Back in my college days, as I was about to don my cap and gown, I managed to snag a job before graduation. I worked part-time at a snazzy advertising agency, where I spent my days crafting clever radio and TV ads for small businesses across the nation. It felt like I was living the dream—like I had outsmarted the system.
I was earning a modest salary while sipping on fancy drinks brought in by the boss (even though I was technically underage). And when we scored a new client, everyone on staff received a crisp $100 bill. My hard work seemed to be paying off, and I thought I was finally ticking off those life milestones. It was a checklist come to life.
However, the job quickly turned sour. After two years of enduring harassment, condescending remarks, and business trips during which clients would get too friendly, I landed in the emergency room with dangerously high blood pressure. Instead of addressing my stress, the doctor recommended I stop taking my birth control and “just relax.” Being the good rule-follower I was, I obliged—and before long, I found myself pregnant.
Suddenly, I was trapped in a dismal job (with “health insurance” that didn’t cover pregnancy), a car that couldn’t fit a car seat, and a new husband who was just as terrified as I was. I began to question my frantic rush to achieve the American Dream. What was the point of graduating, jumping into the workforce, marrying, and having a baby all before I hit 25? Why was I in such a hurry to check things off my life list?
I was a planner, a rule-follower, and I was obsessed with knowing what lay ahead. The thought of being pregnant and married at 23 wasn’t in my life script, but I trudged on. After a few weeks of nausea and napping in my car, I began to accept my pregnancy and tried to convince my husband that we could be the couple who had kids early and then retired while still young. It sounded great—at least in theory.
Then came the miscarriage. My hopes for that baby, which I’d reluctantly started to embrace, were dashed. My job was unbearable, and my boss had decided that instead of creating ads for our clients, we were now writing radio spots in support of an anti-gay marriage proposition. That was the last straw.
In that moment, something inside me snapped. I looked at my reflection in my teal iMac and realized I had no idea why I was selling my soul at 23. I quietly closed my office door and dialed the first airline that popped into my head. I whipped out my emergency credit card and booked a ticket to Hawaii—after a brief moment of sanity, I remembered I was married and bought a ticket for my husband, too. We had no money for this spontaneous trip, and I knew we’d struggle to pay off the debt, but in that moment, none of that mattered. I was in survival mode. I needed to escape.
With the top down on my ridiculous convertible, I drove home while Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin’” played on the radio. I was in the midst of what I now see as a significant nervous breakdown, but I was too far gone to care. I got home, started packing, and informed my husband about our impromptu Hawaiian adventure. To my surprise, he didn’t freak out. He didn’t even ask how much the tickets cost (which was over three thousand dollars). He just packed his bag.
I ended up spending nearly a month in Hawaii, crashing at my dad’s place while my husband had to return to work. My days were filled with Panda Express, Law & Order reruns, and beach time, during which I often stared off into the distance, feeling like I was at the bottom of a swimming pool.
That month-long escapade was a luxury we couldn’t afford, and it wasn’t part of any plan or budget. Yet, it might have saved my life.
Fast forward fifteen years, and while I’ve faced tougher challenges, I’ve lost that reckless, youthful freedom to just do whatever. I often ponder what would happen if I were to have a meltdown now—if I could just pack a bag, head to the airport, and buy a ticket to the furthest beach possible. With three kids now, I realize that such spontaneity isn’t something you spring on your spouse. I’ve become a responsible adult.
That doesn’t mean I don’t think about it. I miss the luxury of youthful selfishness—the space to make mistakes, learn, and grow without feeling the weight of responsibility. Reflecting on that month reminds me that sometimes, life is about accepting the uncertainty. It’s a lesson I wish I could revisit. Although a beach getaway would be nice, life is about learning to navigate the chaos, and that realization is a privilege in itself.
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Summary:
The author reflects on their youthful impulsiveness and the luxury of being able to make mistakes without the weight of responsibility. They recount a pivotal moment when they escaped their stressful job and life circumstances to find clarity in Hawaii. Now, as a parent, they recognize the limitations imposed by adulthood but still cherish the lessons learned from their reckless youth.