I turned 22 this year. By the time this article is published, I will have 320 days left to jam to Taylor Swift’s “22” while being, well, actually 22. I am also (hopefully) in my last semester, and had I not donned the title of the “Head of Society”, I would have been a “Senior Staff Reporter” at this beloved newspaper. Along with the arguably mildly prestigious title dawns the bitter realization that I am no longer the clueless new member of the club. It feels like it was only yesterday when I walked into my first Herald general meeting, or even when I checked in to Areum Hall after my first flight to Korea. I also refuse to believe that it has been six years since I celebrated my 16th birthday, thinking that I had 366 days to sing “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” as an actual 16-year-old.

Twenty-two is a weird age. Teenagers think that 22-year-olds are old — at least I did when I was their age — while older adults think that we’re still young. Children dream that we already have everything figured out, while the so-called real adults would tell us we have no idea what we’re doing with our lives. Some of the people my age already have their own children and home, while some still live with their parents. Some are getting married, while some are yet to find their first date. Some already own a multi-million business, while some are drowning in debt. Depending on where we land on the spectrum, either the children or the real adults are correct with their conjecture. As for myself, I still don’t know what I want to do five months before my supposed graduation, still like to picture myself as the main character of a cheesy musical, and still write cringeworthy articles I’d regret in a few years’ time (probably including this one) — so I guess the real adults win.

In my defense, those real adults probably aren’t actual real adults either, so they probably still have no idea what they’re doing with their lives, much less so a younger stranger’s life. But that begs the question, what makes an adult a “real adult”? An internet stranger once wrote that “adulthood is like losing your mom in the grocery store for the rest of your life”. It has been more than 15 years, but I vividly remember the fear in my preschooler self as I scrambled for my mom’s figure in the crowded grocery store, subconsciously scanning for a good adult who would lead me to the missing child announcer in the worst case. The thought that I’m now supposed to be the good adult lost children seek scares me as much as losing my mom did. I had always assumed that all good adults knew what to do to calm a lost child, but now that I’m in their shoes, I realized that inexperienced adults are just as lost as lost children.

At some point in my life, I, too, was at the rebellious teen phase when I purposely strayed away from my mom to prove that I was no longer a kid. I felt mature for my age, old enough to hang out with friends instead of parents, and shrewd enough to avoid being kidnapped by bad adults. I was mad at adults for constantly assuming that teens were stupid, and telling us that adult logic would only make sense once we became adults as well. “Assuming everyone went through this phase and remembered the pain it inflicted, they should’ve grown up to be decent adults who treat teenagers with respect, right?” so I thought. Jokes on me, I’ve become the very thing I swore to destroy: a bitter failure of a “good adult” who gets irritated by every single line teenagers say.

I am proud to have reached the stage where I can admit that my mom was (partially) right, and that my teen self was stupid for believing she was not stupid. At the same time, I am aware that my parents and other adults I grew up with had made a lot of mistakes as well, and I know that older me might still look back at current me and think that I’m one hell of a dumb*ss. In other words, I’ve become wise enough to acknowledge that I’m not that wise, although that doesn’t necessarily make me less stupid. But look — the kid who used to throw tantrums in the grocery store is now figuring out how to build her long-term career, relationships, and personal goals. I can’t help but make mistakes here and there, but I’m slowly learning to deal with bigger problems in life, like a real adult.

If the universe allows, I’m going to stop being 22 one day. However, just like how Taylor Swift herself was 24 when the song was first released, no one can stop me from singing “22” even when I’m no longer 22. All the memories I’ve made and will make in my 22^nd year will always be a part of me, just like how the lessons learned by my stupider, younger selves allowed me to become the wiser person I am today. I still don’t know what to do if I find a lost child in the grocery store, much less what to do in life. But that’s okay, because perhaps being a real adult doesn’t mean you should always know everything — rather, you just keep trying to make the best out of your current wisdom, and let your future self become a better, wiser version of you now.