immovable object on a moving planet
disappointment washes over me like a bucket of ice thrown over my head everytime i’m reminded of my age. i’m twenty-three and i’m supposed to be out there. if life had a shape to picture your early twenties with, it should look like a catapult. the possibilities are endless. a step in any direction would lead to countless trajectories. and yet here i am, immovable on the ground.
i’ve seen enough disney movies to know that each of us navigates life in our own timeline. god, i know that. i don’t feel bad about myself when i think of my batchmates now in med school, already working, or with even a faint sense of direction. i’m happy for them and yet this happiness does not translate to me feeling good about myself — it doesn’t move me forward or backward. i am stuck. i’m aware of all of this and i’m still a bundle of muscle that wouldn’t bulge.
i didn’t picture my life after graduation to be anything like this. sure, i was confused about my major. i chose it on a fragile basis: my love for science, and that this program offered foreign language — a field that i would’ve pursued had i had more courage, but that’s a story for another day. i knew then that my future was scarily unknown, like a scratchcard waiting to be revealed with a coin. it was vague, but promising. i was certain there was something underneath that diluted latex. i was going to be something. i was going to be out there.
funnily enough, i’m still inside. i have always been inside from the moment i walked across that stage. during the weeks following my graduation, i was excitedly contemplating the things i would do with my newfound freedom: job, certification, purpose. surely, i was meant for something. and now—four, almost five months later—my doors remain barred, each night ending with a promise of trying again tomorrow.
it’s very anticlimactic. i was supposed to be at the climax of my coming of age story. i was supposed to be falling in love, embarrassing myself, meeting new people, and going places. i had potential. god, i was supposed to be something. not a mass of rotting flesh on a bed with sheets i don’t remember changing. i was supposed to be twenty-three and thriving.
when they glorify reaching rock bottom by saying things like “there’s no way else but up”, did they leave clues? i’m waiting for the moment i’d float like a helium-filled balloon, because i was assured nothing could be worse than this. and yet, every tomorrow still comes with a threat.
This piece was originally posted on Substack on November 25, 2025 and migrated to BearBlog on March 19, 2026.