There were five of us in the room and I was the youngest. The topic of discussion was what features distinguished millennials from Gen Z.

“Harry Potter,” one person suggested. “I remember lining up for the books as they were published and reading them overnight.”

“Wired broadband,” another chimed. Murmurs of agreement. I nodded my head too, remembering the first time I discovered WiFi and thinking it magic.

“Wait, when were you born?” All eyes turned to me.

“1998.” Gasps and snickers. “You’ve been talking like you’re one of us. But you’re a Gen Z!” Some people looked genuinely shocked. I was just as shocked as they were. Why was I being accused? Didn’t a millennial end at the year 2000? That’s what made sense to me given the name. But turns out the millennials are generally defined as being born between 1981 – 1996, which nudged me out.

My identity wobbled in that moment. I assumed my whole life that Gen Z – the generation defined by TikTok, extreme rates of depression, and short attention spans – were the generation below me. Finding myself part of this crowd, the one I had teased for so many years, seemed like a cosmic mistake. I realised then how much of a rude awakening being corrected can be.

“Don’t worry,” my friend said, noticing my shock. “We’ll accept you as an honorary member.”