From Paddle TennisWipeouts to CareerWipeouts: A Modern Adult’s Guide
There’s nothing quite like checking your inbox after yet another hopeful job application and being greeted with:
"We’re sorry, dear Domenico..."
Now, unless I blacked out, legally changed my name, and became an Italian man overnight (entirely possible at this point), I’m pretty sure my name is Vanessa. So was this rejection meant for me? For Domenico? Do they even read our CVs? (I’d ask Domenico, but he’s probably too busy sipping espresso and applying to jobs.)
It’s moments like these that make you question not just your career, but your entire existence. Is it me? Is it them? Am I actually invisible, or just allergic to employment? Or simply unhireable? Either way, my confidence is somewhere on the floor next to my cover letter.
To add insult to injury, my body has decided to join the betrayal bandwagon. After months (read: years) of mysterious symptoms, I finally have a diagnosis. The verdict? Lifestyle change required. Which sounds cute on Instagram, until you realize it means swapping croissants for chia seeds and learning the fine art of resting on purpose. (Spoiler: I hate it.)
Ironically, my new lifestyle demands everything I’ve historically avoided: slow walks, early nights, “listening to my body.” And while my body is busy begging for yoga and anti-inflammatory foods, my mind is screaming for pizza, wine, and chaos. (Some would call this a balanced life. I call it a civil war.)
Speaking of physical rebellion, let’s talk sports. Once upon a time, I played paddle tennis with friends. Last week, I played paddle tennis, starring me as human spaghetti. Because when your joints have their own agenda, not everyone knows you’re fragile until you’re lying flat on the court, pondering your life choices while pretending it’s totally normal. (10/10 for comedic timing.)
Now, being unemployed? That’s a fun novelty... for about two weeks. You start with lazy mornings and “productive me-time.” Then slowly, the existential dread creeps in. Days blur, your LinkedIn starts to feel like a digital graveyard, and your biggest daily accomplishment is not crying before lunch.
Writing helps, sometimes. Though journaling often feels like I’m updating an audience of exactly zero. Friends help too. Listening to their relationship dramas and work crises is oddly therapeutic. It’s comforting to know that even the employed and romantically entangled are barely holding it together. Misery doesn’t just love company—it thrives in group chats.
To save money (and my last scraps of energy), I’ve leaned into my inner introvert. Gaming is now my go-to. It’s affordable, non-social, and unlike real life, The Sims never get rejection emails. (Well, unless I make them.)
And yet… Zürich sparkles in summer. The lake glitters, new restaurants pop up weekly, and there’s always someone telling you about a cool rooftop bar. But when you’re spiraling, even the prettiest city feels like the inside of your own confused mind. (Inception, but sadder.)
Maybe what I need isn’t a new job or a new diagnosis, but simply a few days away. A literal escape. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere my inbox can’t reach me. Somewhere I can remember who I am, before life turned into one long rejection letter.
But here’s the twist: healing demands the opposite of what I want. Less speed, more patience. Less control, more trust.
Still, there are good days. Some mornings I wake up and feel vaguely human. Sometimes I even get stuff done. My friends stick close. My mind wanders, but life keeps moving, like a gentle breeze... one that occasionally knocks me flat (again).
But I get up. Every time. (Maybe not gracefully. But getting up ugly still counts.)
And honestly? At this point, resilience might be the only thing I’m fully qualified in.
Now, if you’ll excuse me... I need to unsubscribe from another job alert, drink herbal tea against my will, and maybe text Domenico.
We’ve clearly got a lot in common.