A child who throws a tantrum in the supermarket, demanding a treat, is clearly not a grown-up. This is obvious to most people older than that child; such ‘childish’ behaviour stands in stark contrast to mature, grown-up conduct.
But what happens when you’re supposed to be a grown-up—by age, at least—but find yourself caught up in your own life? How do you recognise that your thoughts, beliefs, actions, and reactions may not be particularly mature?
Most of us assume that real grown-ups want to be ‘grown up’—for their own good, and for everyone else’s. There’s a collective belief that if every adult acted like a grown-up, the world—and the individuals in it—would be better for it.
To understand what it means to be grown-up, we must start by understanding what makes behaviour childish. And that part is simple.
Take the child in the supermarket who desperately wants an ice cream. They see a fridge full of options and a parent nearby with money. They sense the possibility that the world might bend to their will.
When their desire is denied, they throw a tantrum.
What they fail to see is the full context. They misjudge the situation. They forget that it’s 5 p.m.—too close to dinner. They forget they’re lactose intolerant. They don’t realise the parent might not have the money. Or they’re unaware of subtler realities—like a sibling who might demand the same thing, except that sibling is dangerously allergic to lactose.
You can’t blame the child. They’re following instincts. They’re learning how the world works. The essence of childishness is to twist reality to match one’s misconceptions, often in service of our weaker selves.
Being grown-up, then, is a state of mind—one in which we see reality clearly and respond accordingly. That’s how maturity grows.
The first step to being grown-up is recognising what maturity is. The second is learning to manage our thoughts and behaviour to align with that understanding.
Of course, none of us are perfect grown-ups. So why do we still misjudge, misremember, and react in ways that don’t serve us? What are these weaknesses that push us to distort reality?
We see mature and immature behaviours everywhere—from music festivals to boardrooms. But perhaps the richest terrain for examining maturity is within family relationships.
The family home is a crucible where long-term relationships are shaped, tested, and evolved. Incentives to love, compete, forgive, assert, withdraw, rebel, and comply all exist—and they play out over time. Time that heals wounds, heightens differences, softens indiscretions, or deepens resentments.
As children leave the family home and move into adulthood, maturity is measured in many ways: responsibility with money, work ethic, even personal hygiene. But one of the most telling indicators is how they relate to their parents.
Many grown-up children choose to remember only the discipline, the denials, the demands. They recall being forced to eat broccoli. They remember an absent father or an irritable mother. They resent a sibling who seemed more loved, or opportunities given to others but not them.
Often, there’s some truth in these memories. And yes, they deserve reflection and processing.
But what’s more telling is what they choose to forget—the other side of the coin that completes the picture. The whole truth, which invites a more mature interpretation and response.
They forget:
When Mum didn’t buy herself new shoes so they could have a bike.
When Dad skipped after-work drinks to get home for family dinner.
When parents chose a suburb with a long commute for the sake of better schools.
When Mum stayed up all night, sponging down a persistent fever.
When they borrowed money to pay for a lesson or a camp.
Or when entire weekends—and sometimes even holidays—were sacrificed to support a sports endeavour, knowing full well it would never lead to a professional future.
Children forget that Dad bought a station wagon when he wanted a sports car. Or declined a promotion that would have uprooted the family. Or changed jobs just to move a child away from a toxic school environment. They forget when Dad had a confrontation with a bully’s parent. They forget the hours of canteen duty, the late-night book covering, the last-minute dash to find obscure craft items. The birthday parties planned and cleaned up after—or worse, attended out of obligation—just so their child wouldn’t be left out.
How many pretend tea parties? How many balls thrown? How many scraped knees patched up? How many invisible efforts went unnoticed?
Do kids remember that they learned to talk, ride a bike, or catch a ball because someone made the effort to teach them? That their sense of fairness, their desire for truth, their empathy—these were cultivated by a parent?
Do they ever stop to see that their very values—what they think is right or wrong, what should be prioritised in life—were instilled by those same parents?
The sacrifices parents make vastly outnumber the mistakes they inevitably commit. Maturity is recognising that—and responding with balance.
Of course, not every parent gets it right. Some are abusive or neglectful. Some act out of their own unresolved trauma, addiction, or fear. Not all sacrifices are noble, and not all decisions are wise.
But even then, as a child who has become a grown-up, your job is to respond with discernment. To remember the full story. To resist twisting the truth to excuse your own shortcomings.
Perhaps you can’t hold down a job. Or you’re socially withdrawn. Or you constantly need to be right. Maybe you’re terrified of abandonment, or you crave validation. These weaknesses can skew your perspective—leading you to invent a version of the past that justifies your present struggles.
But even the worst parent—an alcoholic father, a violent mother—was once a child too. And the mature response is to see that their behaviour wasn’t always about you. They too were shaped by pain.
If you allow negative experiences to completely dictate your life, you are extending the very dysfunction you resent. You’re twisting the truth to suit your wounds.
Most of us grow up in imperfect families. But rarely is any childhood entirely one-sided.
You know you’ve grown up when you can process your past—both the pain and the positivity — and respond to your present with equanimity and grace. When your worldview reflects not just your hurts, but the whole truth.
Because maturity is not just about age. It’s about discipline. It’s about honesty. It’s about seeing things as they are—not as you wish them to be.
As traumatic as being denied that ice cream may have felt at the time, the full truth is more complex, more layered, and more difficult to hold.
That’s why it takes a lifetime to truly grow up.
But, like father like son. Many parents never fully grow up themselves. They may carry unexamined fears, rigid expectations, or their own unfulfilled dreams—and project these onto their children. They may misread a child’s silence as defiance, when it is actually anxiety. They might respond to sensitivity with frustration, mistaking it for weakness. They often expect emotional maturity from their children that they themselves lack. In their effort to protect or guide, they may over-control. In their bid to prepare their children for life, they may harden them unnecessarily.
Parents can also fail to see the unique wiring of their child—their particular way of experiencing the world. Some children are slow to warm. Some are highly sensitive. Some crave space, others connection. But instead of leaning in with curiosity, many parents respond with irritation or correction.
And even the most loving parent may, at times, fall into the trap of shaping their child in their own image, rather than nurturing who the child truly is. These failures don’t necessarily make them bad parents—but they do reveal that being older doesn’t always mean being grown up.
The solution, in the end, is Love and Grace. For all are imperfect and there is no cure for that. But if the will is there, the way will appear.
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