It’s funny—after writing that last post and hitting publish, I felt a strange sense of calm. Like I finally let something out that I’d been quietly carrying for too long.
And while I didn’t promise a comeback plan, I did say I’d be showing up again… slowly.
So here I am, writing another post I wasn’t sure I’d ever get around to—because, if I’m being honest, I thought I’d have it all figured out by now.
Anyway, I don’t know who planted the idea, but somewhere along the way, I started believing I was supposed to have it all figured out by now. I really thought by the time I hit 29, I’d be someone who knew. Knew what I wanted. Knew how to get there. Knew how to be an adult, properly. I used to imagine that by now I’d have a stable career that made perfect sense, a schedule I could actually stick to, enough savings to feel “secure,” and maybe even a place of my own (with white walls, cute mugs, and organized drawers). I thought I’d be living some kind of structured life that looked like growth charts and checklists.
But instead, I’ve found myself in a slower, quieter version of adulthood. One that looks less like progress and more like pausing. One that feels less like arriving and more like wandering. Still learning. Still trying. Still very much in the middle.
And honestly? It’s not as scary as I used to think it would be.
If you read my last post, you know this slower season wasn’t really planned. It just… happened. Work slowed down. Deadlines disappeared. And suddenly, I had time again—something I hadn’t truly felt in years. Not the rushed, in-between kind of time. But real, actual time.
Time to think.
To sit with myself.
To realize I’d been running on autopilot for far too long.
And in the stillness, I started hearing all the “shoulds” I’d been carrying:
I should be more accomplished by now.
I should know my direction.
I should have it together—whatever that means.
But… what if I don’t?
What if I’m just here—half certain, half lost, quietly doing my best?
It reminds me a little of the rhythm of this week: Good Friday, Black Saturday, and Easter Sunday.
Good Friday is the heartbreak—the moment when things fall apart and don’t make sense. Black Saturday is the silence, the waiting, the part where you’re not sure what’s next. And Easter Sunday? It’s the quiet rising. Not always dramatic or loud, but hopeful.
This season I’m in—this slower, uncertain version of life—feels like my own Black Saturday. I haven’t “risen” yet in the way the world might expect. But I’m here, holding space, learning to trust that just like Easter always comes, maybe clarity will too.
And there’s this invisible race happening all the time—on social media, in catch-ups with old friends, even in random conversations with relatives. It’s the race to “get there. Where “there” is depends on who you’re talking to. But for most of us, it sounds like:
A stable job title.
A ring or a baby (or both).
A life that looks like it’s working.
I’ve realized how heavy that invisible timeline can be. We don’t always see it, but we feel it:
The pressure to be somewhere by a certain age.
The fear of being left behind.
The guilt of not having a “clear direction.”
But the truth is, life isn’t linear. Some people bloom at 25. Some at 35. Some at 60. Some reinvent themselves again and again. And that’s okay.
And maybe… we don’t need to figure it all out.
Maybe what we need is permission—to just be where we are.
Maybe being 29 can look like becoming, not arriving. In between. Uncertain. Trying.
I used to think “figuring it out” meant having all the answers. Now I think it means learning how to be okay with not knowing.
These days, I’m trying to:
- Hold space for the in-between.
- Give myself grace for the days that don’t look productive.
- Redefine what success feels like—not just what it looks like.
Because sometimes, the biggest shift isn’t in what changes outside, but in what softens inside.
If you’re in a similar season—feeling a little stuck, a little unsure—I hope this post reaches you in the right way.
You’re not behind. You’re not broken. You’re just here. And here is still worth something.
You’re not alone. You’re not failing. You’re just living your way through it.
So no, I don’t have it all figured out. But I’m learning to show up anyway. I’m learning to trust the slow days. To be gentle with my questions. To believe that becoming takes time—and that maybe we never fully arrive, anyway.
If you're in your twenties and you feel like you're fumbling through it—me too. But hey, we’re still here. Still becoming. And for now, that’s enough.
π€
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