By Aissata Sylla

Adulting is a scam. I mean, why do we need to pay never ending bills, make decisions for ourselves and have jobs? I often joke about this, but in all seriousness, my entry into adulthood was not the dreamy experience that I had signed up for.

I was one of those kids who was excited to grow up. I found adulthood, so cool. I probably watched a little too much TV, so I could not wait for my life to be as cool as Rachel’s was in Friends or Serena’s was in Gossip Girl. As an Ivorian, it is very common for people who can afford it to pursue their secondary education abroad. So, the plan was always clear. I would graduate high school, leave home, move somewhere in North America or Europe, and finally live a grown up life. My own place, a fun group of friends, glamorous parties and fabulous outfits… The ultimate dream.

But on July 10th,2012, adulthood came knocking on the door, a little earlier than planned.

I remember that day so clearly, especially the sound of laughter, echoing in the apartment at the crisp dawn. I was with my mom, my 2 younger siblings, our nanny Espe, and my grandma. At the time, I was helping my family move to Nairobi, while I prepared for my own move to Canada to attend college. After a few days in Nairobi and countless house visits, we had finally found their new home and signed a lease. Mission accomplished! We could now go home to Abidjan and enjoy the last few weeks of the summer. Oddly enough, every flight that day was full and my family had to split up for the trip back. Espe and my siblings would leave first, while the rest of us would fly out the next day.. God knows that I have never been a morning person, but I woke up early that morning to say goodbye. My siblings teased me about all the good food they were going to eat before me and I teased them about how bored they would be without me. We laughed and kissed goodbye.

I spent the rest of that day at home bored as my grandma monopolized the TV with her telenovelas while my mother was at the office. In the early afternoon, someone rang the doorbell. Who could it possibly be? Mom was at work and we didn't know anyone else in Nairobi. I ran to the door.

"Who's there?"

“It's your downstairs neighbor.”

Curiosity led me to open the door to a confusing scene—my mom collapsed on the floor, crying uncontrollably.

"I found her like that in the parking lot, and all I could gather is that she lives here," my neighbor remarked before leaving..

Because the women in my life are very dramatic, my grandma proceeded to join my mom in tears and I watched cluelessly while two grown women cried in front of me. Eventually, my mother found the strength to speak and repeated over and over again, "Espe is gone, Espe is gone."

It took a moment before finally dawning on me that Espe was dead.

It would be inaccurate to describe Espe as just my nanny. She exists in all of my childhood memories; coming into my family when I was 2 years old and raising us the last 15 years of her life. She traveled the continent with us, whether we were escaping a civil war or chasing better opportunities. She was the parental figure we spent the most time with, as both of our parents worked and traveled often. She was the best cook that I knew and to this day, I still crave her meals. She was a mother to me, she was family.

At that point of my life, I equated growing up to the conventional expectations that society had attached to it: getting a degree, working, getting married, and having kids. As I clumsily make my way through these steps, I realize that the core of adulting lies in the humble acceptance of our limitations as humans and the fact that very often, life will feel like a puzzle with missing pieces. Processing the loss of Espe marked the beginning of this acceptance journey. Indeed, I was raised to believe in logic, study hard for good grades, exercise for health, and pray for blessings. So how was I now supposed to make sense of the sudden death of a healthy 35 year old? I took refuge in faith and spirituality, as surrendering to a higher figure is the only way I have found to make sense of the unexplainable.

Acceptance may be the entry to adulthood, but developing healthy coping mechanisms became my key to surviving it. There is no playbook for grief, and no way to prepare for it. We avoid talking about death, and when we do, we feel the urge to rush through the topic. The shyness that we have around this only certainty of life is intriguing, but more importantly needs to be unlearned. No level of conversation could have alleviated the piercing pain that I felt when seeing Espe in a coffin or the guilt I carried when realizing, over time, that I was starting to forget the sound of her voice. But I can't help but imagine all the different ways in which I could have handled that pain differently if I had just talked about it… 10 years later, I am still learning to cope. Not only with grief (spoiler alert: I'm still new to this, but it's looking like a lifelong journey), but also with all the other sneaky little pains of this adult life, from anxiety to intergenerational trauma. I am learning to find coziness in vulnerability and discomfort. I am also learning to pay attention to what appeases my soul. For now talking, writing, praying, moving my body and listening to music seem to be a step in the right direction, but I know that with time, these will change and evolve.

In the meantime, as dark as it may sound, I live in the expectation of death. In August of 2019, I lost a brother in a car accident and was once again violently reminded that death is deprived of all logic, and does not spare anyone. So I live in fear of losing my loved ones, and in conscience of my own eventual passing. Daily, I ask myself questions that guide most of my actions. How would I feel if I were to die tomorrow? Would I be happy with the life I lived? Would I have regrets? And if I were to lose another loved one, would they have known how dearly I loved them? Those questions can be seens as a source of anxiety, but in practice, they fuel a constant pursuit of laughter, enjoyment and peace of mind. To sum it up, I live life with a sense of urgency, because tomorrow is not guaranteed.