I do not feel like an adult right now.

I have learned now that while those who speak about one’s miseries usually hurt, those who keep silence hurt more.
C. S. Lewis

To be honest, I am uncertain I ever have. I am not completely convinced I could even define what that means to me. None of the iconic, coming-of-age moments in life that are supposed to confer varying degrees of adulthood on a person ever seemed to imbue me with such a sensation. I didn’t feel like an adult when I got my driver’s license. I didn’t feel like an adult when I got my first job. I didn’t feel like an adult when I graduated high school, or when I started college a few years after that. I didn’t feel like an adult when I voted for the first time, when I filed my taxes, when I moved out of the house, or when I embarked on my first “grown-up” dating relationship. I didn’t feel like adult when I got married years later, nor when my son was born, nor when I moved my family across the country for a new start in a new place. Where is the sense of accomplishment, or at least arrival? At 40 years old, I thought for sure I would’ve seen it by now. What about the wisdom, the clarity, the confidence that I perceived in other “adults” as a kid? This isn’t how it was supposed to be. It’s not supposed to feel like this.

It’s not supposed to feel like fear, but it does. Lots of it. All the time. Fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear of abandonment. Fear of the unknown and the uncontrollable. Fear of responsibility and the difficulty of the obstacles life puts in front of me. Fear of risking, and of losing. Fear of inadequacy and discovery. These fears tower over me, leaving me feeling small, insignificant and uncertain. From the beginning of my remembered history, they have held absolute dominion over my heart, my mind and my actions, influencing every feeling, thought or decision I have. They appeared to become self-fulfilling prophecies when I wrecked my car, or when I dropped out of college, or when I got kicked out of the house, or when I got fired from my first job, or when I lost the girlfriend, or when I found out my son was autistic, or when the move fell apart, or when my wife left. In those moments, they would whisper three words that seemed to cement their continued authority over my heart: “See? Told you.”

I believe them, too. My fears are bigger than me. Much, much bigger. They are loud, aggressive, demanding and constant. They partner with shame to drown me in an ocean of futility and hopelessness. Where’s my focus? Where’s my purpose? Where’s my motivation to move, to act, to do? I dive deep, looking for the bootstraps I’m supposed to pull or the “big boy pants” I’m supposed to wear, but all I find is more of the abysmal, murky darkness of fear, and I’m running out of air. I feel lost, adrift, untethered and alone. Terribly alone. As though I’m the only middle-aged man on the planet who is this far behind the ambiguously defined but crucially important curve of life, and losing more ground every day. I find myself feeling like a small person wearing clothes that are two sizes too big, being told to do things I don’t understand (or understand but fear) in the way they’re supposed to be done by people who seem bigger than me and perfectly at home in this large, unforgiving and ruthless world. I feel like a child.

I’m fairly certain I always have. And not the good, idyllic, innocent kind of child. More like a terrified, overwhelmed, lost kid who doesn’t understand the world around him and believes he absolutely cannot trust anyone or anything until he does. An immature, impulsive and frantic child that hurts and fears and feels and reacts without an off switch in sight. A petulant, rage-filled brat that runs through every room of his life at top speed, arms windmilling every which way with middle fingers stabbing through the air like rebellious little daggers, unable to get the “fuck you’s” out of his mouth fast enough. A fallen-hearted, despairing, lonely boy, sitting knees to chest in the corner, red-rimmed eyes drained of their tears and voice long since gone from the weeping, wanting so desperately to be fully known and fully accepted, yet firmly convinced such things are not meant for him. A pedantic, pretentious know-it-all, tirelessly swinging his ego-drenched intellect around like a cudgel at everyone within arm’s length. A mangled and disfigured creature, covered in welts and scars, that simply cannot seem to stop reaching for the hot stove forever in front of him. A reckless, ignorant, self-indulgent little monster that is compelled to poke without consideration or care, knocking over everything he touches. A child who, upon turning around to see a vast and infinite kitchen floor behind him, awash with the spilt milk and broken dishes of his choices, sums up in two simple words the all-encompassing, obliterating weight of consequence as only a child can: “oh no.”

I am that child, and I hate that child. Do you hear me? I. Hate. Him. I resent him. Abhor him. Despise him. I hate his feelings, his impulsivity, his immaturity. I resent his frailty and sensitivity. I am repulsed by his weakness, and I find his shortcomings offensive and distasteful. I especially hate his noise. The sound of his neediness is loathsome to me in every way. He holds me back, gets in my way, uses me up and weighs me down. Why must he be such a nuisance?? Look at what he’s done. He is a burden and a waste of time. If I could just get rid of him, maybe then I could finally be free and happy and confident and focused and motivated and responsible and all the other things a good grown-up is supposed to be. He is the cause of all my unhappiness, all my hurt, and I want him dead. Not just gone; dead.

And yet.

Even as I write this, my heart starts to break for that child. In my mind’s eye, if I were to place the image of any other little boy over the description I wrote above, I would instantly feel appalled and horrified by my words. I would instead be consumed by compassion for the wretch in front of me. What happened to him? How did this poor thing come to be this way? As I look down on this battered, feral creature that both cowers in fear and promises to bite, I easily, almost naturally look past the wounds, the flaws, the defects of character, and see into the eyes of God’s creation. Cast in His image, and fiercely loved by his Maker. Poisoned and disfigured nearly to death by a fallen world, this child is not to blame, and he is not my enemy; I am not my enemy.

I am this child, and I love this child. I will feed him, clothe him, wash him and care for him. I will respect him, nurture him, teach him by example. I will fill him with wisdom from anywhere I can find it. I will train him, guide him and discipline him. I will acknowledge his voice, I will consider his words and bring his needs before the God we both serve. He is my heart, fearfully and wonderfully made by the God who wrote all my days in His book before even one came to be. Perhaps this is the place where adulthood begins…