I entered college imagining it as a giant gate, light streaming out, the words on the front beckoning "adulthood." Once I walked in, I would transform from a teenager into a full fledged adult and nothing would be the same again.
Almost four years later, I found myself in a room packed with real adults, trying desperately to "network" so I don't graduate unemployed and aimless. "Networking," I've learned, requires the same skills that I used when I was five years old playing dress-up. I put on my professional, ironed, adult-looking clothing, and act accordingly.
When I think of myself today, the word "adult" does not come to mind. I've more so learned to play the part — to strip on and off this costume of being a functioning human.
The first time I decided to throw myself into the ASU community, I expected guidance. I arrived at my first Album Listening Club meeting as one of the youngest members in the room and felt new to the world all over again. I had broken myself off from socializing since the pandemic, so interacting with peers felt more like a science experiment than a club meeting.
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My biggest observation was that there was nobody in charge.
There had always been a guiding figure in the room — someone to tell us to not disappear into the bathroom during classes and when to eat our lunch. I couldn't fathom the idea that nobody was watching out for me, or that my club leaders were my equals.
My junior year of college, I found myself on a trip to Chicago with my parents for my cousin's wedding. Dressed in full wedding attire, a failed journey on the Chicago L left us on the wrong stop in the middle of a cornfield, completely lost.
My frustration led to the most disturbing realization of my adulthood so far: we were struggling because nobody was in charge.
I pulled myself together, suffocated my irritation and guided my family for the rest of the trip, leading everyone with Google Maps and digital ticket scans. It was on that trip I realized my family was performing on all of my family vacations, pretending to know what they were doing.
Meanwhile, I stood on the sidelines, trusting their guidance. It was also on that same trip that I found myself in the position of "New Adult," the person whose turn it was to step up and pretend to figure it out.
Now I am a part of the mass of Gen Z adults finding their place in the world, and it's time to find my own. But what I've discovered is that adulthood is more of a concept than an actual reality.
From 18 to nearly 22, I have found myself working customer service, attending job interviews, writing articles and standing in rooms of people wearing pressed suits and leather shoes. I look into the mirror today and see someone who looks more like an adult than a girl, but I'm still not sure I know what an adult is. The only way I’ve made it this far is by pretending.
My last Album Listening Club meeting was last week, where I reluctantly said goodbye to the place that has provided me with a community the past four years. The longer I attended, the more I felt like a functioning person instead of a kid pretending to be a part of the adult's table. Maybe, to some extent, I felt like an adult.
When I looked at the members of the club on our last day, I didn’t see a group of adults the way I did when I was a freshman on my first day. They now appear as a group of kids who are trying to get through the world through talking about something that they love.
No matter where I am in the world, I am in a perpetual state of being lost in a cornfield and dressed for a fancy event. I might never fit into the mold of adulthood that I made in my mind. But somehow I know that is okay.
Edited by Kasturi Tale, Andrew Dirst, Kate Gore, Sophia Ramirez and Katrina Michalak.
Reach the reporter at ebmosier@asu.edu and follow @eleribmosier on X.
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Eleri is a senior studying interdisciplinary studies, english and sociology. This is her third semester with The State Press. She has also worked in retail.
