For years, I’ve been collecting my “Secrets of Adulthood”—the lessons I’ve learned with time and experience, usually the hard way, about how to navigate the perplexities of adult life.
I often repeat these “secrets” to myself, because I remind myself of the same principles over and over. I learn them once, but before long, I have to learn them all over again: “Working is one of the most dangerous forms of procrastination.” “What we do every day matters more than what we do once in a while,” and “A strong voice repels as well as attracts.”
In particular, I’ve learned many Secrets of Adulthood from my time as a parent; no change has transformed me more than becoming a parent, and no experience has taught me more lessons.
For instance, as the parent of two young-adult daughters, I repeat to myself, “At some point, a parent must shift from coach to cheerleader.” I passed that point a few years ago! I remind myself of this “secret” whenever I have the urge to lecture, inform, nudge, or suggest (which is often). These days, I’m a cheerleader, not a coach; my proper role is to shout encouragement from the sidelines, not direct the action.
My daughters were relieved when I figured out this secret of adulthood: “No tool fits every hand.” In the past, I’d prod my daughters to work at their desks, instead of on their beds. I’d urge them to turn off their music so they could concentrate in silence. I’d suggest that they do high-intensity weight-training, instead of Pilates or boxing, because it’s a more efficient form of exercise. But finally, I understood that desks, silence, and weight-training are tools that work very well for me. No tool fits every hand, and different approaches work better for my daughters.
There’s another secret of adulthood for parents—and for anyone, really—that puzzled me for a long time. I couldn’t figure it out: I loved my daughters with all my heart, and I accepted them just as they were, so why did I so often nudge or encourage them to change?
Finally, I grasped a paradox that exists at the heart of parenthood. “Love is unconditional, and love is demanding.” I can say to my daughters, “You’re the best!” and I can also say, “You can do better.” Both sides of the paradox are true expressions of my boundless love for my daughters.
I have to admit that, as a parent, I repeated my Secrets of Adulthood to my two daughters many times (too many times?) In fact, I’ve been called a “happiness bully,” because when I have a suggestion for how I think someone could make their life happier, I can be quite insistent.
So I have to admit that I’ve often repeated these life lessons to my daughters—secrets such as “Nothing is more exhausting than the task that’s never started,” “What can be done at any time is often done at no time,” and on a lighter note, “A quest is more fun than a jaunt” and “Misadventures often make the best memories.”
As a parent, I’ve often wondered, “Are my daughters paying any attention to what I say?—do any of my (supposedly) wise words strike a chord with them?”
So I asked my daughters which, if any, secrets of adulthood had stuck with them. To my surprised gratification, they each instantly supplied an answer.
“The one I always remember is, ‘You’re unique, just like everyone else,’” my older daughter Eliza told me. “It reminds me that I’m my own special person, and at the same time, we’re all very much the same.”
When I asked my younger daughter Eleanor, she said, “I always think about ‘Don’t expect to be motivated by motivation.’ I used to think that if I could just psych myself up enough, I’d follow through with whatever I wanted to do. But it doesn’t work that way. Motivation isn’t enough. I have to put something on my calendar if I really want to get it done.”
Graduation is a traditional time for students to contemplate their pasts and the futures, and this season also provides parents with a reminder to stop and reflect. What have we learned? Where are we going? Even though I feel like I’m still figuring out the secrets of adulthood, it’s encouraging to realize that I have learned some lessons along the way—and also that I’ve managed to pass along some of those lessons.
A version of this story appeared in AARP Members Edition.