The thought hit me one day, and just like every other typical ‘Sunday Scaries’ thought, it was taking its sweet time to leave. For most of the day, that statement continually circled around my mind as I tried to wash it away with overpriced matcha and . After a while, I gave up trying to ignore it and instead decided to play detective in my own mind, figuring out where this existentially-charged realisation came from.
The thought inevitably came from one of my previous jobs, where the environment was plagued by severe bullying from my boss — screaming fits in the office, consistent underpayment, and other such delights. It reached a point where the toxicity of my job caused me to stop eating and sleeping entirely. For months, I couldn’t figure out if the chest pain I felt every day when I entered the office was crippling anxiety or my neglected asthma — probably both, in retrospect.
I would often find myself staring up at the ceiling at 3am, thinking, ‘What am I even doing with my life?’ I had worked so incredibly hard during my degree and made so many sacrifices to get the dream opportunity. When I finally did, the reality was a nightmare, far from the dreams I had envisioned. It felt like all my hard work and relentless effort accounted for nothing.
Then, on another day at my favourite café, I was struggling to finish a book when I ran into two friends. In our unplanned catch-up, they told me their exciting news of their upcoming couples trip together — with the casual locations being , , and . Jokingly, I quipped that I’d appreciate postcards, to which my friend replied with a teasing yet slightly cutting remark: “At least we don’t have to worry about remembering your address, because we know you’ll still be here.
” In that moment, I immediately felt like a cliché — the typical tale of an overworked, underpaid, creative, and I knew he was right. I would indeed still be here. There were no grand plans for me, no sampling Moroccan cuisine, dancing in Amsterdam, or Spanish fiestas on the horizon.
Just an endless cycle of work, paying off debts, stressing over skyrocketing energy bills, and more work. I just wish I’d been warned more, instead of listening to Healthy Harold drone on about the major food groups every year as a child. I understand why I wasn’t, though.
What parent wants to shatter a child’s sparkly facade of childhood by saying, ‘Hey bud, this great thing you’ve got going? It definitely won’t last.’ Now in my twenties, the Barbies are gone, and all these moments feel like gulping down doses of bitter reality medicine — without the spoonful of sugar to help it go down. Granted, it wasn’t all bleak; I had a roof over my head, albeit an expensive one in a city known as the poster child for the rising cost of living crisis.
My family was happy and healthy and I had amazing friendships. So why did I still feel this way? I didn’t think your twenties would look like this When I was younger, I dreamed about my twenties. I imagined a mortgage-free, spacious house, cruising around in a sleek car to a job that saved the world, and finding my one true love to live our grown-up lives happily ever after.
Little did I know that when I reached my twenties, I wouldn’t become the version of myself I always imagined. Instead of evolving into a fully realised, accomplished adult with all the expected milestones, I became someone quite different. I became an adult who bounces their left leg incessantly when anxious, who harbours a secret crush on their older (probably married) doctor, and who lies awake at night worrying about wasting their potential at a mind-numbing 9-to-5 job.
I became an adult who makes horrific hairstyle choices and frequently says, “I don’t even care,” when I really do. I became an adult who finds intimacy by “matching” with strangers online and Googles how to remove keratosis pilaris from their ass. I became an adult who doomscrolls on Instagram and gets agitated at yet another happy couple engagement post.
I became an adult who worries that they don’t have what it takes to be a good mother one day and panics when asked to provide a “fun fact about yourself” at corporate workshops. I became an adult who thinks about getting back with their ex and uses Uber Eats far too much despite having a fridge full of food. I became an adult who can’t afford to buy a house and has genuinely started to believe they never will.
Amid all this madness, I became an adult who does not have the answer to the most pressing question of all: who am I, and what do I want for my life? Is anyone else feeling this way? At times, I feel like I’m trapped in my own “woe is me” complex, convinced that everyone else has it all figured out. It was as if I had missed the TED Talk on how to nail your twenties, and the ambivalence and success of the other twenty-somethings who surround me seem so far out of reach. To find the salve to soothe my hurt, I did what any hedonistic, self-absorbed writer would do: I asked everyone—my friends, family, strangers on the internet — the question I so desperately needed answers to: is anyone else feeling this way? I was told so many stories.
Stories of bad dates and being fired. Of fading friendships and family fallouts. Of moving away and crying in Ubers.
Of losing best friends and buying $100 bags of groceries. Of promotions deserved but never offered. Of long text message breakups and awful one-night stands.
Of struggles with sexuality and redundancies. Of burning bridges and not knowing how to ask for help. Of house robberies and nightmare roommates.
Of mental health struggles and unplanned interventions. Of having no money and losing loved ones. Of being the tokenistic single friend and overdue diagnoses.
Of unrequited love and male colleagues earning more money. Of being ghosted again and life-threatening travel stories. Of growing debt and inappropriate workplace relationships.
Of homesickness and cancelling unaffordable therapy. Of corporate burnout and sleeping on couches. Of being the cheater and the cheated on.
From lying, trying, failing, and crying — there’s misery in the twenties. But then there were happy stories. Stories of messy drunken nights and sunrise swims.
Of stupid stick-and-poke tattoos and screaming songs in the car. Of Aperol Spritz-fuelled nights and passionate sex. Of being ready to come out and four-day festivals.
Of midnight Uber Eats with friends and travels around the world. Of kissing in cars and graduating university. Of romantic dates and Sunday morning recaps.
Of dancing on coffee tables and getting engaged. Of learning to compromise and never-ending house parties. Of new friendships and getting the opportunity of a lifetime.
Of book clubs and long phone calls. Of inside jokes and nighttime skinny dipping. Of road trips and conquering fears.
Of surprise birthday parties and bingeing reality TV. Of hostel friendships and becoming a parent for the first time. Of secret crushes on your best friend and booking one-way flights.
Of expensive dinners and quiet nights in. Of bathroom gossiping and European summers. Of being brave enough to say “I love you” for the first time and the feeling when you hear it back.
From winning, learning, laughing, and living — there’s magic in the twenties. Hearing other twentysomethings’ stories and struggles soothed me during this head-spinning, self-critical phase and made me realise something crucial. Amidst my spiralling, head-noisy thoughts about life, filled with insecurities and negative projections of my future, I forgot to appreciate the inherent beauty in acknowledging that none of us really have it all figured out, and that’s okay.
The magic lies in embracing the madness, or as my now-favourite author so perfectly writes, “It’s okay not to know where you’re going; course correction is part of the journey. Knowledge and ignorance are intertwined, with the latter often preceding the former. There’s profound freedom in changing your mind.
” Ultimately, I now realise that it’s both a privilege and a gift to be given the chance to figure it all out..
