Lost in Choices, Found in Small Things
At 27, you’re supposed to be… what? Thriving? Climbing a career ladder? Owning a blender that isn’t from your parents?
Instead, I’m unemployed, drowning in RAV paperwork, and thinking about how the highlight of my week was managing not to fall down the stairs. (Small wins.)
People say: “The world is at your feet!” That’s adorable. My world currently consists of crumpled application forms, a bank account that sighs when I look at it, and a pile of laundry I pretend is a chair.
And here’s the plot twist no one talks about: when you’re unemployed, you suddenly have “all the options.” Which, fun fact, is just code for decision paralysis in its most glamorous form.
Do I go back to studying?
Do I start my own business
Do I become a ceramicist who sells overpriced mugs on Instagram?
Do I suddenly turn into a finance person because LinkedIn says that’s where the money is?
Or do I just take up a weirdly specific hobby—like fermenting kimchi—and call that “my era”?
The truth? I don’t know. I stare at all these possibilities the same way I stare at a restaurant menu: blank panic, knowing I’ll regret whatever I choose.
And while I’m spiraling over “what to do with my one wild and precious life,” the Swiss unemployment office (RAV) is in the corner, waving its little stack of forms, reminding me that I still haven’t manifested a full-time job. RAV is like a very bureaucratic personal trainer: “Okay, so for next time, I need proof that you’re still failing—but could you make it a little more structured? Thanks!”
Filling out those forms is the adult equivalent of being in school again. Except there’s no good grade at the end, just more forms.
Then there’s the fun part—my body.
Chronic illness has this impeccable sense of timing. It shows up just when life is already complicated. It’s like the universe said, “Oh, she’s juggling a lot? Let’s give her pudding joints and a spine that screams louder than her neighbors on New Year’s Eve!”
Acceptance, they say, is the key. I say acceptance is a rickety wave machine: some days you surf gracefully, some days the wave slaps you so hard you lose your bikini top and a little bit of your dignity.
Last week, I fell twice because my knees apparently got the memo that they’re gelatin now. My back hurts if I sit, it hurts if I lie down, it hurts if I stand. Basically, if I exist, something protests. And the fun thing is, you can’t exactly network for jobs when your skeleton has filed a complaint.
But here’s the part that surprised me: in between the waves, there are small things that pull you back up.
Like a dinner.
I finally invited a few people over and cooked. And wow, I had forgotten how much I love it. It’s like muscle memory: chopping onions, tasting sauces, throwing random things into a pan without a recipe because apparently that skill got passed down to me from my dad.
And for one evening, I wasn’t “the girl who can’t figure out her life.” I wasn’t “the unemployed one.” I was just the person who made a good meal. And when people complimented me, it felt like a little life raft: Oh, right. I can still make something good out of a mess.
So this week, I’m running away. (In a healthy way.)
A little trip to Germany—new city, new people, different air. Yes, I know, I’m already “off” work, but being unemployed in a new city hits differently than being unemployed in the same four walls. Plus, it’s Swiss National Day, which means everything here will be closed. Germany, however, will be open. Finally, a country that understands that I need to avoid my life and buy coffee at the same time.
I don’t know what’s next. Maybe I never will.
But I do know this: I have a meal behind me that made me proud, a short trip ahead, and today, the wave is calm enough to stand.
For now, that’s enough.
Anyway, that’s enough life reflection for today—I have a suitcase to pack and exactly zero idea what I’m doing with it.