Nobody is upset about turning 20. At least, that’s what my parents told me this past June. But I was, I was the first of my friends to complete the second decade of my life, so there were few people to give me advice aside from my 60-year-old parents. According to them, these are going to be the “best years of my life.”

My teenage years were not the best, and I can’t stop thinking they could’ve been. Maybe under completely different teenage romcom movie circumstances they could’ve been. Everyone places so much pressure on being a teenager, and the 20s being “the best years of your lives” is only a sentiment amongst those who didn’t peak in high school. But in reality, no one wants to be 20. Everyone wants to sing ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” with the confidence of a real 17-year-old, or be The Backseat Lovers’ 19-year-old “Kilby Girl.” Maybe they’ll get over it and happily celebrate a birthday to Taylor Swift’s “22,” but no one sings about being 20.

When I was younger, I was obsessed with the associations of each year. 13 was the elimination of, what I considered, the derogatory term tween. 16 is the age of Disney princesses and serious relationships. 18 is adulthood in the form of lottery tickets and license renewals. But, while most kids seemed excited with each new milestone, I always hoped things would slow down. I wanted to have my aesthetic, coming-of-age story, complete with whirlwind romance and best friends. Soon, the passage of time felt like it impacted nothing but new TikTok trends showing pictures of yourself each year. The appearance of more and more videos of profiles using the hashtags #2006 or #2007 made me paranoid that I was no longer the cool older kid I had admired in middle school. I was just old.

I’ve been stuck in a sort of 16-year-old mindset for the last four years, expecting amazing experiences just because of my age and what was supposed to come with that. As much as I was desperate to graduate high school, I was just as desperate to magically replace it with perfect memories. Every time a classmate said they were sad to graduate, I had to hide my jealousy. So with each day closer to my 20th birthday, I felt a sense of panic. I should be out doing things, not sorting tomatoes at Jersey Mike’s. 

I tried to be happy to turn 20. I went out to eat with friends, had a Zoom birthday breakfast with my whole family, and danced at a club for 5 hours. But a week later, when introducing myself to someone, I made a point of saying I had just turned 20. 

I still can’t believe the first digit of my age isn’t a one. 20 comes with responsibilities. If I scrape someone’s car in a parking lot and start sobbing, I no longer have the excuse that I’m just a teenager. I might still feel like a teenager, afraid of the adult world, but the weight of the label “20” keeps tapping on my shoulder. I can’t figure out how to face it, and maybe that’s what still makes me a teenager. 

Will this ever change? Will I start liking men with facial hair? Will I wear modest clothing? The thought of a version of myself like this horrifies me, it just doesn’t feel like me. Change is inevitable, but my mindset doesn’t seem to get the memo, stuck on the same hopes I’ve had for years. 

I don’t have a perfect conclusion, which is sort of the point behind this story. Everyone’s so concerned about 30, 50, 80, but what about 20-year-olds? Where are our answers? How do we mentally age with both fond memories and regrets pulling us backwards?