The Art of Barely Holding It Together

Like many twenty-somethings, the one thing I struggle to understand as I navigate life is—WTF, how do I do it all?

How do I get eight hours of sleep, exercise for thirty minutes a day, hit 10,000 steps, journal regularly, eat my body weight in protein, work (but not so hard that I burn out, yet not so little that I feel unproductive), socialise with friends, be carefree, stress less, find love, pursue passion projects, have hobbies, travel, plan for my future but live in the moment? The list goes on and on and on. Just typing this out is exhausting.

I feel like I’m living in this constant state of anxiety—like I’m never doing enough, like life is passing me by, like I’m stuck. And I don’t know what to do about it. Lately, the mere thought of responding to an email makes my heart beat ten times faster than normal. I go through phases of heightened productivity, only to crash into stretches of barely doing anything at all. And in those moments, I feel like a complete and utter failure—so unproductive, so useless, like all I want to do is sleep.

But life doesn’t stop. Responsibilities don’t pause. And yet, I find myself wishing I could crawl into a hole and disappear (metaphorically, of course). Some days, I don’t have the energy to do anything, to be anywhere, to say anything. Getting out of bed feels like moving a mountain. The thought of typing a message, making a call, or even standing up sends an uncomfortable vibration through my stomach and makes my head spin.

I feel like I’m trying to do everything at once—balancing work, uni, personal life, family, relationships, my blog, my passion projects, my writing. It just never ends. My mind is constantly racing, yet that racing never seems to translate into action. I want to move, to do, to be—but I’m scared. Scared of what, exactly? I don’t even know. I just feel uneasy, like I’m on the verge of something, but I don’t know whether it’s falling apart or coming together.

And trust me, I know all the self-help quotes. The affirmations, the reminders to be kind to myself. I repeat them like mantras, but they don’t always stick. Some days, I convince myself I’m fine. Other days, I know I’m not. And yet, I hesitate to complain. Because there’s so much worse going on in the world. So much hurt and pain. People suffering in ways I can’t even begin to imagine. How can I justify my sadness when others have it so much worse? It doesn’t feel fair or right to dwell on my struggles when, in the grand scheme of things, my life is objectively good.

And yet... I’m not okay.

The thing is, I am grateful. I have so much to be thankful for—the life I’ve lived, the people I have in it, every opportunity that has come my way. But I also can’t shake this sadness, this feeling that I’ve lost the hope of being truly happy.

But maybe, just maybe, that’s not the end of the story. Maybe feeling lost in your twenties isn’t a failure, but a rite of passage. Maybe this uncertainty isn’t a sign that I’m falling behind, but a quiet promise that something is still waiting for me. Maybe I don’t have to figure it all out today. Or tomorrow. Or even next year.

Maybe it’s okay to just be—messy, uncertain, learning as I go. Maybe, for now, that’s enough.