Turns out, your frontal lobe, the part of your brain responsible for decision-making,
emotional regulation, boundaries, and not texting back toxic people, doesn’t fully
develop until your mid-to-late twenties. At 21, it’s still wiring itself together, which
might explain why I recently stopped romanticising chaos and started craving peace.
It’s not just growth; it’s biology in action. My emotional regulation didn’t ghost me, it
just arrived fashionably late.
The frontal lobe is basically your brain’s CEO. It’s in charge of long-term planning,
risk assessment, impulse control, and, crucially, boundaries. It’s what helps you say
no when you mean no, walk away when something feels off, and realise that peace
isn’t boring, it’s underrated.
This slow-but-steady maturation explains a lot. Like why, a few years ago, I might
have spent more energy managing how people perceived me than how they treated
me. Or why I used to second-guess myself constantly, tolerate bad behaviour, and
avoid confrontation in the name of “keeping the peace”, even when that peace
wasn’t mine.
Most recently, this shift became painfully obvious in the aftermath of a friendship
fallout where, I felt forced to take a step back and think about my own values and
boundaries and how I want and deserve to be treated. Sometimes, friendships don’t
end over one dramatic moment, they gradually erode and unravel because your
values no longer align. That was the case for me. At first, I brushed off the red flags.
But eventually, I had to admit I was excusing things I would never accept from
anyone else. Over time, I found myself questioning not just how I was treated, but
what I was being asked to excuse: gaslighting, racist remarks passed off as “jokes,”
hostility when I expressed discomfort, and passive-aggressive manipulation that left
me drained. All of it began to wear me down. When I tried to speak up, I was met
with defensiveness and blame. Eventually, I had to ask myself: if this wasn’t okay in
a stranger, why was I tolerating it in a friend?
As a lifelong overthinker and people-pleaser, walking away felt unnatural – even
disloyal. But something had changed. I no longer felt guilty for needing respect. I
didn’t feel proud of the fallout, but I did feel proud of myself. The decision didn’t come
from anger but from clarity. That friendship no longer reflected my values, and
staying silent felt like complicity.
Ending a friendship isn’t easy, especially one with shared history. But the emotional
toll of staying in something that made me feel small was far greater. It wasn’t about
holding a grudge. It was about honouring my boundaries and the kind of person I
want to be. Since then, I’ve felt lighter. Not because the decision was easy, but
because I know it was right. I feel more in tune with myself and my values now more
than ever.
After confiding in friends this seems to be a common third-year experience – a shift in
dynamics that alters how we see ourselves, our friendships, and what we value. This
is not to say that I am feeling like a mature, grown adult now, in fact incredibly less
so. Just that the feelings of having to care or owing someone else my time and
patience have shifted. In a way this has given myself more leeway and leniency in
my own self-esteem and how I view myself.
I think that as university students we don’t give ourselves enough credit to how
formative this experience is. Balancing new opportunities, assignments, friendships
and a complete upheaval of your old self in a new place and lifestyle. University is
chaotic; socially, emotionally, and existentially. University forces these realisations on
you in subtle but seismic ways. Friendships shift, values sharpen, and somewhere
between missed lectures, late-night breakdowns, and unexpected joy, you realise
who you’re not. And that can be just as valuable as figuring out who you are.
I used to think “maturity” meant being a calendar-using, meal-prepping, 10k-running
version of myself with a neutral-toned Pinterest flat. Gone are the days where I am
attempting to force my irreversibly Type B self into a Type A functioning rigidly
organised life for the sake of aesthetic or to wave about a Stanley cup. Spoiler: I am
none of those things. But what I am is someone learning to trust herself. To value
peace over performance. I value substance over spectacle. The social conventions
that once held me hostage to politeness, perfectionism, and passive tolerance –
they’re shrinking by the day.
I look back to my first-year self and think about how proud she would be to have
achieved what she has. Irrespective of grades, opportunities and changes, but for
learning to set boundaries and finding the courage to speak up for what she believes
in. Three years on she has finally (although not always) started to value her own
opinion and boundaries. If I could speak to my first-year self, the one who twisted
herself into knots for people who wouldn’t flinch for her, I’d say: you did it. You
learned to say no. You learned that not every relationship deserves your endurance.
You started choosing your own voice over someone else’s comfort. And that matters.
So maybe it’s neuroscience. Maybe it’s hard-won wisdom. Maybe it’s just time. Either
way, I’m not apologising for outgrowing chaos, or the people who thrive in it.
I no longer accept terms and conditions I didn’t agree to.