You know how people say, “One day it just hits you—you’re an adult now”?
Yeah. I didn’t believe it either. I thought adulthood was going to arrive in a neat little package—graduation cap, car keys, maybe a stack of bills tied up with a bow. Spoiler: it doesn’t.
The first time I felt like a grown-up wasn’t on my birthday when the candles doubled in number, or when I signed my name on a degree, or even when I moved into my first apartment. Those were milestones, sure. But they still felt like costumes I was trying on.
It happened on a Tuesday. (Doesn’t it always?)
I was standing in line at the supermarket, holding nothing glamorous—just a basket with pasta, detergent, and a bunch of bananas. In front of me, a little boy was crying because his lollipop had fallen on the floor. His mom looked like she hadn’t slept in three days, juggling bags and a baby.
And without thinking, I leaned down, smiled at the boy, and said something ridiculous about bananas being secret swords for superheroes. He giggled. The mom exhaled like I’d just handed her back five minutes of her life. And it hit me: this wasn’t about me anymore. I wasn’t the kid watching grown-ups fix everything. I was the grown-up.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t cinematic. But it was real.
Being a grown-up, I realized, is less about age and more about responsibility, presence, and those tiny moments when someone else needs you to show up.
The funny thing? As an indie author, I’ve had similar moments with books. The first time someone wrote to me and said, “Your story made me feel less alone,” I felt that same supermarket jolt. Because writing books isn’t just about typing “The End.” It’s showing up for readers in the exact moment they need you. And suddenly, that feels like the most adult thing of all—choosing to build something that matters, with nothing but words, coffee, and the stubborn belief that someone out there will get it.
I still don’t feel like a capital-A Adult most of the time. I binge-read romcoms, get way too excited about Halloween decorations, and sometimes eat cereal for dinner. But every time a reader picks up one of my books and finds themselves in the pages, I remember: this is it. This is what being grown-up looks like for me.
So tell me—when was the first time you felt like a grown-up? Was it at the grocery store, paying your first bill, or maybe when you realized a book could change you? Share your story in the comments, and while you’re here, peek at my latest book—you might just find a piece of yourself in it.
Sonia M. Rompoti, MSc, bsc 
Leave a comment