Ode to Frontal Lobe Development (Or, Turning 25)

Plus an art piece by Amity Moon!

When my friend Shelby was approaching her 25th birthday, she proclaimed that her mind’s eye was flooded with epiphanies and realizations of a nearly preternatural genesis. That skeevy, lanky, artistically inclined beauty who carelessly teased her heart and toyed with her sense of stability? Unneeded, undeveloped, and uninteresting—especially in comparison to her. Relationship dynamic similarities seen between the generations of women in her family? A revolutionary insight and something to be aware of as she grows into the matriarch of her kin. It seemed that once a week, Shelby was bestowed some fruit of knowledge from the beyond, or an inch of thread that was to be woven in her own fabric of time and aging.

I thought it was hogwash for the most part—certainly nothing spiritual or miraculous or divine—certainly something that was to be explained by her encroaching biological maturity. I was 22, deep in the bowels of the depression dybbuk, and had little ability to see past my past, which painted the future as a grim continuity of woeful experiences. Any kind of womanly intuition had been choked out of me. A profound absence of any mind-body connection haunted my flesh and I envied those who had somehow learned to occupy and maintain this elusive state that I had yet to witness. My gut instincts, too, had been taken, and were certainly never taught as something to acknowledge.

But Shelby was held by a similar composition and battered capsule. She had never had it easy. She still doesn’t. But she is resilient, compassionate, and fiercely herself—traits that, along with our shared dysregulation and mutual ability to sniff out other fucked up people, attracted me to her in the first place.

I moved away from Shelby a bit after turning 23, but her musings were cemented and hopeful, even as my innate cynicism doubted any magic to occur as I grew. Is she right? Is it real? Is 25 truly the oasis? Or is it all but a mirage? Most would explain this virtuous turning of the tides as prefrontal cortex development rather than reaching some first noble stepping stone towards enlightenment, which is marked by better reasoning skills, impulse control, and social awareness. It does, however, seem that many of us never quite reach this, which partially explains the phenomena of man-babies and women trapped in their teens, though biological development is only one piece of the maturity puzzle. Untreated trauma, coddling, and too much ease in early life hinders one’s ability to anchor a foothold in the promised land of this date-and-honey-saccharine stage of life.

Plenty of other women in my life have foretold this mystical coming of age—this sacred frontal lobe development (or, they rung in their 25th birthday with 25 drinks, which I personally think is not something a developed brain would desire, as our decision making abilities are supposed to be a bit more refined, and this act is decidedly stupid). And, like with Shelby, I doubted them. I put the JUST WAIT ‘TIL YOU’RE DEVELOPED! line in the same camp as IT GETS BETTER!—a cliche that I loathed for 25 years and still believe to be a faith-based statement that is hard to grasp for those who are struggling to keep afloat.

With that being said, it kind of does get better. With development comes autonomy and self-agency—two things any adult needs to thrive (or, survive) in the world. Development also gives, as stated earlier, refined reasoning skills that even the already reasonable will come to appreciate. For myself, refined reasoning has played out most in my personal relationships. Despite being told countless times that certain friends were not really friends or were abusive in nature, I could not get past the idea that I serve a function for these people and I must be in their lives to help them and add enrichment. [Savioristic and inflated with self-importance? Yes. Objectifying myself into a teething toy or play-mat to grope and slobber pseudo-intellectual, bong-breathed nothingness to? Yes, indeed. I am more than aware, and always was].

“Twenty Five Years Old” by Amity Moon. March 2025. Ink, Watercolor, Graphite, Airbrush, and Digital Manipulation.

I cut off connections with three of my main shit-squeezes, and also had three friends die, none of which had felt or will feel the grace that comes at 25. The IT GETS BETTER prolonged leap-of-faith did not work for them. I now have a handful of friends who I consider to be close, but I wouldn’t have it any other way, and feel little desire to entertain anything that is less than golden. I am safe with my people, I trust them, and I value their brilliance and nuance and empathy. They are truly beautiful humans who I am lucky to share space and time with.

Because my circle is significantly smaller, I no longer feel a duty to give my energy to objectively cruel (but interesting and excitatory) connections—new and old—nor do I find myself tolerating carcinogenic behavior. Why would I? Why should you? We’ve been through enough. We do not have to be friends with everyone who gives us a thimble of attention. I try to trust my gut and listen to it, which is a newfound, fresh, enlivening conversation. Who would have thought that the salad days can continuously be found within the self? Typically, I have been aware of when people have been lying, manipulative, or callous, but I have denied that awareness from connecting with action out of fear of being rash or wrong. But why fear being wrong when your nervous system is trying to inform you? Why fear being wrong when the alternative is physical or psychological harm?

Then again, that’s me. Your personal experience may be dissimilar. Perhaps you were not robbed of your ability to cut your losses. Perhaps you were taught to alienate those who are deserving of alienation (or in more positive terms, taught to distance yourself from those who are not deserving of you).

The changes that came at 25 were obvious, somewhat painful, and profound. I say painful because the cataracts were lasered off without anesthetic by some revelatory hand; what I didn’t want to change became something that I was forced to change. My consumption habits and desires have, for the most part, been altered or erased. I’ve drank a few times in seven months. Any desire for a substance has been removed, minus my hankering for nicotine, but does that really count? (It does, but I wish it didn't). I don’t want my mind to be altered in any way. I don’t want to feel dissociative or unengaged; I want to be present, which is a rather unfamiliar hankering. I want to be in my body; to build a home within my capsule rather than flee it at any cost.

I get it now. I get what Shelby meant, what she felt. And though the causation is indeed biological, there is a very peculiar, spiritual warmth to it. There is a sense of guidedness that feels foreign—as if the universe is leading you down a path that was previously unseen—and it is a spectacular phenomenon to experience.

I don’t think that 25 is some holy landmark of aging, or the end all be all, or a period of time where everything is fixed. Aging and life don’t work out that way. But what I do know is that some things get easier, some things get harder, and the clarity that comes at 25 is beyond delightful. It is something to be savored after an era marked by angst and languishing. So I bear thanks to my dear frontal lobe, as I’ve waited so very long for things to become smoother, to get better.