Wait, I'm the Adult?! Life, apparently, requires supervision.

September 9th, 2026

By Emergency Contact (EC)

Nobody tells you when you become the adult.

There is no ceremony.

Nobody hands you a certificate.

There is no little old woman standing at the entrance to adulthood with a clipboard checking whether you’re emotionally prepared for this shit.

One day you’re just standing in your kitchen holding a baby, answering somebody else’s question about dinner while scheduling an appointment and wondering whether you remembered to switch the laundry—

and you realize with absolute fucking horror:

Oh.

They’re asking me because I’m in charge.

Which seems irresponsible.

Because I cannot order a pizza unless there’s an app.

If your restaurant requires me to call and speak to another human being before I can acquire chicken tenders, I simply do not eat there.

I cannot make phone calls unless they’re for my children.

Apparently maternal instinct can temporarily override whatever the fuck is wrong with me, but only in matters involving my offspring.

Need me to call the pediatrician?

Absolutely.

Need me to call and ask what time you close?

I’d rather die.

I also don’t go to appointments alone.

Or outings alone.

There are fully grown adults who accompany me places because apparently I require emotional-support humans to successfully participate in society.

And yet—

somewhere, on actual paperwork, I am someone’s emergency contact.

Me.

The person you call in an emergency.

That feels like a catastrophic oversight in the system.

Because if you are unconscious in a hospital somewhere, apparently I’m qualified to make decisions on your behalf.

But if the hospital cafeteria doesn’t have mobile ordering, we’re both fucked.

I Have Somehow Been Given Authority

This is the part of adulthood nobody adequately prepared me for.

People just start trusting you with shit.

Important shit.

Children.

Medical decisions.

Bills.

Schedules.

Passwords.

Forms that ask questions I absolutely do not know the answer to but somehow still expect me to sign at the bottom confirming everything is correct.

At no point does anyone verify your qualifications.

They just hand you a newborn and say congratulations.

Ma’am.

I need you to understand that I have Googled whether chicken was cooked while actively eating the chicken.

And now I’m responsible for keeping another human being alive?

Two of them, actually.

Because apparently after successfully keeping one alive for several years, society allowed me to do it again.

Bold.

Grandpappy will ask me a question like I possess some ancient maternal knowledge unavailable to him.

“Mommy, why does—”

I don’t fucking know, babe.

Let’s Google it.

And somehow this counts as parenting.

Honestly, I think that’s one of adulthood’s biggest scams.

When you’re little, adults seem like they know everything.

Your mom knows where the Band-Aids are.

Your teacher knows why the sky is blue.

The doctor knows why your stomach hurts.

Somebody always knows what to do.

Then you grow up & have to google shit for your kids 😭

Except Something Weird Happens When It’s for My Kids

Because despite everything I just said, there is apparently one situation in which my anxiety packs its shit and gets the fuck out of the driver’s seat.

My babies need something.

Suddenly I can make the phone call.

I can ask the questions.

I can talk to doctors.

I can fill out the forms.

I can advocate.

I can walk into places that make me anxious and speak to people I don’t know and figure out whatever needs figuring the fuck out.

I will research.

I will organize.

I will remember.

I will become an administrative assistant, nurse, lawyer, detective, teacher, scheduler, chauffeur, snack distributor, and tiny-human crisis-management specialist.

Then I will hang up the phone and stare at the wall because I had to speak to a stranger.

✨ BALANCE ✨

Maybe that’s the part nobody tells you.

Becoming the adult doesn’t mean you stop being afraid.

It doesn’t mean anxiety disappears.

It doesn’t mean you suddenly enjoy phone calls or know what you’re doing or stop needing someone to come with you to appointments.

It doesn’t even mean you feel particularly adult.

Sometimes it just means something matters more than whatever is happening inside your own head.

And you do it scared.

Which Is Deeply Inconvenient Because I’m Just a Girl

I cannot emphasize this enough.

I’m just a girl.

A very small girl.

Elf sized, actually.

I would like snacks.

I would like a little treat.

I would like somebody else to make the decisions.

I would like to lie under a heated blanket and watch something I’ve already seen seventeen times because apparently knowing exactly what happens is recreational enrichment for my nervous system.

Instead, people keep asking me questions.

What are we having for dinner?

What time is the appointment?

Where are my shoes?

Did you pay this?

Can I have a snack?

Where is the charger?

Mommy?

Mommy?

Mommy?

MOMMY?

HELLO???

I ALSO HAVE QUESTIONS.

Who authorized me?

Who reviewed my application?

Who looked at this entire situation and said:

Yes.

Her.

Put her in charge.

Because I’d like to speak to management.

Actually, no.

I’d like to email management.

Please don’t give me their phone number.

Maybe This Is What Being an Adult Actually Is

I’ve spent a lot of my life assuming there would eventually be some internal shift.

Some magical point where I’d feel grown.

Competent.

Certain.

Like the adults I remember from childhood.

But I’m starting to suspect they didn’t feel that way either.

Maybe my mother was figuring it out.

Maybe her mother was figuring it out.

Maybe every adult I’ve ever looked at and thought surely this bitch knows what’s happening was internally standing there like:

What the fuck is going on?

Maybe adulthood isn’t knowing what to do.

Maybe it’s knowing you’ll figure out what to do when you have to.

Because that’s the weird part.

When shit actually hits the fan?

I’m good.

A real emergency?

Something happens to one of my babies?

Someone I love needs me?

The chaos in my head goes strangely quiet.

There is a problem.

Fine.

What needs to happen?

And somehow, I handle it.

Then the crisis ends and I return to my natural state:

standing in the kitchen staring into the refrigerator with absolutely no idea why I opened it.

Two brain cells.

One is Hei Hei.

The other is that squirrel from Ice Age chasing the fucking acorn.

Neither has been informed that we’re responsible for dependents.

And perhaps that’s the answer.

Maybe being someone’s emergency contact doesn’t mean you’re the person who has everything figured out.

Maybe you’re just the person who will answer when it matters.

The person who will show up scared.

The person who will figure it out.

The person who can need help herself and still be someone other people can depend on.

I can be anxious and capable.

Overwhelmed and dependable.

I can need an emotional-support human at my own appointment and become somebody else’s emotional-support human at theirs.

Those things don’t cancel each other out.

✨ BALANCE ✨

So yes.

Apparently I’m the adult.

Apparently I’m also someone’s emergency contact.

This still seems like an administrative error, but I’ve stopped expecting anyone to correct it.

Just please—

if you’re going to have an emergency—

make sure wherever they take you has an app.

—EC