worked ourselves to the bone in our 20s, thinking we were laying the foundation for something stable. some kind of adulthood that looked like our parents’: house, family, maybe a garden and a dog.
but now we’re in our 30s, and instead of stability, we’ve got anxiety about buying a house, fear about starting a family, and a savings account that’s quietly preparing for something—but we don’t even know what’s coming. just… saving. because something always is.
so we buy the things we wanted as kids. a gameboy we never owned. a CD of that one band that got us through middle school. we’re not trying to be childish—we’re trying to heal. trying to give our younger selves the joy we put off for later. but later turned out to be full of bills and burnout.
we used to chase degrees like they were keys to freedom. but now? we just want our time back. we just want rest. we want slow mornings and soft evenings and to not feel guilty for existing without producing.
it’s not that we gave up.
we just got tired of running toward a dream that kept moving the finish line.
