As kids, adulthood seemed exciting and glamorous. One movie scene, music video, or song could make life feel big and incredible, and suddenly, we had our futures imagined. We thought growing up meant freedom and independence. We believed we would finally live the life we dreamed about. Back then, it felt so easy to believe adulthood would just happen the way we pictured it.

But when it actually arrived, it felt like stepping into a completely different world. A lot of us—especially those who became adults right as everything shut down—didn’t just feel disappointed. We felt robbed. 

I grew up hearing my mom talk about her 20s: the fun she had, the risks she took, the mistakes that taught her, and the memories she made while trying to figure life out. I listened to all of it, thinking that if I just absorbed everything she was telling me, I’d be ready. I thought I could learn the lessons early and walk into adulthood with a head start.

Then I turned 18, and everything changed. COVID hit, the world paused, and the economy collapsed—and, let’s be honest, it has only gotten worse. The adult life we imagined wasn’t just delayed; it disappeared entirely. The “real world” that older generations described felt like something we’d missed out on entirely, like we were thrown into adulthood during the worst possible version of it.

 

There’s a unique kind of fear that hits people in their early 20s: the fear that you’re already behind, that you’re failing before you’ve even had the chance to try. It feels like there’s a clock counting down, and no matter how hard you work, you can’t catch up.

By the time I finished college, burnout had already set in. Those four chaotic years were filled with constant pressure and moments of joy swallowed by stress. Starting adulthood from a place of exhaustion sets the tone for everything that follows. 

Coming from an immigrant family only amplified that pressure. I grew up hearing “do better than we did,” so every decision I made became a strategy for my future self. I sacrificed my present self endlessly just to feel like I was setting up the future one correctly. And still, I would ask myself, Is this enough? Could I be doing more? What else do I need to do?

Then college ended, but the stress didn’t stop. It just amplified.

 

I was lucky enough to secure a full-time job right after graduation—a feeling that almost felt like winning the lottery. But my relief wasn’t because I “made it” or because I accomplished a goal. It came from finding stability in a world where so many my age are still searching for. Even a year out, countless graduates are struggling to get a job; struggling to navigate an economy that feels stacked against them.

 

The dreams we had don’t match the world we live in today because the world we live in today is about surviving, not thriving.

Rent is at an all-time high. Groceries are expensive. Bills are insane. The housing market feels unreachable. Jobs want five-plus years of experience from people who just graduated. It’s a constant cycle of trying to prove yourself while barely staying afloat. Most of us aren’t working the jobs we dreamed of—we’re working the jobs we need. And those jobs take everything from us until burnout becomes the default setting.

The dreams I had when I was younger—marriage, kids, stability, a career I loved—look completely different now. Marriage? I can’t even imagine it. Kids? I can barely take care of myself. The idea of a “dream job” feels so distant when you’re living paycheck to paycheck, doing everything in your power just to survive another month. I like my life, but I’d love it more if it didn’t feel like a daily battle to keep my head above water.

Older generations had their struggles, yes. But if they lived through what young adults are experiencing right now, would they still call us lazy, weak, or entitled? Would they finally understand the pressure of being in your 20s in a world that feels heavier every year?

Because that’s the truth: young adults today are having a quarter-life crisis that feels like a midlife crisis. We’re questioning who we are. We’re losing confidence. We feel like impostors in our own lives, pretending to be okay, pretending to have it together, pretending we’re not constantly overwhelmed. And all of this is happening before many of us have even hit 25.

We’re stuck between the life we dreamed of and the life we must choose to survive. We want joy, adventures, and a sense of purpose. But we also want stability. Sometimes, it feels like we have to choose one or the other—we can’t have both. But still, we keep trying. We keep showing up with the crappy cards we were dealt.

Some days it feels like nothing will change. We shouldn’t feel this burnt out this early. We shouldn’t feel like we’ve lived an entire lifetime of stress before we even hit 30.

But this is the era we’re living in. The era where young adults are fighting to build a future while barely making it through the present. An era where identity, stability, dreams, and reality are all clashing with one another. The era where surviving has replaced living.

And still, we’re doing our best. Even if it doesn’t feel like enough. Even if we don’t feel like enough.

Because the truth is, we’re not behind. We’re not failing. We’re navigating adulthood in one of the hardest times to be young—and we’re still standing.

And here’s the thing I keep reminding myself, and what I want everyone in their 20s to hear: you’re not alone in this. You’re not the only one who feels behind, or lost, or like adulthood isn’t matching the version you hoped for. So many of us feel like we’re constantly trying to catch up to a life that keeps changing faster than we can adjust. So many of us feel like we’re pretending, like we’re tired before life has even started, like we’re carrying so many responsibilities we never had time to grow into.

And even though it feels heavy, I want to believe there’s hope for us. I want to believe the trajectory can shift—that the chaos we grew up in won’t be the blueprint for the rest of our lives. I want us to reach a point where we can make choices because they make us happy, not because we’re trying to survive. Where we have space to breathe, to enjoy life, to feel proud of ourselves without the pressure of being “perfect.”

Recently, I came across a TikTok where someone joked, 'Can we make 2026 feel like 2016 again?'” And honestly, I laughed cause I understood exactly what they meant. There’s this sort of unspoken agreement that 2016 was a good year. I was in eighth grade, and it was one of the happiest, most carefree years of my life. Sometimes I think about that version of myself and wonder if I’ll ever feel that way again.

I want 2026 to feel present, and not nostalgic. I want to say, 'It feels good to feel this way again,' rather than reminiscing about the 'good old days'. I want 2026 to be a year where we don’t just survive—we enjoy our lives. Where we feel proud, grounded, connected, and hopeful about what’s ahead.

And I really do hope that 2026 becomes that year for all of us.