How to Survive a Quarter-Life, Midlife, and Existential Crisis—All Before Lunch

There I was—10:42 AM, crying into a lukewarm cup of coffee, Googling “how to run away from life without leaving your flat.” By noon, I’d questioned my career, my purpose, my haircut, and whether I should’ve been a forest ranger instead of… whatever this is. If you've ever had a breakdown before breakfast, congratulations—you might be doing life right.

The Morning Meltdown

It started—like all great existential crises do—with cold toast and an unpaid electricity bill. I was standing in my kitchen, still in pajamas that had clearly given up on life two nights ago, holding a coffee that tasted suspiciously like depression and cardboard. That’s when it hit me: Is this it? Is this my peak? Did I already live through the best part of my life… in 2009?

One email from work, titled “Urgent – Quick Call?” was enough to push me over the edge. I hadn’t even opened it yet. I just stared at it like it was a death threat from the universe itself. Add to that a rogue grey hair mocking me in the bathroom mirror and the fact that oat milk was once again on the grocery list I never check—and I spiraled. I had a minor panic attack over oat milk. Classic Tuesday.

Suddenly, I was questioning everything. My career. My relationship status. Whether I should’ve followed my dream of becoming a backup dancer or moved to a goat farm in the Alps. You know, the usual breakfast thoughts.

It’s always the little things. You can survive a breakup, a bad year, a recession—but God forbid your favorite mug is dirty when you need emotional support in liquid form. That’s when the meltdown strikes. Like clockwork. Like destiny. Like a passive-aggressive reminder from the universe that you don’t have your sh*t together and maybe never did.

Crisis Buffet: Quarter-Life, Midlife, and ‘What Even Is This’ Life

No one warned me that adulthood comes with a buffet of crises—and unfortunately, I’m an all-you-can-eat kind of mess. There’s the quarter-life crisis, where you’re young enough to have dreams but too broke to chase them. You wake up at 26 thinking, Am I supposed to have a retirement plan, or is it still socially acceptable to eat cereal for dinner and panic-scroll LinkedIn?

Then comes the midlife crisis, sneakier but more expensive. You’re still not rich, but now you’re also tired. Not just “need-a-nap” tired—existentially tired. You buy plants for “vibes” and pretend you understand tax brackets. You briefly consider a convertible. You settle for a new throw pillow that doesn’t fix your life, but hey, it has tassels.

And finally, there’s the What Even Is This Life Crisis, which shows up randomly. It doesn't care how old you are. One minute you’re vibing to 90s music, the next you’re questioning your existence because you accidentally liked your own Instagram post. It’s the ultimate identity glitch. Am I a grown adult with responsibilities or just a confused teenager with a Wi-Fi password?

The worst part? These crises don’t take turns. They carpool. They show up at the same time like some emotionally chaotic group project. You're just trying to get through the day, and suddenly it’s:

“Am I wasting my potential?”

“Do I want kids or a dog or a cabin in the woods?”

“Why did I major in Communications?”

“Should I buy another diffuser?”

All in the time it takes to butter toast (which, yes, is still cold).

Life is just one long identity crisis, occasionally interrupted by snack breaks.

Things I’ve Tried (That Failed Miserably)

Before you ask—yes, I’ve tried to fix myself. Multiple times. With all the enthusiasm of someone who read one motivational quote and thought, "I am reborn now." Spoiler: I was not reborn. I was just briefly over-caffeinated.

Let’s start with planners. I’ve bought no less than 14 planners over the past three years. Weekly, daily, hourly, color-coded, goal-oriented, you name it. Each one started strong—with stickers, highlighters, inspirational quotes. By week two, it was a graveyard of unchecked boxes and passive-aggressive reminders to “Crush it!” Which is ironic, considering the only thing I crushed was my will to continue.

Then there was meditation. Everyone said, “Just sit in silence and breathe.” Okay. Cool. Except my brain treats silence like an invitation to throw a rave. Thoughts? Everywhere. Suddenly I’m reliving a conversation from 2011, planning dinner, and wondering if pandas get anxiety. I ended up napping with a meditation app still whispering “find your center.” Center? I couldn’t even find my charger.

Let’s not forget vision boards. Oh, the glitter, the vibes, the glue sticks. I cut out a photo of a mansion, a Tesla, and a woman doing yoga in matching beige athleisure. Did any of it happen? No. But the board looked fabulous until it fell off my wall and gave me a mild concussion. Maybe that was the sign from the universe.

I even tried becoming a “morning person.” Woke up at 6 AM. Did yoga. Drank warm lemon water. Felt smug. By 11 AM, I crashed so hard I face-planted into a motivational podcast and never fully recovered.

