AM I A REAL ADULT IF I STILL FINANCIALLY DEPEND ON MY FAMILY?

Last week, my husband went out of town for the first time since our son was born. For four (restless) nights, I slept in the house as the sole adult in charge of one baby and two dogs. I woke up each morning to cries, carefully administered my son’s medicine, fed the dogs and wrangled everyone for a poop-filled walk involving two leashes and a stroller before starting my workday. As I slowly shuffled down the sidewalk, I took stock of the life I have built for myself. I felt empowered and proud. Then a familiar doubt crept in.

Could I really claim these hallmarks of adulthood if the only thing making them possible is my father’s generosity? As I’ve shared before, my father pays for our childcare and owns our home where we live rent-free. This arrangement is what allowed us to afford having a child in Los Angeles on my income. If I didn’t have my dad’s help, our lives would be very different and knowing this has made it hard for me to feel like a “proper adult.”

I’m realizing that deep in my soul, I have bought into the idea that financial independence is the cornerstone of adulthood. This icky part of me believes that everything else I do–writing books, coaching couples, parenting–doesn’t “count” as much as making a lot of money and not having to ask my family for help. I do not want to believe this. It goes against all my values and the reality of living in a capitalist society where making six figures in a major city doesn’t go very far. But the feeling of inferiority remains.

If this were simply a debate of logic, rather than emotion, it would be easy for me to stop placing a disproportionate amount of importance on my salary when judging my capability as an adult. There is simply too much evidence against the argument that income has anything to do with your maturity or intelligence. Think about all the brilliant people you know who are underpaid and all the total bozos that take in over a million dollars a year because they were born into the right family. The system is rigged. Boomers are not more wealthy than millennials because they are better at being adults. If anything, their lucky timing has allowed them to dodge the emotional development that financial instability has demanded of younger generations.

Sharing generational wealth isn’t even a modern phenomenon. For centuries, parents have been helping set their kids up for success with advantages like noble titles, trust funds and multi-generational housing. What is the point of amassing wealth in the first place if not to improve the life of your family? If I were in my father’s position, I would be doing the exact same thing for my child.

I know all of this and yet I still feel like I am playing dress up. When I hand my son to my nanny, I feel guilty that I don’t pay her salary. When someone comes over to my house I make sure they know I couldn’t possibly afford this place on my own. These are not standards that I hold for anyone else in my life. If anything, I encourage people to take help of all kinds from their family if they are able to do so. I honestly judge people more for not doing so when they could!

Perhaps, then, it’s not so much the money as the power my dad’s money holds over me. I can’t make certain major decisions without his input and this goes against what I assumed being an adult would look like. Adults don’t have to ask their parents for permission of any kind. (Not true. Many adult children navigate major decisions with their parents’ input). They don’t family plan based on their parents’ generosity. (Also untrue. Having grandparents around to help out is often a major factor.) This perceived lack of freedom makes me feel inadequate even though I have chosen time and again to accept his help. At the same time I am berating myself for needing it, I feel such gratitude and privilege to have it.

One way out of these messy feelings would be to cut the cord. To move out of our home and completely change our childcare so I can prove that I am self-sufficient. It would be a decision fueled entirely by pride, which is never a great idea. So instead of upending my family, I’d rather challenge my obsession with being a “real” adult. What does that term even mean when I measure it based on my actual values rather than my bank account?

I think I have latched onto the concept because it provides a false sense of security. A “true adult” would know how to handle a crisis or apply for a mortgage. If I can just reach that level of maturity, I will be safer in an unsafe world. I would be able to care for my child the way my parents took care of me. Except…my mother always said she never felt like a proper adult. And somehow she still seemed like one. Her self-doubt didn’t bleed into her ability to be an excellent mother. She was capable and wise and she also didn’t earn enough money on her own to support three people and two dogs. But that last part never mattered in my conceptualization of her as a person. I hope that soon it will matter less in my conceptualization of myself. Because if four nights of solo-parenting showed me anything, it’s that I do know how to survive on my own, but life is much nicer when you don’t have to.

xoxo,

Allison

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