Lost Plans and the New Reality

It's funny, the feeling of inevitability used to be a comfort. Like, if I did the things I was *supposed* to do – good grades, decent college, maybe a safe-ish job – a certain level of stability would just…happen. A little apartment, eventually a house, a 401k that actually meant something. Now, that sense of inevitability feels more like a cruel joke. Everyone I know seems to be operating under the assumption that the rules have changed, even though no one really knows *how* to play the new game.

I saw this post the other day about how millennials are blaming Gen Z for the housing crisis. Like, *we’re* the problem because we’re ordering oat milk lattes and not saving for down payments. It’s reductive, of course. It ignores the fact that wages haven't kept pace with inflation, that student loan debt is a monster, and that the cost of literally everything—groceries, utilities—is absurd. It's easy to point fingers, but it just feels like…exhaustion. Like we're all just bracing for another wave of disappointment.

The Jacobs Pavilion show last week feels like a metaphor for all of this. We were all trying to create something, to *be* something, but the whole setup felt precarious. The sun was setting, the sound was cutting out, and I kept thinking, "This isn't sustainable." It’s not just about live music. It’s about the whole system of chasing something that feels increasingly out of reach.

I've always been a planner. I used to have these elaborate spreadsheets outlining my career trajectory, my savings goals, even my potential wedding venues (single, obviously, but a girl can dream, right?). Now, I mostly just stare at those spreadsheets and feel a vague sense of panic. They feel…obsolete. Like trying to navigate with a paper map in a self-driving car era.

My friend Liam started a side hustle making custom planters out of recycled materials. He’s not making a fortune, but it's giving him a sense of agency, of control in a world that feels increasingly chaotic. He’s not necessarily aiming for “success” in the traditional sense; he's just trying to build something, to make a little money, and to feel like he’s contributing something positive. And honestly? It seems a lot more appealing than grinding away at a job that will never actually lead to anything tangible.

There’s this weird pressure, too. To be optimistic. To be *resilient*. To embrace the “hustle culture” and “manifest” our way into financial security. But it’s hard to feel optimistic when the numbers just aren’t adding up. When you see your parents, who did everything "right," struggling with their own finances. It's not about negativity, it’s about honesty. About acknowledging the reality of the situation.

I wrote something a few days ago – a short piece about feeling adrift – and twenty-seven people read it. Twenty-seven. That's…a small number. But the fact that anyone even bothered to click on it felt significant. It was a reminder that there are other people out there, feeling the same things, searching for connection, for understanding. Maybe that's a kind of success, too.

I'm not sure what the future holds. I don't have a master plan, no detailed spreadsheet. But I’m starting to think that maybe that’s okay. Maybe the point isn’t to figure everything out, but to be adaptable, to be resourceful, and to find joy in the small things – like Liam’s planters, or the unexpected connection of a few shared words. Maybe that’s a strategy in itself.