By Deborah Ugoiwa
“Deborah, come and eat!” my mum calls from the living room. My full name, a shift in register, sharp like a warning, I know she means business. Footsteps approach in a rhythm that can only be hers. “Are you not eating?” she admonished through the crack she opened in my door. I hear the concern in her voice, but the edge of irritation reaches me first. I’m hunched over my overheated laptop, desperately trying not to hit my head on the top bunk. The room is cramped — papers and clothes scattered; extension cords jumbled like vines trying to reach my bed. My old sketchbook lies half-buried under a pile of college notes, its pages curling at the edges. The box of Harry Potter books I once treasured now doubles as a coffee table. I’ve been holed up in here for hours, half hiding, half chasing a deadline, feigning adulthood in the same room I grew up in.
Living at home as a young adult is like living in a time capsule. It’s a strange in between in that you’re technically an adult, but it seems like the things around you are taking some time to catch up. It’s easy to feel stuck or dependent when decisions as simple as having friends over late, choosing what to eat, or even planning a weekend away require parental approval. On top of that, everyday life can become a subtle minefield of conflicts: arguments over curfews, personal choices, the constant checking in or how to spend your time can leave you with gritted teeth. I’ve grown in ways my family can’t always see. My experiences and interactions have shaped me into someone who can no longer fit into
the confines of who they once knew me to be. Yet somehow, they still cling to that embarrassing twelve-year-old version of me.
Let’s not forget the constant tug of guilt and frustration. Every argument is rooted in their concern, their care. The lines on their faces remind me of the effort to help me grow and the freedom to focus on my studies. Each new silver strand adds to the pressure I feel to succeed, even as I realise how often I still lean on them for support – because I they’ll be there when I do. I peer over my laptop at the teddy slumped at the end of my bed. faded, worn, and loved. It seems to stare back. I sigh, feeling the irritation slowly drain away. “Coming,” I mumble, the smell of familiar cooking finally hitting me.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: living at home as a young adult doesn’t set you behind your peers or strip you of your individuality. In fact, it is quite common is many cultures. Clear boundaries and embracing a little more “ask forgiveness, not permission” tends to do the trick!