Not too long ago, I felt completely lost.
Not the kind of lost where you take a wrong turn and need to pull over and check Google Maps. I mean the kind of lost where you’re sitting in a job that’s slowly killing your joy, wondering how on earth you got here — and worse, how to get out.
At 28, I had what a lot of people would call a “great” job.
Good salary. Impressive title. Something that looked really nice on paper.
But it was also a job that I never intended to get. It just ended up being comfortable and I was good at it. It was a job where pressures, silos, and severely unhealed people created toxicity. Toxicity both generally and also directly aimed at me.
Day by day, the environment chipped away at me — until I couldn’t tell if I was exhausted from the work or just from constantly trying to prove that I deserved to be there. That I mattered. That I wasn’t too sensitive, too much, not enough.
It sucked because I was bloody good at my job (which turned out to be the problem for some).
I got to a point where I dreaded the sound of emails pinging. My chest was tight all the time. I would cry on my lunch breaks, then go back to my desk like nothing had happened. I kept saying I could push through. That I just needed to toughen up. But the truth? It was hurting me. Badly.
Eventually, I left. Not with the most solid of plans. Not with a perfect backup. I just knew I couldn’t stay.
After I left, I felt relief. But also this hollow, terrifying emptiness.
What now?
Who am I without the job, the career, the routine?
I had tied so much of my worth to productivity, status, being “on track.”
Even though I had started working freelance, without all that certainty, I didn’t feel free — I felt like a failure.
I was still severely depressed. Anxious beyond words. I woke up most mornings with a pit in my stomach and a fog in my brain. I felt like I was drifting through life, floating from day to day with no map, no anchor.
People around me were “moving forward” — buying houses, getting promotions, settling into grown-up routines. And I was 28, living at home, with no idea what I wanted to do anymore.
Something has to change. Again.
I wish I could say I had a big epiphany or some grand moment of clarity, but the truth is… healing was quiet.
It looked like lying in bed and watching the same comfort shows on repeat because everything else felt too loud.
It looked like choosing to freelance only part time just so I could have enough energy to breathe again.
It looked like guilt. So much guilt — for not “doing more,” not earning more, not being more.
But in the space that guilt created… little moments started to sneak in.
I started noticing the things that made me feel calm. Creativity. Animals. Nature. Designing little things. Helping people in quiet, thoughtful ways. I started to reconnect with myself.
The more I paid attention to those little glimmers, the more I realized that maybe I didn’t need to go back to the kind of life I had before. Maybe I could build something softer. Something slower. Something mine.
Today is my 29th birthday.
A few months ago, I started another business based on what I actually love.
It’s not big. It’s not flashy. It’s not earning me six figures. But it’s mine. And it’s growing, one small step at a time.
It’s a business that lets me show up as myself — messy, soft-hearted, creative. It lets me help others without draining myself dry. It lets me infuse meaning into the everyday. I can finally be authentic.
And yes, I still live at home. Where I live, it’s near impossible to buy a place solo unless you’ve won the lottery or climbed some ultra-stable, high-paying career ladder — and that’s just not my life right now. I fully recognise my privilege of being able to take the time to recover, live at home, pay my share of bills, food, and housework without the added pressure of a mortgage or kids. It's choices.
But I’ve stopped seeing that as a failure.
It’s okay to do things differently.
It’s okay to take longer.
It’s okay to choose healing over hustle.
One of the hardest parts of all this has been learning to care less about what people think. It has been my biggest hurdle by far.
There’s always this voice in the back of your head when you step off the expected path —
What if they think I’m lazy?
What if they think I couldn’t hack it?
What if they think I’m wasting my life?
But here’s the thing:
They don’t get to live your life. You do.
They don’t wake up with your heart, your brain, your body.
They don’t know what it’s like to carry what you’ve carried. Survived the experiences, the people, that you've survived.
You’re allowed to make choices that don’t make sense to anyone but you.
Because this is your one life. And it’s too short to spend it proving your worth to people who will never see it anyway.
If you’re in the fog right now — floating, grieving, unsure — I want you to know this:
It’s okay to start over and it's never too late.
People successfully change paths, but we just don't always hear about it.
It’s okay to pause.
It’s okay to need more time.
It’s okay to not be okay.
You’re not behind. You’re not broken.You’re rebuilding.
And rebuilding doesn’t always look like big leaps. Sometimes it looks like tiny steps. Like rest. Like softness. Like making one brave decision a day.
Keep choosing the things that bring you back to yourself. Back to your values - they look different for everyone.
Even if it’s slow.
Even if it’s quiet.
Even if no one else claps for it.
I see you. I’m rooting for you.
And I promise — there’s beauty on the other side of the breakdown.
You’re not too late. You’re right on time.