When I decided to go back to school to seriously pursue a Bachelor’s in Psychology, instead of taking random classes for fun, I didn’t consider that—at the age of thirty—I might have to write about what it means to be an adult. Simply put, I hate labels. Not the kind that are on my white cardboard organizational boxes from IKEA, but the metaphorical kind that we place on human beings. For the record, I feel a bit of contempt for the neatly lettered words above each pull handle on the IKEA boxes as well. Do I put calligraphy pens in the Art box or the Ink box? Does the fact that I have organizational boxes for creative supplies make me an adult?