The Years That Slipped

always thought I had time.

In my twenties, life felt like a wide-open road with no speed limit. I was convinced that I was just “figuring things out.” That every late morning, missed deadline, and half-finished dream was part of some invisible blueprint leading to something bigger.

I was wrong.

It began innocently. I graduated college with a degree in communications and no idea what to communicate. I moved back home to save money “for a year.” That year became three. I worked a part-time job at a bookstore, told myself it was temporary, told everyone else I was just between opportunities.

But deep down, I wasn’t waiting for an opportunity.

I was hiding from one.

My friends moved to new cities. They started internships, then real jobs. Some even got married, others launched startups. My social media feed looked like a never-ending highlight reel of success. Meanwhile, I was on my third rewatch of Breaking Bad and learning to make sourdough bread—not because I loved baking, but because it filled time.

There was no big crash. No dramatic low point. Just... the slow drift.

At 25, I got serious for a few months.

I built a portfolio, sent out applications, went to interviews. One company ghosted me. Another said I was “overqualified” for a junior role, and “under-experienced” for anything else. I didn’t even know how to reply to that.

Eventually, I stopped trying. Failure started to feel familiar. Comfortable. Like an old coat that didn’t fit but kept me warm.

I told myself stories:

You’re not like them.

You don’t want a 9-to-5 anyway.

Maybe you’ll figure it out at 30.

Spoiler: 30 arrives faster than you think.

I dated people who were also drifting. We clung to each other like life rafts in a sea of wasted potential. There were no long-term plans, just vague dreams shared under dim apartment lights: "One day I'll move to New York," "I might write a book," "I just need to feel inspired again."

But inspiration doesn't come to those who wait—it comes to those who work through the waiting.

One night, I ran into an old classmate at the grocery store. She had just bought a house. Not with her parents’ help, not through luck. Just years of hard work and saving. She asked what I was doing now.

I lied. Said I was freelancing. Said I liked the “freedom.”

She smiled kindly. But I knew she saw through it.

That night, I looked around my room—still the same one from high school, with the posters taken down but the ghosts still there. I saw the half-written novel on my laptop, the guitar I hadn’t touched in months, the pile of unopened job rejection emails in my inbox.

I felt sick.

Not with regret, exactly. But with waste.

Time is a strange thing.

In your twenties, you feel like it stretches forever. Like mistakes don’t count. Like growth will just happen, naturally, without effort. But time doesn’t wait for you to decide what to do with it. It moves on, whether you're ready or not.

And slowly, the weight of all the unused days piles up until one day, you look back and realize the saddest truth:

You weren’t lost. You were just scared.

Scared to try.

Scared to fail.

Scared to become someone, in case that someone wasn’t enough.

By 29, I had to face it.

I had wasted most of my twenties pretending I had time. Pretending I didn’t need to change. I had chased comfort over growth, distraction over purpose. I had lived as if there would always be another Monday to start over.

But there’s no magic line where life begins.

There’s only now.

So I changed.

Slowly. Painfully. I started waking up earlier. Set small goals. Got a job—nothing fancy, but it was steady. I stopped lying to people, and more importantly, to myself.

I deleted the apps that kept me scrolling through other people’s lives. I stopped treating my dreams like fairy tales and started treating them like projects—with deadlines, effort, sacrifice.

Was it too late?

No. But it was later than I thought.

If you’re in your twenties and you’re reading this, here’s what I want you to know:

You don’t have to have it all figured out.

But you do have to move.

Don’t wait for clarity. It comes after the work.

Use your time, or it will use you.

Because one day you’ll wake up, not old—but older.

And you’ll ask: Where did it all go?

And the answer will be simple:

You gave it away.

One skipped day at a time.

The End 🕰️