I’m That Unemployed Twentysomething Living With My Family

A few months ago, I remember applauding myself for being such a successful 26-year-old. I’d so far spent my twenties holding strong stable jobs and living in my own apartments. I felt like I’d somehow escaped the boomerang millennial cliché. I was never going to be that lost and jobless twentysomething, living in her parents’ basement.

Or so I thought.

Last week it dawned on me that my short-term “visit,” sleeping in my sister’s guestroom, had ballooned into a lifestyle. I’d run out of money. Everything I owned was spilling out of a suitcase in the corner. And there I was, skimming through Craigslist ads for yard work and babysitting and sensual foot modeling. I was anything but an exception to the rule. I was the rule.

And then I realized something else: I’m enjoying it.

This is the first time in a long time that I can say I’m not struggling. I make scrambled eggs with avocados in the mornings. My sister lets me eat her Greek yogurt. I don’t mind being a guest in her house, waking up early to the sound of my baby nephew babbling from his crib. I like picking him up and kissing him on his little forehead. It’s important to me right now. I like being in close proximity, after so many years, to the family I wasn’t always so close with. I like that we don’t solely talk over a broken Skype connection.

For years I’ve been aggressively pursuing a career path, traveling as much as possible, valuing independence and autonomy over anything else. I’ve lived in Indiana and Chicago and New York City, promising myself that I’d never crawl back with my tail between my legs. I haven’t always valued my relationships back home, not enough at least, and I definitely haven’t valued myself. For so long, I’d been caught up in what I “should” be doing, in what everyone else wants me to be doing, so much that I’d lost myself. For three years I’d been diligently climbing a career ladder, neglecting my health and my general well-being, without even knowing whether I wanted what stood on top of it.

Coming home meant letting that go. I’ve had time to let my brain relax. I’ve felt my body ease its way out of anxiety. I’m not living on adrenalin; my limbs are loosening, my neck unwinding, my chest expanding, my mind opening; I’m eating and sleeping and exercising; I’m not drinking tall pints of beer for dinner anymore.

As a result: I’ve lost weight, a lot of it. I’ve had time to write and I’m seeing my writing get published. I’ve been met with all sorts of opportunities, to cook and to travel and to write. It feels almost like as soon as I started to respect myself, focus on and listen to and live for myself, that the universe rewarded me for it.

I’m starting to recognize my face in the mirror again. I don’t need to define myself anymore by the big name job I managed to score. I’ve stopped holding onto toxic relationships just to increase my friend circle. I’m not working tirelessly and thanklessly just because someone asked me to. I’ve focused on exploring what I want. And things are starting to fall into place.

The hometown I grew up hating? It’s not so bad. The people are nice and the sun shines more often than it doesn’t. I get to wake up to my nephew’s bright and dimply smile. I floss my teeth and fall asleep early. I’m choosing not to struggle. I’m choosing self-improvement.

Maybe I’m just speaking to myself here, but I’m tired of apologizing for that. I don’t feel like a failure for living unemployed and rent-free. It doesn’t mean I’m abandoning my career. I’ll get back to it. But for now — spending time away from it, quitting a job that at the time was killing me, taking my time, living back near my roots to remember who I used to be — it’s been dignifying. I’ve learned that what’s far away isn’t always better. And this feels good right now.