When I was a child, I dreamed of growing up so I could do whatever I wanted: eat what I liked, go to bed whenever I chose, and go out without having to ask anyone’s permission.

When I was a child, I dreamed of growing up so I could do whatever I wanted: eat whatever I fancied, stay up as late as I pleased, go out without asking for anyones permission. Now, I chuckle at that small, naïve version of myself. Reality hit me the moment I moved into my own flat: cleaning, cooking, rent, bills, groceries and all on a salary that barely stretches. I once thought freedom meant deciding what to have for tea. I had no idea it actually meant having to calculate whether I could afford both rice and soap at the same time.

One day, it dawns on me that its been weeks since Ive sat down to properly enjoy breakfast. I get up, stumble into the shower, make my bed in haste, and rush out to catch the bus. On the way, I remember that I forgot to reply to an important work email, that the internet bill needs paying before Friday, and that my debit card is nearly maxed out. The freedom of being an adult turns out to be a never-ending to-do list rather than some fulfilled dream.

By the time I finally get home, exhaustion hits me like a tonne of bricks. I open the fridge, hopeful therell be something that miraculously cooks itself. But of course notIve still got to wash, chop, cook, and then wash up again. Some days I just settle for bread and cheddar, anything to avoid picking up a frying pan. Even then, I cant really relax, because my mind keeps whispering: the water bill is soaring, theres a possible leak in the loo, and the clothes from this morning are starting to smell because I forgot to hang them up.

My friends keep saying, Lets meet up soon. But every time we try to organise something, each of us has a different problem: ones stuck doing overtime, anothers caring for an ill relative, someone else is skint, and another is simply knackered. When we were teenagers, we saw each other every day; now, a whole month can pass before we finally manage to meet. And then, when we do, all we talk about is how tired we are, how much the bills are, and how our backs ache. Were young, but we sound like were pushing eighty.

The hardest part is realising theres no such thing as real rest. Even weekends are a list of chores: laundry, hoovering, organising the upcoming week, grocery shopping, fixing something thats fallen apart. One Saturday, I find myself crying while scrubbing the floor because it hits me: Even when Im supposed to be resting, Im still working. Once, I called this freedom as a child, but it turns out Ive just started doing everything the adults used to do for meexcept now, theres no one to help.

And as for work, well, it isnt what I imagined, either. I thought having a job would be fulfilling. I didnt realise it also meant plastering on a smile when you cant be bothered, nodding along to daft remarks, chasing goals that change on a whim, and watching most of your pay vanish on things you barely even notice. One day, I find myself counting out change to work out whether I can afford a sandwich or need to save for my Oyster card. No one tells you this as a child. No one explains that adult life is an endless series of mental calculations.

I thought growing up meant freedom. But really, its a strange juggling act between tiredness, responsibility, and those fleeting, tiny moments of peace.