At some point, someone decided I was qualified to be an adult.
There was no application process. No competency exam. No responsible adult showed up to supervise the transition.
They just started letting me make decisions.
Terrifying.
Hi. Apparently I’m Someone’s Emergency Contact??? You can call me Emergency Contact, or EC if we’re friends—and considering you’re here willingly reading about my life, we’re probably headed in that direction.
I’m 30-ish, raising tiny humans, managing a household, working, healing, learning, unlearning, and regularly looking around for the adultier adult before remembering:
Oh, fuck. It’s me.
Wait, I’m the Adult?! is a life blog about exactly that.
Not a motherhood blog. Not a mental health blog. Not a sobriety blog. Not a healing blog.
But also… all of those things.
Because life doesn’t organize itself into neat little categories.
One minute I’m thinking about breaking generational cycles and becoming a better human. The next I’m pumping breastmilk while drinking coffee and negotiating with a tiny food critic who has declared an otherwise acceptable food a fucking abomination.
Sometimes we’re talking about parenting.
Sometimes mental health.
Sometimes relationships, boundaries, healing, sobriety, work, money, food, identity, household chaos, or whatever existential crisis wandered into my kitchen that morning.
And sometimes we’re talking about absolutely nothing important because my children have apparently formed a human brass section and everybody keeps farting.
That’s life.
It’s ugly and beautiful and hilarious and devastating and incredibly fucking ordinary.
And that’s what I want this space to be.
I don’t have a perfectly curated life to sell you. I’m not interested in pretending I’ve figured everything out so I can stand on the internet and tell everyone else how to live.
I’m still learning too.
I screw up. I apologize. I change my mind when I learn something new. I laugh at inappropriate times. I overthink shit. I try again. I drink an unreasonable amount of coffee. I don’t drink alcohol anymore or use intoxicants. I love my babies fiercely. I’m intentional about the human I’m becoming, while fully accepting that sometimes personal growth happens beautifully and sometimes it happens while muttering “what the actual fuck” under your breath.
Both count.
You’ll meet a few recurring characters here.
There’s Grandpappy, my resident Mini Food Critic.
There’s Meatball, a sweet, tiny agent of absolute fucking chaos who is personally offended by my nip nips but will apparently attempt to latch directly onto my mother fucking mouth.
Eeeeeyyyyuuuuccckkkk.
And there’s Lady Glitter Sparkles, another adult who lives in this circus and will undoubtedly accumulate her own lore.
Those aren’t their real names.
Obviously.
The internet is weird.
What is real are the stories.
This blog is anonymous, but the life behind it isn’t fictional. I’m not creating a polished internet character with a conveniently inspirational backstory. These are my experiences, my mistakes, my thoughts, my ridiculous little moments, and my perspective on figuring out how the fuck to be a person.
Because I don’t think being a good human means having everything figured out.
I think maybe it means staying willing to learn.
To apologize.
To laugh.
To begin again.
To give yourself grace without abandoning accountability.
To love people well without disappearing into them.
To find something beautiful in an ordinary Saturday morning.
And occasionally to look at the bathtub you’ve been meaning to clean and decide:
Fuck that tub.
So, welcome.
Stay awhile. Read something. Laugh with me. Cry with me. Question how I’m legally permitted to be anyone’s emergency contact.
We’re figuring this shit out together.
Life, apparently, requires supervision.
Unfortunately, I’m the supervision.
— EC
Wait, I'm the Adult?! Life, apparently, requires supervision. 