When I was in my final year of college, I managed to defy the norms of my generation and land a job before I even walked across the graduation stage. I took a part-time position at an advertising agency, and once I received my diploma, I transitioned into a full-time role, crafting radio and television ads for small businesses across the country. It felt like a significant achievement.
I was earning a modest salary to sit in my own office and write. On Fridays, my boss would bring in drinks (even though I was still underage). Whenever we secured a new client, the entire team received a crisp $100 bill as a bonus. My life as an overachiever seemed to be paying off. At the time, I believed I was living the American Dream. My meticulous planning and hard work had led me exactly where I wanted to be. I could finally check off a major milestone on my life To-Do list.
However, the reality of that job was more than disappointing. It was unbearable. After enduring two years of harassment, condescension, and business trips where clients would either grab my knees or yell at me—or do both—I found myself in the emergency room with dangerously high blood pressure. Instead of addressing my work-related stress, the doctor suggested I stop taking my birth control pills and “try to relax.” True to form, I followed his advice and soon discovered I was pregnant.
Caught in an awful job (with so-called “health insurance” that didn’t cover pregnancy), a car that couldn’t accommodate a car seat, and a newly married husband who was just as clueless as I was, I found myself overwhelmed. My fervent pursuit of the American Dream seemed recklessly rushed. Why did I feel the need to graduate, join the workforce, get married, and have a child all before turning 25? What was the rush?
I still can’t fully explain it, except to say I was a planner, someone who followed the rules. I liked to have a clear map of my future, anticipating events well in advance. I needed a blueprint.
Being pregnant and married at 23 wasn’t in my plans, but I pushed through. After weeks of nausea and sneaking in naps during my breaks, I started to accept my pregnancy. I tried to ignore how awful my job had become. I convinced my husband that we would be one of those couples who had kids early and retired early, becoming empty nesters in our forties. It would be perfect.
Then, I miscarried. My carefully revised future came crashing down. The baby I had convinced myself to embrace was gone. My job worsened, with my boss redirecting our efforts to create radio ads supporting California’s Proposition 22, an anti-gay marriage initiative.
That was the moment everything shifted. After a lifetime of adhering to rules and plans, I gazed into my teal iMac and questioned why I was even there. What was I doing at 23, selling my soul?
I quietly closed my office door and called the first airline that came to mind. Grabbing my emergency credit card, I purchased a ticket to Hawaii. Then, remembering my marital vows, I bought a ticket for my husband as well. We certainly didn’t have the funds for this spontaneous trip, and I knew we wouldn’t be able to pay off the debt, but in that moment, nothing else mattered. I was in crisis mode—escape mode. My plans for the future had vanished; I just needed to get away.
As I drove home in my ridiculous convertible, the top down and Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin’” playing on the radio, I was in the midst of what I now recognize as a monumental nervous breakdown. Upon reaching home, I began packing and informed my husband of my decision to quit my job and head to Hawaii. Thankfully, he remained calm and didn’t question the exorbitant ticket costs; he just packed his bag, too.
In the end, I spent almost a month in Hawaii (staying with my dad, who wisely gave me space). My husband returned to work, leaving me to spend my days indulging in Panda Express, binge-watching Law & Order reruns, and contemplating life on the beach. I often stared off into the distance, feeling like Cameron at the bottom of a swimming pool.
That month-long escape was a luxury we couldn’t afford, unplanned and outside any budget, but it may have saved my life.
Fifteen years later, I’ve faced even tougher challenges, but I’ve lost that reckless youthful naivety that allowed for such impulsive decisions. Now, with three kids in tow, I realize that I can’t just spring something like that on my spouse. I am a grown-up now.
Yet, the thoughts still cross my mind. I often reflect on what that month taught me; the privilege of youthful selfishness, the freedom to make mistakes, to learn, and to understand how our choices affect those we love. I miss that freedom to screw up and have years to make amends, though I don’t necessarily long for it. Learning to accept that not everything can be meticulously planned is, in itself, a luxury, wouldn’t you agree? You probably don’t need a beach to come to that realization, but some days, it sure would be nice.
For more insights on navigating life’s unexpected journeys, check out this post on Cervical Insemination. And if you’re exploring options for starting a family, Make a Mom offers reliable at-home insemination syringe kits. Additionally, the CDC provides excellent resources for pregnancy and home insemination, which can be invaluable as you navigate this path.
In summary, youthful selfishness is a rare privilege that many of us outgrow, but the lessons learned during those years can shape our understanding of life and responsibility as adults.
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