I LOVE PEOPLE LIKE THEY’RE GOING TO DIE
I’m starting to believe nobody loves me the way I love them.
Whether it’s relationships, friendships, or family, I care so deeply that it sometimes physically hurts. Someone’s energy feels slightly off. Their tone changes. A text goes unanswered for too long. And suddenly, it feels like a gut punch; my chest caves in and the world around me feels like it’s collapsing.
I’ve been this way since I was a kid.
It’s as if the mere concept of life overwhelms me. Every emotion feels like someone, somewhere, has turned the dial up a little higher. I don’t just feel things. I feel them. Completely. There is no halfway, no middle ground, no dipping my toe into an emotion and pulling it back out before it becomes too much.
I can’t feel half-heartedly. I don’t think I ever have.
And trust me, I wish I could sometimes.
I wish I could be numb. I wish my brain could have a moment of respite from constantly analysing, feeling, anticipating. I wish I could stop caring for just long enough to breathe.
But the numbness never comes.
I DON’T WANT A BOYFRIEND. I WANT A PENSION.
She’s 21, graduated with a First-Class Honours in Astrophysics, founded a skincare company and travelled the world volunteering.
Meanwhile, I’m scrolling Indeed at 11pm on a Tuesday, trying to convince a minimum-wage, 9–5 job that my music degree makes me an ideal candidate for a gym receptionist position.
Bleak, I know.
When did being a woman in your twenties stop being about finding a boyfriend and start being about becoming a fully realised fucking human being?
Now, I’m not complaining. I’m glad women in 2026 are rejecting the idea that marriage and motherhood are the ultimate goals, and building lives around their own identities instead.
But I do think the pressure hasn’t disappeared. It’s just shifted.
The old milestones are changing. The ONS’s latest figures, published in July 2026, show that the proportion of adults in England and Wales who are married or civil partnered has decreased over the past decade, while the number who have never married has risen, with some of the biggest increases among 25–34-year-olds.
Perhaps that’s because instead of telling women they need a husband, they now need a fucking five-year plan.
THE ART OF PRETENDING YOU HAVE YOUR SHIT TOGETHER
My parents had a mortgage and a child at my age, and I cried the other day because I had to make a phone call to cancel an appointment.
Granted, this may suggest I’m just slightly emotionally unstable, but honestly, I think that’s the unofficial personality trait of being in your twenties.
Emotional instability, but with a LinkedIn account.
Some of my friends are engaged, some are smoking weed in a seedy abandoned shed on the weekends.
Me? I’m scrolling through LinkedIn like it’s my job, while actually trying to find a job, all while being simultaneously bombarded by everyone’s achievements like a media megaphone screaming:
“YOU ARE A FAILURE. LOOK HOW AMAZING EVERYONE ELSE IS DOING.”
The hot girl era has a painful sex problem
Hear me out. I don’t hate sex, but I hate the way it makes me feel.
Fear. Anxiety. Dread.
My body hasn’t exactly been a safe place. It’s been poked and prodded, turned into something clinical instead of personal. Add in the stigma around reproductive issues, and now when I think about sex, it’s not excitement; it’s pain and fear. That’s the association, and once your body learns that, it’s not exactly something you can just switch off overnight.
The irony? I’m just like every other girl—reading fantasy smut, romanticising the kind of love that feels like it could alter your brain chemistry and make life a little less mundane. The idea of romance and lust? I love it.
I Think I Took Concealer a Little Too Literally
I was obsessed with my mum's makeup long before I was old enough to wear it.
Somewhere along the way, I learned to see my face as a paint-by-numbers canvas: strategically highlight the good bits, carefully conceal the "bad" ones, and whatever you do, don't colour outside the lines.
My school's no-makeup policy meant I had no armour going into what felt like war. High school.
An emotional battlefield of angsty teenagers trying to figure out who they were, all while being squeezed into neat little academic boxes with glass walls so everyone else could judge, berate and torment them along the way.
Sounds fun, right?
Market Research, But Make It Reproductive
When I was a young girl, I genuinely believed dating would be exactly like it was in cheesy 2000s rom-coms and Barbie movies. The man would turn up to the first date with flowers, yearning unequivocally. Our first kiss would be accompanied by metaphorical fireworks, triggering a mutual epiphany that we were destined to spend the rest of our lives together.
Then I started university.
My boyfriend had just made things official, and we were about to take things a step further. We were sharing what I genuinely believed was an incredibly intimate, beautiful moment. My heart was beating frantically in my chest as I finally said the three words that had been dancing on the tip of my tongue for weeks.