In a recent conversation, a young woman–not yet twenty but eager to get married despite her parents’ disapproval–articulated to me of her anxiousness to be grown-up. Her idea of being grown-up is of the white picket fence variety. (Mine involves more abstract concepts–like tediousness and responsibility.) But it’s probably not about being grown-up at all. Although I suspect this is the result of hormones and a religious upbringing, I’m not foolish enough to think that any advice I might give will have any weight. Yet, even though I’m of the opinion that people should have the freedom to make their own mistakes, I can’t help inwardly cringing about life altering decisions with a high probability of future grief.