Best 294 quotes in «adulthood quotes» category

For me adulthood is realising that there are no grown-ups and everyone else is winging it.

I believe I owe all the best parts of my adulthood to embracing my imperfections and showcasing them.

gods are children's blankets that get carried over into adulthood.

I went from being a beanpole - like a normal kid of the 1950s - and exploded. The weight piled on and didn't stop until into my adulthood.

People evolve and it's important to not stop evolving just because you've reached 'adulthood.'

Life is not what you expected it to be.

Reading is the scourge of childhood because, in a sense, it creates adulthood.

The day you graduate from childhood to adulthood is the day you take full responsibility for your life.

One of the privileges of adulthood is that your parents don't get to tell you what to do.

The tough thing about adulthood is it starts before you even know it starts.

Above all, staring at my old bedroom ceiling, I feel safe. Cocooned from the world; wrapped up in cotton wool. No one can get me here. No one even knows I'm here. I won't get any nasty letters and I won't get any nasty phone calls and I won't get any nasty visitors. It's like a sanctuary. I feel as if I'm fifteen again, with nothing to worry about but my Homework. (And I haven't even got any of that.)

Welcome to adulthood," she said. "It sucks as much as high school.

A child who grows up too closely aligned with adults assumes knowledge of a life she hasn’t yet experienced.

Adulthood is an attempt to become the antithesis of the wounded child within us.

Adulthood is a wonderful thing and brief. You must be sure to enjoy it while it lasts. I believe the soul in Paradise must enjoy something nearer to a perpetual vigorous adulthood than to any other state we know.

Adulthood is just a number.

Adulting is too hard. Let's play something else.

Adulthood is like looking both ways before you cross the street and then getting hit by an aeroplane.

ADULTHOOD: IT CAN EASILY BE missed, mishandled or WORSE mistaken FOR SOMETHING else

Adults, I understand, have many faults, they are not perfect—even though they have lived longer, even though they offer themselves as examples to children. They are larger, that is certain, and size has an unearned authority. But they are easily influenced, and they can be easily swayed.

Adulthood is like looking both ways to cross a street only to get hit by a falling object. Unpredictable and headache inducing." - fact of life.

Adulthood’s full of ghosts... High-functioning sleepwalkers, essentially.

Adults were constantly auditioning, but for what?

A life of dangerous adventures might seem worth it now, when you are young and seemingly invincible, but one day, you will have children, and you will not want that life for them.

All fathers are liars . . . If you want to be a father, you have to be prepared to become a liar.

A big part of growing up is bringing all of yourself into a space, not just the parts of yourself that relate to the people in the room.

(About parenthood and BDSM) Note that a difficulty in shifting gears, or a struggle to find the time, is not the same thing as an ontological either/or.

A few years ago, I graduated college, diploma in one hand, margarita in the other, completely oblivious to the shit storm that was coming my way. Here's a preview: becoming a living, breathing, job-having, bill-paying, responsible adult? Really fucking difficult.

Age is only a number. Keep an active life.

A man that knows your worth doesn't need to be told how to treat you. That's a given! You won't have to question his feelings, his motives, nor his intentions. How will I know? You ask. See, he will freely show you how he feels and prove it consistently. If you're settling for anything less than what you deserve. Then, maybe you don't even know your worth.

All of the sudden, we were a grown-up married couple! Like little figures in a doll's house, we sat there dazed, in awe, wishing a chubby little arm would pass through a window and move us around, tell us what to do. We would have given anything for a magnificent child to show us how to be husband and wife.

And at twelve, heading for adulthood, a child fears that the way she is at that moment is all she's ever going to be.

And though our roots belong to the same tree, our branches have grown in different directions.

And what am I? I’m forever stuck in a nonexistent place where no time passes and I do so much and learn so much but I don’t grow. I’m still teenage me wanting more. Wanting less. Wanting anything and everything and I think I should grow up now. Grow out of childish anxiety and sorrows for all things past and everyone has moved on from schools and neighbourhoods and I moved first and swore the loudest on never coming back but now I dream about all things past. Going back. How do you transition from being a lost teenager, to one of those calm and serene souls of integrity and certainty? Because that’s what I must do, now, soon. Do others feel left behind too, or is it just me? Like the train left with everyone on it and I’m still standing on the platform trying to decide if I should watch the sky for another hour or go change my ticket. Maybe sometimes you need to just close your eyes and jump on the train without feeling ready, and grow your steady breath on the way. I think sometimes you don’t know how much you’re capable of until you’re forced to grow into it.

And why is it that so many years later it is so easy to distinguish the bullies from their prey? Adult bodies surrounding the children of long ago. The years have changed nothing.

Artillery has stopped for the moment, and the predawn fires inside the walls take on a steady middle life, an adulthood.

A preserved childhood is better than a repaired adulthood

As an adult I had mastered the art of looking without seeing and listening without hearing and eating without tasting and maybe even existing without living.

At thirty a man steps out of the darkness and wasteland of preparation into active life it is the time to show oneself, the time of fulfillment.

As a man begins to understand the sacrifices he must make to live the life he dreams of, he often loses his courage for such a life.

Children are not like us. They are beings apart: impenetrable, unapproachable. They inhabit not our world but a world we have lost and can never recover. We do not remember childhood -- we imagine it. We search for it, in vain, through layers of obscuring dust, and recover some bedraggled shreds of what we think it was. And all the while the inhabitants of this world are among us, like aborigines, like Minoans, people from elsewhere safe in their own time-capsule.

Children need the lie to be brave enough to sleep in their beds; parents need it to be able to get up the next morning.

Children’s and YA books are about being brave and kind, about learning wisdom and love, about that journey into and through maturity that we all keep starting, and starting again, no matter how old we get. I think that’s why so many adults read YA: we’re never done coming of age.

Children take joy in their work and sometimes as adults we forget that's something we should continue doing.

children spend their time for they think they have more time; adults cry over their time for they see they have less time

Death to the young is more than that undiscovered country; despite its inevitability, it is a place having reality only in song or in other people's grief.

Defining yourself in terms of how you rank is always dangerous and ultimately immature. It doesn't matter whether the rank has to do with your grades, your weight or where you finished in the 800 meter race. Becoming a mature adult means, among other things, that you define yourself relative to your own potential, not relative somebody else's standard.

Do all the work you while you still have strength.

Do you remember bedtime as a child? I was terrified of the dark. I was terrified of the closed closet door that surely cracked open when I wasn't looking and spewed out ghouls and devils. I took care that no arms or legs protruded from the bed. I sometimes slept with the covers over my head. Sweltering, panting, barely breathing. Not even my hair exposed, lest a monster discover and devour me. I remember begging my father to check under the bed. I remember trying to explain how some monsters had invisibility cloaks. He would kiss my cheek and switch off the light. We stop looking under the bed once we realize that the monsters are inside us. It's funny how they transform. Suddenly they don't mind daylight. Suddenly they dress nicely, speak our language, and share our customs. They sit next to us on the metro and jog around our neighborhoods. They slip things into our drinks at parties and offer us jobs. Sometimes we spot them, sometimes we don't. Sometimes we even do the unthinkable: we invite them to our bed. As adults, we burn down the sanctuaries we created as children. Our inner child freaks out, but its screams are drowned by our moans as our monsters bring us to orgasm.

Each year, more responsibility and freedom (they are companions) must be given to the child so that the final release in early adulthood is merely a small, final release of authority.