DEAR 20S

I thought I was ready for you.

I had painted a picture of what life with you would be like—vivid, perfect, seamless. You were the chapter I eagerly awaited, believing I had all the answers. But the truth is, I was armed with nothing but fantasies and naive dreams, wholly unprepared for the realities you would bring.

No one told me about the weight of uncertainties or how saving wasn’t just a suggestion but a necessity. No one told me about the pain of letting go—of people, of places, of dreams that didn’t quite fit anymore. No one warned me about the ache of holding on, either. The way anger and regret would sit heavy in my chest, armor I thought would protect me, only to realize they were chains holding me down.

No one said that chaos and clarity would coexist. That reality would sometimes blur into dreams so seamlessly I’d forget which was which. That I would see myself as broken—vulnerable, with big dreams but no roadmap. That the silence of not knowing where to start could sometimes feel louder than the world itself.

Dear 20s, no one prepared me for the shame of wasting hours scrolling endlessly through my phone, trying to distract myself from the emptiness. Or the sleepless nights spent wondering if I was doing enough—or if I’d already failed. They didn’t teach me that managing finances wouldn’t come naturally, that “adulting” was less about freedom and more about making decisions when you’re afraid of every single one.

But, dear 20s, I’m beginning to see that maybe that was your plan all along. You weren’t here to hand me answers; you were here to make me dig for them. You weren’t meant to be easy. You were meant to grow me—to break and rebuild me, over and over again, until I found a version of myself I could live with.

You were meant for firing people who didn’t treat me right—for walking away, not in anger, but in self-respect. You were meant for sleepless nights fueled by passion, for discovering that some dreams are worth chasing even when they seem impossible. You were meant for the first steps into new opportunities, no matter how scared I felt.

And, dear 20s, you were meant to teach me how to lose myself completely—so I could learn, painfully and beautifully, what it means to be myself.

I’m still not where I want to be, financially or emotionally. I’m sad every time I have to bury a friend, their potential extinguished far too soon. I still feel the weight of group contributions for someone else’s tragedy, each time questioning what went wrong for them—and what might go wrong for me. I’m scared of the storms ahead, scared of not fulfilling the promises I made to my younger self. I’m scared of the world evolving faster than I can keep up. And I’m scared, most of all, of running out of time.

Dear 20s, can you be gentle with us? We are growing, struggling, trying to figure it all out. We’re balancing hope and fear on a tightrope of dreams we’re still learning how to chase.

But maybe that’s your lesson, too—that the fear never truly goes away, but neither does the hope. That growth doesn’t come from having it all figured out but from showing up every day, despite the chaos. That the pain of letting go is what makes space for something new.

Dear 20s, thank you for breaking me, for rebuilding me, for teaching me how to evolve. I may not have all the answers, but I’m here. I’m learning. And for now, maybe that’s enough.