Just recently, I said farewell to my ripped-jeans, red solo cup and somewhat carefree teenage angst years. Twenty fiery flames danced around my cake, and it was hitting me: I was no longer the teeny bopper I once was. I was no longer haggling my parents for money; I have my own job and finances. I was no longer rolling out of bed at 1 p.m.; I have places to be hours before, and all those super sugary juices I used to slurp down have now been replaced by large dark roast coffees.

Fifteen is long gone. I’ve retired from texting my BFF till 3 a.m. about some cute boy who might just be the love of my life, or gossiping about who's hooking up with who. Less time is spent in the mirror painting my eyes in excessive “black gunk," glossing my lips and practically taking a second shower in some obnoxious fruity aroma. Not to mention, more dress pants and professional attire have moved into my closet, kicking out its former tenants -- the graphic tees, the skin-tight shorts and anything and everything Hollister.

I spend my mornings checking emails, skimming the news and downing my choice cup of brew.

And my walls? Never do I dress my walls in glossy boy band posters anymore. And I’ve come to the sad conclusion that I won’t be the next “Mrs. Timberlake” or “Mrs. Efron."

And while I still strive to maintain a certain appearance, I am no longer seeking to be popular or cool. In high school, I always tried to squeeze my way into the “In-crowd," “the popular table” or all the assortment of cliques. I gave into peer pressure, I kept up on the latest trends to fit in and I constantly worried about what others thought about me. And while I still crave respect from my peers (just not as much), I try even harder to impress all the esteemed adults, professors, managers and officials who have entered my life in the last five years.

Furthermore, I find myself reaching for an apple instead of an Oreo, allotting a large portion of my paycheck into savings instead of splurging at Forever 21, and I hate to say it, but arriving 15 minutes early is now what I consider being on time (Oh dear, do I sound like my mother?).

I am still a millennial of course, my music is still obnoxiously loud, and my near-and-dear iPhone is still one of my favorite accessories, and yes indeed, I still spend too much time glued to that rinky-dink LED screen (darn social media apps). But while I wish I could still be dominating in Words with Friends, re-blogging countless “hipster” pics on Tumblr, and crafting silly pointless tweets, Gmail, Google Maps, LinkedIn, and The New York Times app have also found a home on my smartphone.

Being 20 is, well, weird. And while my trek into adulthood technically started two years earlier and two fewer candles ago, I still had the word teen in my age. EighTEEN. Never again can I say that I’m a teen. I’m 20. TWENTY. And in this next decade of my life I hope to start my career, move into my own apartment, and find another soul to share my life with.

While being 15, 16, 17, and even sometimes 18 and 19 was definitely less stressful, times where I could lounge around in my PJ’s all day eating Cool Ranch Doritos while watching “Glee," I love how I can do so many things for myself now. I couldn’t drive at 15, I didn’t have money to pay bills and no one would have taken me seriously in my Jonas Brothers phase (yikes).

Yes, I could sleep in, hang out with my friends more and do more reckless things covered by the excuse of “oh she’s just young." But I wasn’t independent, and I relied on my parents and others for basically everything. I’ll miss the teenage days and having fewer responsibilities. I’ll miss being 15 but I’m beyond excited to begin the next decade of my life.

Bottom line is, my voice still stutters when I’m on the phone ordering a pepperoni pie, yet I’ve conducted interviews with experts while interning, and I’ve stepped my foot (no longer laced in Converse sneakers) into the professional working world. The adult world. The world that 15 year old me would tremble in, would want to leave and would call her mom to come pick her up. But 20 year old me is here to stay. I am no longer a teen. I am no longer obsessed with concert tickets and glitter eye-shadow and I may be scared as hell of what the future holds, but I’ve taken off my life-jacket and I’m ready to dive into the next decade.