In summary: I’ve attempted nearly every “get your life together” trend known to Instagram, Pinterest, and emotionally unstable TikTok. The results? Mostly disappointing, occasionally dangerous, always exhausting.

The Tiny Wins That Saved Me

Look, I haven’t figured life out. I still occasionally cry in the shower and pretend it's just “self-care.” But somewhere between panic-googling “how to disappear without drama” and accidentally deep-cleaning my entire kitchen as a coping mechanism, I found a few tiny wins that kept me from totally short-circuiting.

Like the five-minute walk I took one day because my brain was overheating and my phone battery wasn’t. I didn’t reach enlightenment, but I did see a dog in a sweater and remembered that joy still exists.

Or the friend who sent me a voice note that started with, “You don’t have to reply, I just needed to scream.” That’s real friendship. That’s therapy with emojis. That’s how I survived Wednesday.

Then there was finally making my bed—not to be productive, but because I read somewhere it helps your mental health and I was out of options. It didn’t change my life, but climbing into a made bed at night felt slightly less like giving up and slightly more like “okay, I’m trying.”

Also: memes. I cannot overstate the spiritual healing properties of a perfectly timed meme. There is something wildly cathartic about seeing your personal breakdown summarized in Comic Sans over a picture of a raccoon holding pizza. Instant validation. Internet therapy.

These weren’t grand, soul-saving rituals. They were bite-sized lifelines. Tiny, semi-useless life hacks that didn’t fix anything, but made the mess a little more bearable.

And sometimes that’s enough. You don’t need a breakthrough—you just need to stop crying long enough to microwave your leftovers.

The Pretend Game (and Why It Works)

At some point, I gave up on being actually put together and instead became a master of pretend productivity. I pretended I had a plan. I pretended to be confident during Zoom calls while secretly wearing pajama bottoms with cats on them. I even pretended that drinking green smoothies made me “a wellness girlie,” when in reality, they just made me gag and question my choices.

And you know what? Weirdly... it helped.

Pretending is underrated. Somewhere between fake smiling through morning meetings and confidently saying “No worries!” when I was absolutely full of worries, I started believing maybe—just maybe—I was capable of pulling it off. Or at least pulling it off enough to not get fired or cry in public.

It’s like emotional cosplay. You dress up as someone who has it together until you sort of become them, at least for the day. And if you don’t? Well, that’s what oversized sunglasses and a fake “I’ve got this” shrug are for.

The truth is, everyone’s pretending. Some people are just better at curating the illusion—good lighting, a neutral-toned aesthetic, and the confidence of a man applying for a job he’s wildly unqualified for. The rest of us are just winging it with anxiety, dry shampoo, and a prayer.

And that's okay.

Because sometimes, pretending to be okay is the first step to actually being okay. Not always, but often enough to keep going. And on the days when the mask cracks? There’s always sarcasm, snacks, and silent screaming into the void.

Lunch, at Last (and the Reset Button)

It’s noon. I’ve cried, spiraled, questioned my existence, mentally rewritten my life plan twice, and nearly enrolled in an online course to become a certified herbalist-slash-life coach. Again. But I’m still here. Sitting at my kitchen table, eating a mediocre sandwich like it’s a victory meal. Because it is.

And that’s the secret no one tells you about surviving an existential crisis: sometimes, survival is lunch.

You don’t have to fix your entire life before noon. You don’t need to have a five-year plan or a spiritual awakening by lunchtime. Sometimes, getting through the morning without throwing your phone out the window is enough. Sometimes, to be honest, brushing your teeth is a triumph worthy of applause. Or at least a cookie.

I used to think surviving meant thriving, glowing, rising like a phoenix with a yoga mat and a flawless skincare routine. But more often, it looks like showing up to your own life in sweatpants and emotional turbulence—and still trying anyway.

The world keeps spinning. The crises don’t take breaks. But neither do we. We spiral, we snack, we power nap through our feelings, and we keep going. Because life doesn’t pause for breakdowns—and neither does the microwave.

So here I am. Crisis temporarily postponed. Brain slightly less on fire. Sandwich half-eaten. Hope… weirdly intact.

Not healed. Not whole. But trying.

And some days, that’s more than enough.

P.S. If you’ve ever questioned your entire existence before your second coffee—welcome. You’re not broken, you're just very, very aware. Leave a comment, share your weirdest crisis cure (bonus points if it involves carbs), or just say hi. Let’s survive this beautiful mess together—one meltdown, meme, and mediocre sandwich at a time. 💛