How Can I Afford to Live Here? (No, Really. How?)

There’s something about living in a city that makes you feel like you’re constantly auditioning for a role you didn’t know you signed up for.

Some days I’m the lead, strutting down the street, tote bag swinging, earbuds in, coffee in hand, moving with the confidence of someone who actually paid their health insurance on time.

Other days… I feel like an unpaid extra in someone else’s daydream, dodging cyclists, sweating through my outfit, wondering if I look like I have somewhere to be. (Spoiler: I don’t.)

I’ve been unemployed long enough to forget what day of the week it is unless I have a coffee date. And in between sporadic moments of productivity, I sit in cafés writing CVs for jobs I’m not passionate about, trying to sound excited about administrative tasks I secretly hope never reach my inbox.

Is there a way to say “highly motivated” without sounding delusional?

Instead of structure, I rely on distraction, meetings with people I haven’t seen in months, “networking” walks with someone I used to flirt with, lunch with that friend who also quit her job with confidence and now just lives on ginger shots and anxiety. We all say we’re fine.
Are we lying?
Or just hoping we’ll believe it if we say it enough times?

And even though I don’t always know where I’m going, at least I’ve figured out how to style my grown-out, relaxed hair in a way that makes me feel slightly more human.
Some days I even try to look cute — throw on earrings, a good lip balm, a shirt that says “ I heart Cowboys.”

Because if nothing else, I believe in showing up for life looking like you might have it together — even if you’re held together with caffeine, vibes, and hair oil.

Then it happened — my first job interview.
A flicker of hope. Finally (After three weeks). Something.

It was for a sales job. In a language I speak fluently. In a field I’ve worked in.
A sign from the universe?

Well, kind of.

Because the only reason I got the interview was because I’m Italian, and they needed someone who can pronounce Arrivederci with credibility. That was my edge.

And the salary?
Not even half of what I earned before.

Let me repeat that. Not less, not “starting salary,” not “with room to grow.”
Literally.
Half.
Because clearly, financial stability from a single paycheck is a vintage concept, charming, but no longer in circulation.

Since when did being barely able to survive count as an opportunity?

And then, as if on cue, the comments roll in:

“A job is a job.”
“It’s a foot in the door.”
“You can always pick up something on the side.”

Right. Because nothing screams “balanced adult life” like working two or three jobs just to afford rent, one decent dinner out a month, and the illusion of stability.

Am I just bad at life? Or is the game rigged, and I forgot to download the cheat codes?

Am I just ungrateful?
Or have we all quietly accepted that exhaustion is the price of existence?

Sometimes I joke about moving back to Italy, where the pasta is cheap, the coffee is divine, and people still make eye contact for no reason other than curiosity.
A slower pace. A softer life.
Could I do it? Could I really go back?

Other nights, I just dream of leaving. Full stop.
A new country. A new job. A new self.
Anything but this purgatory of potential, where every “maybe” feels like a joke with no punchline.

But then… I look out the window.
Zürich, cold, clinical, and emotionally distant, has a kind of beauty that sucker-punches you on a quiet morning. A streetlight hits the pavement just right. A stranger is helping an old woman with her groceries, the lake, still as glass, like it’s holding your reflection on purpose.

It’s tough. It’s brutal. It’s stupidly expensive.
And I love it.

Because here, when things happen, they really happen.
Opportunities aren’t frequent, but they’re life-altering.
A “yes” here could rewrite your entire narrative.

And so I stay.

To cope, I go out.
I meet up with old friends I haven’t seen in years. We pick a place that’s slightly too expensive and pretend not to care. We order coffee like it's a financial decision, then switch to mocktails because... well, what's another crisis?

We gossip like it’s therapy with better lighting.
We trade life updates like war stories. Someone just got promoted, someone just got dumped, someone accidentally fell in love in Portugal, and now has to decide between romance and a lease agreement.

We talk about people we almost became.
About crushes we’re embarrassed to name.
About career paths, we thought we’d already be on.

One friend asks how to impress a girl who’s “out of his league.”
I tell him, “First, stop calling her 'out of your league.' Then be charming, be curious, and don’t use emojis like you’re in a group chat with your teenage cousin.”

Another shares that she’s thinking about moving cities again.
Why is staying put sometimes harder than starting over?

The thing is, we’re all floating. Pretending and coping in style.
No one knows what they’re doing.
But when we’re sitting together, caffeinated, buzzed, and feel heard, we all pretend everything is just well enough to make it through.

Maybe underpaid. Maybe overstimulated. Maybe one overpriced spritz away from a breakdown.
But still here.
Still showing up.
And hey,

It’s not the life I planned, but at least it comes with great plot twists.