Maturity is letting your inner kid be immature—intentionally

Bernadette Soriano

Sometimes, being an adult feels like being trapped in a showroom: perfectly arranged, always presentable, never allowed to spill. But what if the real measure of maturity isn’t restraint, composure, or flawless performance but the audacity to let yourself be consciously, deliciously immature?

A few months ago, I deliberately skipped a family obligation to spend an entire day ensconced in bed, binge-watching a trashy reality show. No multitasking. No “productive background noise” while folding laundry. Nothing but pure, unadulterated couch-potato indulgence. Had anyone called, I would have lied: “I’m not feeling well.” For the simple reason that “I chose to waste my day” is not considered a valid adult excuse.

And yet, somewhere between episodes five and seven, a quiet revelation settled over me: I wasn’t collapsing under the weight of idleness; I was, in fact, breathing. For so long, I had been running on discipline—showing up punctually, choosing my words with painstaking care, ironing my voice so it would not wrinkle under scrutiny—that my brain had come to mistake relentless performance for security. That day, I allowed a deliberate breach in the dam.

And in doing so, I realized that rest, pleasure, and indulgence are not dangers to be resisted, but rather conditions without which a life cannot be whole.

We are taught, almost religiously, to regard immaturity as a contaminant, a flaw to purge as soon as we “know better.” But psychology, in its subtlety, offers a more nuanced perspective: the concept of ego flexibility, the capacity to oscillate between control and release without losing one’s core, suggests that the opposite of maturity is not immaturity but rigidity.

That true growth is not the absence of chaos otherwise than the ability to move fluidly through it.

Consider the contrast: the callow sixteen-year-old me would binge-watch in procrastination-fueled guilt, an essay due at midnight looming like a specter; the twenty-year-old me did so deliberately, fully cognizant that I could handle the consequences. Chosen immaturity, then, is not the collapse of self-regulation. It is a recalibration of it.

It is knowing, without a shred of doubt, that I can engage, withdraw, and return without dismantling the core of who I am.

I encounter the same principle in memory of an impulsive, brutally honest chat I once sent to someone important to me — a message I would previously have dissected and rewoven to avoid imperfection. Reckless, unfiltered, incongruous with the carefully curated self I had long cultivated. The reply was not as I had hoped. Yet rather than dissolve into shame, I shrugged. That shrug was maturity donning the mask of immaturity: the freedom to be clumsy without dismantling self-worth.

The freedom to be imperfect and still intact.

Inner-child integration demonstrates that suppressing “immature” instincts: petty jealousy, unashamed pleasure, goofy humor—does not erase them; it merely drives them underground, where they leak in ways more destructive than indulgence would have been. The occasional, conscious indulgence in what superficially resembles regression functions as emotional pressure release: a controlled burn before the forest fire of unprocessed impulse.

Of course, there is risk. True immaturity can fracture relationships, sabotage goals, and destabilize routines.

Yet maturity affords the discernment to select where immaturity may safely reside. 

It is the difference between skipping a minor meeting and rupturing a relationship; between splurging on a memorable trip and maxing out a credit card on ephemeral whims.

It is the difference between wielding freedom and being consumed by it.

I sometimes wonder whether we have conflated adulthood with public relations, curating ourselves to appear tidy, composed, and “on brand,” when in reality those who never permit themselves immaturity are often the very ones who shatter when life inevitably pulls the rug.

A self never allowed to spill cannot adapt to mess.

A self never allowed to play cannot truly innovate, cannot truly recover, cannot truly enjoy the quiet pleasure of being alive.

So yes, maturity may manifest as ordering dessert before dinner, yet it can also appear pettier: skipping the gym out of spite for a bad day; frivolous, spending an entire paycheck on something shiny while knowing you will live on instant noodles for a week; or unflattering, admitting jealousy, sulking for an 

afternoon, and then moving on without converting the feeling into a permanent personality trait.

Each act, small or absurd, is a calibration of boundaries, a quiet experiment in self-knowledge.

Psychologists term this adaptive modulation: the capacity to dial down composure without relinquishing the essence of who you are. It does not glamorize recklessness; it refuses to mistake stiffness for strength.

It is not perfection—it is poise in motion, resilience in flexibility, grace in imperfection.

Ultimately, the only individuals capable of true immaturity are those who have constructed sufficient stability to endure it. Such maturity does not resemble perfection. It resembles freedom.

The freedom to color outside the lines, secure in the knowledge that when the moment passes, you can wipe the table clean, reassemble the order, and walk away with the lessons, the laughter, and the lingering taste of dessert forward.