, being all of eighteen years old. They’re all so tall, too.
And then of course it was my turn to be a teenager, and once again nothing completely life-changing seemed to have happened in the intervening time. But oh dear, these here people are over twenty!
Well, at some point it started to dawn on me that being older looks very different from the outside than it feels from the inside.
What finally got me to stop waiting for the shiny badge was the realisation that there are plenty of adults that don’t remotely deserve that pedestal I always pictured them on. The realisation that no, you don’t have to take an IQ test, you don’t need to have all the answers, you don’t have to be a good person, you don’t have to be responsible, you don’t have to be independent, you don’t even have to stop being completely bloody stupid, to be an adult. They’ll let just about anyone into this club.
I’m 23 now. I have the independence privileges of an adult. I have the mental maturity of a late teenager, tops. And also that of a hundred year old man. It depends on the subject.
Am I an adult now?
It hardly seems to matter any more.
Bottom line: To hell with being an adult. Are you who you want to be?