I Tried to Be Mature—It Didn’t Take

Let me begin with a confession: I am thirty-four years old, gainfully employed, pay my taxes on time (mostly), and own a blender I have used exactly twice. By all outward measures, I am an adult. And yet, certain childhood reflexes cling to me like glitter after a craft project—impossible to fully remove, sparkling at the worst possible moments.

Take yesterday, January 3, 2026. I woke up determined to begin the new year with dignity. I made coffee without spilling grounds on the counter. I put on actual pants with a zipper. I even flossed. I was, for one shining hour, the picture of maturity.

Then I left the house.

At the grocery store, I found myself in the cereal aisle, staring at a box of Frosted Cinnamon Whirlies—the neon-colored sugar bombs I was not allowed to have as a child because my mother believed in “nutritional integrity.” Thirty seconds later, the box was in my cart. I told myself it was ironic. A nostalgic joke. A one-time rebellion.

I bought three.

On the way home, I passed the park where I used to swing as a kid. The swings were empty, swaying gently in the winter wind. No one was watching. I checked left, right, pulled my coat around me like a cape, and sat on the swing. I pumped my legs exactly twice before realizing I was grinning like an idiot. Maturity, apparently, has a height limit.

Later, while unloading groceries, I discovered I had also purchased a pack of glitter gel pens. I don’t scrapbook. I don’t journal in color-coded rainbows. I write quarterly reports in black ink on a computer. Yet there they were, nestled between the almond milk and the responsible adult kale.

That evening, I attempted to cook a sophisticated dinner: roasted salmon with herbs. I set the oven timer for twenty minutes, sat down to read a serious novel, and promptly forgot the fish existed. Twenty-five minutes later, the smoke alarm announced my failure to the entire neighborhood. I waved a dish towel at it like a surrender flag while eating cold cinnamon cereal straight from the box.

I tried to be mature. I really did.

But some habits survive adulthood with the stubbornness of dandelions in sidewalk cracks. I still check under the bed when the house creaks at night. I still tear the crusts off sandwiches when no one’s looking. I still say “oopsie daisy” when I drop something, then immediately look around to confirm no one heard me.

And honestly? I’m done fighting it.

The cereal tastes like Saturday mornings. The swings still make my stomach swoop. The glitter pens make my to-do lists look like ransom notes from a very enthusiastic unicorn, and that brings me an unreasonable amount of joy.

Maturity, I’ve decided, isn’t the absence of childish things. It’s knowing which ones are worth keeping.

So here’s to 2026: May my taxes be accurate, my kale occasionally eaten, and my glitter pens never run dry.

Some habits survive adulthood. Thank goodness for that.

—Lila Wren

Eldridge Hollow

January 3, 2026

(Still eating cereal for dinner, no regrets)