You're officially an adult. The world is now going to treat you like one, with all the freedom and responsibility that comes with it. No one can legally stop you from anything anymore. And that's exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. I wanted to write this letter on the day you turn twenty-one—not to lecture you, but to reflect with you on what it actually means to be an adult, and to give you permission to be imperfect while you figure it out.
Adulthood is not what society promised you
You probably grew up thinking that twenty-one was when you'd have it all figured out. You'd know your career path. You'd have a serious relationship or be content being alone. You'd know who you were and exactly where you were going. You'd feel confident and ready. But that's not how it works for most people. At twenty-one, you're still figuring it out. Maybe you're still figuring it out at thirty, or forty, or seventy. Knowing who you are is not something you achieve once and then maintain forever—it's something you keep discovering, over and over again.
Adulthood is not a destination. It's a process of learning, failing, trying again, and being honest about who you actually are versus who you thought you'd be. And that's not a failure. That's the whole point.
You're allowed to make mistakes—big ones
You're going to mess up. You might make choices that feel like failures. You might invest in friendships that don't last. You might go into debt. You might choose a career you thought you wanted and then discover it's wrong for you. You might break someone's heart or have your heart broken. You might take a risk and lose. You might play it safe and feel regret.
All of that is okay. It's more than okay—it's necessary. The only way to learn who you really are is to make decisions and live with the consequences. Some of those consequences will be painful. But they're also the raw material of a real, authentic life. They're what turns you from someone who exists into someone who actually lives.
And here's the secret that no one tells you: everyone who looks like they have it together has made huge mistakes. Everyone has faced failure. Everyone has moments of doubt. The difference between people who seem confident and people who seem lost is not that the confident people never failed. It's that they decided to keep going anyway. They got back up. They tried something else.
I'm writing this the night before you turn twenty-one, and I'm thinking about how quickly the years have gone. You're about to enter a phase of your life where you'll make decisions I might not understand or agree with. You'll do things that surprise me. And you know what? I'm grateful for that. Because that means you're living your own life, not the one I imagined for you. I'm proud of you for that already. Mess up. Try again. Change your mind. Fall in love. Break your own heart and heal it. Build things. Fail at things. I'll still be here, believing in you, even when you don't believe in yourself. Happy birthday. Go be wild and real and true. That's all I've ever wanted for you.
What independence really looks like
You thought independence meant not needing anyone. But that's not what it is. Real independence is knowing when to ask for help. It's understanding that you can't do everything alone, and there's strength in that knowledge, not weakness. It's choosing who you let in, instead of having that choice made for you. It's saying yes to relationships that nourish you and no to ones that drain you. It's making decisions that feel true to you, even when people disagree.
You're allowed to still need your family. You're allowed to ask for money or advice. You're allowed to come home when life gets overwhelming. And you're also allowed to leave if that's what you need to do. Independence isn't about severing connections—it's about choosing the connections that matter to you, on your own terms.
Money, responsibility, and what matters
Now that you're twenty-one, you're going to have to think about money differently. You're going to have to pay for things. You're going to have to make choices about what's worth your time and resources. And you're going to make mistakes here too—spending money on things that don't matter, not saving when you should, taking financial risks. That's okay. Learn from it. Adjust. Try again.
But also: don't confuse having money with having a life. Don't spend your twenties working toward financial goals if it means you're not actually living. Travel without having a budget. Say yes to experiences that matter to you. Spend time with people you love. Build something creative. Take risks. You can always make more money later. You can't get these years back.
Who you are now is not who you'll always be
You might look at yourself at twenty-one and think "this is who I am." But you're going to change. Your values will shift. Your career might completely change direction. You might move to a different city, or country, or back to where you started. You might discover interests you never knew you had. You might let go of friendships that felt permanent. You might become someone you couldn't have imagined. And that's not a betrayal of who you are now—that's growth. That's what it means to be alive.
Give yourself permission to evolve. Don't cling so hard to who you are that you can't become who you need to be. Don't make promises about forever when you're still figuring out today.
You're twenty-one. You're officially an adult. But you're also still learning, still growing, still discovering who you actually are. That combination—your youth and your emerging sense of self—is powerful. Use it. Make choices that matter to you. Live in a way that feels true. Be kind. Be brave. Be honestly, imperfectly yourself. Write a letter with Dear Forward—to yourself in ten years, to someone you love, to a version of yourself you want to remember. Capture this moment. You'll be amazed at how far you've come when you read it again.