As I write this, I hover somewhere around 40,000 feet over the Atlantic en route to Florida. The trip is unexpected, I will not be tanning on the beach, and it comes at a most inopportune time, but with adulthood comes such responsibility.

My grandmother had a fall and while in relatively good shape for someone in their eighties who spent a few days on a floor, is likely no longer able live on her own. In normal circumstances, my parents would have already been down there (this unfolded on Monday night) and be well on their way to taking care of things, but circumstances are not normal and they’re not in the best situation to be providing the necessary support.

After a day of folks doing a lot of talking and not much happening (nobody should be alone in a hospital for days on end until a social worker gives us word that something needs to happen), I took the reins, bought a plane ticket, and will be taking care of things.

At age 29, I feel this is a truly large step in life. I normally tackle things head-on and sleep like a rock no matter what lies ahead, but the thought of being fully responsible for another adult’s well-being and care is entirely new, admittedly very scary, and kept me up most of the night. Our entire lives we are taught the very basics of life so that when we’re suddenly out on our own, we are able to function; we all watched mom cook and clean, and lo and behold, we were able to fumble our way through both the first time we tried. I suppose the same goes for care of another, but there is also something about it that feels very different.

In a bit over an hour I land and truly begin this adventure. I think I’m ready for it. I hope I’m ready for it. I know I’m ready for it; I’m an adult now.