Doctors, Diets, and the Great Apartment Mystery: Why Adulthood Feels Like a Full-Time Puzzle

The thing about going to the doctor these days is that you don’t leave with solutions. You leave with assignments. Case in point: I sat there, patiently explaining my symptoms, my fatigue, my joints that apparently moonlight as comedy props, and the answer?
"You need to lose weight. It’ll help your overall health."

Ah. Of course. The universal prescription.
(Lose weight? Why didn’t I think of that?)

Now, was this advice coming from some glowing picture of health? Of course not. The doctor himself, male, and frankly not exactly winning any body composition awards—looked at me, dead serious, and said I needed to lose 10 to 15 kilos.
(Which hit particularly hard considering I’m 27, and had quietly hoped to be done with puberty-level body changes by now.)

Apparently, the skinnier I am, the better it should be for my joints. Because, you know, they’ll suddenly work properly once I magically drop those kilos. (Science or fantasy? Unclear.)

Naturally, there was no actual game plan. No “here’s how we’ll help you,” no actual strategy. Just: Good luck! Lose some weight. Next patient, please.
It’s like being handed a broken IKEA shelf, no manual, and told: “Just build it.”

So now, I’m forcing myself to drink two to three liters of water a day. (I feel like a very hydrated houseplant.) I’m dragging myself onto my treadmill for 15 minutes daily, not that I’m seeing much difference so far, but it’s what I can do. The smallest, most manageable habits I can implement without staging a full-blown personal revolution.

No alcohol. Minimal sugar.
Which sounds reasonable in theory.
But let’s be honest, I love chocolate. And I’m not one of those people who can “learn to love” black coffee. My morning coffee without sugar? Not happening. I’ve tried. I’d rather fail in peace.

Meanwhile, as if health management weren’t enough of a life mystery, apartment hunting has quietly slithered into my daily mental chaos. Not that I need to move... but maybe I should? (Welcome to overthinking: population, me.)

Currently, I’m renting a one-bedroom apartment in the city, writing this, in fact, from my overpriced urban shoebox—that costs more than any of my friends pay for their spacious countryside homes.
Their apartments? Double the size.
Mine? Double the rent.
(Do I at least get bonus city air particles? Or a free existential crisis thrown in?)

At this point, I’m basically renting the idea of city living. Paying extra to pretend my life is more exciting than it actually is.

And, ironically, my body and my apartment feel like the same problem in different packaging. Too expensive to maintain, smaller than ideal, and no clear instructions on how to fix either one.

Sure, I could move outside the city and save money. But emotionally, I’m attached to the delusion that city life equals success.
(Reality check: it doesn’t.)

Sure, losing weight sounds simple when said by a man who doesn’t have rogue joints, chronic fatigue, and a metabolism that works like dial-up internet.

So here I am: paying too much rent, walking my 15 minutes a day, sipping herbal tea against my will, pretending I’m cutting sugar (while eyeing chocolate like a forbidden lover), and hoping that somehow, my joints will thank me.

No progress yet. Just me—sweaty, overhydrated, and increasingly annoyed.

But hey... let’s hope I can get this figured out. Because apparently, the skinnier I am, the better life should be.

(Said no piece of chocolate ever.)

I also made a few budget-friendly lifestyle tweaks—read: I stopped getting my nails done (sorry, self-care influencers) and bought myself a fun water bottle. Yes, apparently, a neon pink bottle with motivational time markers is what it takes to convince me to drink enough water. Whatever works.

In a surprising twist, I started reading French books again. Not because I suddenly became that girl, but mostly because it’s cheaper than therapy and technically counts as self-improvement. (Side bonus: if life falls apart, I can do it bilingually.)

And... I reapplied to a job I never thought I’d miss this much. Back to being a front desk manager at Velocity. Honestly, if you’d told me a year ago that I’d be excited about returning to that role, I’d have laughed. Yet here I am, kind of weirdly grateful and happy.

When I moved back to Switzerland, they were the first people who genuinely welcomed me. They were understanding. Supportive. Human. I’ve had my fair share of indifferent, “figure it out” bosses, so having people who actually cared? Wild concept. And now, they’re giving me a fallback plan.

I have to admit: part of me regrets ever leaving that job for my last full-time position. I traded kindness and appreciation for a bigger title... and all the burnout that came with it.

But knowing Velocity still wants me? That they remember me, valued me, and trust me enough to have me back? That actually motivates me. It reminds me I can still do something well enough to be needed. That maybe I’m not as useless as the rejection emails (and my inner critic) keep suggesting.

Of course, it’s not a perfect solution. A part-time job isn’t exactly the financial security or career progression I envisioned at 27. It’s not The Dream™. But it’s a start. A little island of stability in the middle of the storm. Proof that even when life feels messy, someone out there thinks you’re worth hiring... again.

And honestly? That’s worth more than a full set of gel nails.