Title: "What I Wish I Knew in My 20s: A Letter to My Younger Self"

Part 1: “Your Career Isn’t Your Identity”

At 23, I wore my job title like armor. Fresh out of college, I’d landed a coveted role at a glossy tech startup. My LinkedIn bio sparkled with buzzwords like “innovator” and “disruptor,” and I wore my 80-hour workweeks as a badge of honor. My desk was a shrine to productivity: a wilting succulent, a stack of energy drinks, and a framed “Employee of the Month” certificate I’d earned after pulling three all-nighters in a row.

But the cracks began to show slowly. Birthdays were missed. Friends stopped calling. My then-boyfriend left a voicemail I still remember: “You’re married to your job, and I’m just the side piece.” I deleted it and kept working.

Then came the panic attack. It was 2 a.m., and I was alone in the office, my face lit by the cold glow of a spreadsheet. My chest tightened like a vice, my vision blurred, and suddenly I was on the bathroom floor, gasping for air. When the layoffs hit five years later, I wasn’t just losing a job—I was losing my identity.

Lesson:

A career can’t love you back. It won’t hold your hand during a crisis or laugh at your terrible jokes. Work to fund your life, not define it. Nurture curiosity—take that pottery class, read fiction, get lost in a hobby that doesn’t belong on a resume. The things that make you you matter more than any promotion.

Part 2: “Not Every Friendship Is Forever”

At 25, I thought friendship was a lifelong contract. Even when Jess mocked my “quirky” career pivot into graphic design (“You’re basically a glorified doodler”), I laughed it off. Even when Maya “borrowed” $500 and ghosted me, I made excuses: She’s going through a rough patch.

The breaking point came during a girls’ trip to Miami. Over mojitos, Jess snapped, “You’re so naïve. Real adults don’t chase ‘passion’—they chase pensions.” That night, I stared at the hotel ceiling, replaying every dig I’d swallowed to avoid being “difficult.”

Letting go felt like failure. But in the silence that followed, I found space for new friends—people who celebrated my wins instead of weaponizing my vulnerabilities.

Lesson:

Friendship shouldn’t feel like a hostage negotiation. Some relationships are seasons: beautiful while they last, but not meant for every chapter. Walking away isn’t betrayal—it’s honoring the person you’re becoming.

Part 3: “Your Body Keeps Score”

In my 20s, I treated my body like a rental car. I survived on iced coffee and gas station taquitos, bragging about how little sleep I needed. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead!” I’d joke, popping Advil like candy.

At 27, my body mutinied. Migraines pinned me to bed for days. A stress-induced ulcer landed me in the ER. My doctor warned, “You’re aging yourself a decade every year.” I nodded, then went straight back to work.

The crash came during a client pitch. Mid-sentence, my vision tunneled. I woke up on the conference room floor, colleagues hovering like nervous ghosts. It took two years of therapy, meal prepping, and learning to say “no” to rebuild—but I’ll never get those years of self-neglect back.

Lesson:

You are not a machine. Rest is not laziness; it’s repair. Feed yourself like someone you love. Move in ways that feel joyful, not punishing. Your future self will thank you.

Part 4: “Money Isn’t Magic—But Debt Is a Curse”

I treated my first credit card like a trophy. “I’m an adult now!” I declared, swiping my way through brunches, Bali trips, and a designer handbag I couldn’t pronounce (Was it Yves Saint Laurent or Saint Laurent Yves?). Instagram loved my #blessed life. My bank account did not.

By 26, I was $25k in debt. My “budgeting” involved ignoring overdue notices and praying for a tax refund. The reckoning came when my card declined at a grocery store—the clerk’s pitying look still haunts me.

I spent a year digging out: dog-walking gigs, ramen dinners, and selling that cursed handbag on Craigslist. Today, I still flinch at credit card offers—but I sleep better knowing I’m not owned by debt.

Lesson:

Money is a tool, not a trophy. Live below your means. Save fiercely. That influencer’s vacation isn’t funding your retirement—your choices are.

Part 5: “You Don’t Need Permission to Change”

At 29, I was engaged to someone I hadn’t loved in years. We’d grown into different people—me, a restless dreamer; him, a man who thought “risk” was ordering medium-spicy salsa. But I stayed, terrified of being the “flake” who blew up a “perfect” life.

One night, my sister found me crying in my car. “What if I’m making a mistake?” I whispered. She handed me a journal and said, “Write the life you want. Then go live it.”

Leaving was messy. There were tears, awkward family dinners, and a year of dating-app disasters. But it was also the first time I’d chosen myself—and that courage rippled into every part of my life.

Lesson:

Reinvention is your birthright. You don’t owe anyone the version of you they’re comfortable with. Change your mind. Change your path. Change your hair. You’re allowed to grow.

Conclusion: “The Wisdom of Rearview Mirrors”

Now, at 35, I see my 20s for what they were: a messy, magnificent apprenticeship. I wish I’d known that “having it all together” is a myth—that the friends who stay up past 2 a.m. talking about aliens and childhood traumas matter more than networking contacts. That joy isn’t a destination, but a thousand tiny choices: a walk without headphones, a handwritten letter, a morning where you linger over coffee instead of rushing.

To my 20-something self: You’ll make spectacular mistakes. You’ll lose people and jobs and parts of yourself. But you’ll also discover resilience you never knew you had. Trust the stumbles. Trust the detours. Most of all, trust that you’re becoming.