When I was a child, my concept of being grown up was nothing short of glamorous, involving a lot of poise and knowledge of purpose. High school graduation came and went, and while I like to think I at least had fewer tantrums post-diploma, the magical calm of adulthood eluded me through Stanford. One degree later, I write to you with the limited wisdom of having struggled through 12 finals weeks but otherwise still lacking this calm.

My childhood conception of adulthood was perhaps unrealistic. I thought that my struggles and mild hysteria would abate to make room for wisdom and competence. I am not quite a real adult, but my hypothesis? I was wrong. The feeling of being a little bit lost will probably follow me around the rest of my life, but it’s not devastating. It reminds me to be pleasant to others who feel the same way, and sometimes, it occasionally lands me in ridiculous situations.

There was that one time that I got locked in the pantry of an empty mansion, for example. A little background—my summer internship provided housing in the form of host families. While I spent my days toiling, non-profit-style, I spent my nights in a huge house, the guest of a generous family. They went on vacation at one point, leaving me to fend for myself (with the help of a full-time housekeeper) and keep their pets alive. I was a college graduate and had at least shown myself to be moderately independent for short periods at a time, so I was not particularly worried about my well-being.

Then, I locked myself in the pantry.

I got home late, after my program’s version of Back to School Night, which, for a student teacher, felt like a big exam. I was exhausted after a harrowing 14-hour work day, the last several hours of which were spent attempting to speak Spanish, a language in which I can comfortably state, “My name is Jade” and “It is cold outside,” speak at length about global warming and nothing else.

I had prioritized keeping the pets alive, however, so I diligently let the dogs in and went to give them dinner. I walked into the pantry with two dog bowls, scooped the first serving and heard the pantry door shut behind me. Then, I heard the doorknob fall out.

I tapped the door to make sure it had, in fact, shut. It had. I managed to curtail the hysterical crying, but I did get dizzy with panic and drive all rational thought from my mind. I banged on the door pathetically, wondering if perhaps a neighbor might hear me, or that the dogs might magically know how to put the door back together. No luck.

My palms tingling, I sat down on the floor and started to evaluate my situation. I realized the housekeeper would come in approximately 12 hours, so at least I wouldn’t die. I tried shutting my eyes and sitting to ascertain the likelihood of my falling asleep in there, given my state of exhaustion. My rational thought left me, however, when I realized I might have to pee.

Thus began another round of banging pathetically on the door, attempting to break it down. This time, I did not maturely refrain from throwing a crying fit. I did have a brief interlude of shrewd rational calculation during which I tried to decide if I would actually go insane trapped in the pantry and weighed the cost of my impending psychiatric bills with the cost of repairing the pantry door. This analysis was inconclusive, but it didn’t matter, because my nonexistent upper body strength was absolutely no match for the solid, solid door.

Defeated, I somehow found calm again and realized I was not playing to my strengths. While I am decidedly non-athletic, I do play “Escape From This Room” flash games with alarming frequency. I used my fingernails to unscrew the rest of the doorknob and a kebab to push out the other pieces. Miraculously, I managed to puzzle out how the doorknob worked and used a can and a dog leash to open it. It was literally the most James Bond thing I have ever done and likely will ever do.

I wept with happiness upon escaping from the pantry and also subsequently developed major paranoia about that little room.

My child self would have scoffed that my 22-year-old self could manage to get herself trapped in a pantry, but I have come to expect and almost embrace these little hiccups. It might be less than sophisticated, but ultimately, I would choose the storytelling-fodder life anytime—but not having the choice makes it that much better.

Trapped in a tiny room? Jade’s got some tips for survival. E-mail her at [email protected].