A Fool at 25

At 25, there are nights when I genuinely wonder whether I have already messed up my life.

Not because I'm old.

Twenty-five isn't old.

But sometimes the pressure makes it feel like it is.

There are moments when I sit alone and think about where I thought I'd be by this age compared to where I actually am.

The difference is painful.

When I was younger, I imagined that by 25 I'd have a stable career, money in my account, a decent place to live, maybe a car, maybe a serious relationship, and enough stability to help my family whenever they needed me.

Instead, I am unemployed.

I've only been employed twice, and neither job lasted three months before I was fired.

I've spent what feels like the longest time trying to find my way.

I've tried real estate.

I've tried tourism.

I've thought about transportation.

I've tried forex.

I've even gambled at some point, hoping that perhaps luck could do what hard work hadn't managed to do.

There was a point when I sold drugs too.

I don't say that proudly.

It was one of those moments when desperation had taken me somewhere I probably should never have gone.

I was looking for money.

Quick money.

Any money.

I wasn't thinking about the bigger picture. I was thinking about surviving and finding a way to feel like I wasn't completely useless.

It didn't become the answer I was looking for.

Nothing magically changed.

And looking back, I understand that desperation can make you consider things you never imagined you'd consider.

There was even a point when I tried being a gigolo.

That sounds crazy when I say it now.

But when you are broke, unemployed and watching your life stand still, you start looking at opportunities differently.

You start asking yourself what you're willing to do for money.

You start lowering the standards you once had for yourself because the pressure to survive becomes louder than your principles.

I won't pretend every decision I've made has been a good one.

They haven't.

I've made mistakes.

I've chased money in the wrong places.

I've trusted the wrong ideas.

I've wasted time.

I've tried things that didn't work.

And I've done things I wouldn't want my younger self to know about.

But every one of those experiences is part of the person I am today.

The hardest part is that I am not only carrying my own expectations.

I'm the firstborn.

That changes everything.

When you're the firstborn, you grow up knowing that your younger siblings are watching you.

Whether you like it or not, you become an example.

Sometimes they don't even say it.

You just know.

They look at you and imagine that one day you'll be the person who helps them.

The person who gives advice.

The person who gets a good job.

The person who changes the family's situation.

The person who can step in when things become difficult.

That's a lot of pressure for someone who is still trying to figure himself out.

Sometimes I look at my younger siblings and wonder what they think about me.

Do they see someone they can be proud of?

Or do they see their firstborn brother struggling to find his way?

That thought hurts.

Because I want them to look at me and believe that things are possible.

I want them to know that their big brother is doing something with his life.

But there are times when I don't even know what I'm doing with mine.

Sometimes my siblings need something and I can't help.

Sometimes I want to contribute to something at home but my pockets are empty.

Sometimes I see my parents dealing with their own responsibilities and I wish I could step in.

I wish I could say, “Don't worry. I've got this.”

But sometimes I don't even have myself figured out.

And that's when the guilt comes.

I start feeling like I'm disappointing my parents.

They raised me with expectations.

They sacrificed.

They believed I would become somebody.

And now I'm 25, unemployed, trying one thing after another, and still searching for stability.

I imagine the questions they might ask themselves.

What happened to our son?

When will he settle down?

When will things finally work for him?

Maybe they don't think those things.

Maybe I'm putting pressure on myself that they haven't even placed on me.

But sometimes guilt doesn't need somebody else to create it.

You can create enough of it inside your own head.

I remember the first time I got a job.

I was happy.

Not because it was some huge position.

Just because it was a job.

Something to call mine.

Something that made me feel like I was finally entering adulthood properly.

For a while, I felt normal.

I could wake up knowing where I was going.

I could tell people I was working.

I could imagine myself building from there.

Then it ended.

Less than three months.

Fired.

The first time hurt.

But I told myself it was just one bad experience.

Then I got another opportunity.

This time I promised myself it would be different.

I would work harder.

I would be more careful.

I would make it last.

But again, before three months were over, I was out.

Fired again.

That second one changed something in me.

The first time I could call it bad luck.

The second time made me question myself.

Maybe I wasn't good enough.

Maybe I didn't understand how to keep a job.

Maybe there was something wrong with me.

Maybe other people could see something I couldn't.

And then came the embarrassment.

Someone would ask, “Where are you working?”

I'd have to say, “I'm currently looking for something.”

The words became familiar.

Too familiar.

You say them enough times and eventually they start feeling like an identity.

I'm unemployed.

Not I'm currently unemployed.

Just:

I'm unemployed.

That's how people start seeing you.

And once people see you that way, they start making jokes.

Some people mean no harm.

Others do.

“You're still looking for a job?”

“You've been at home for how long?”

“What happened to the other job?”

“Bro, you're 25 now.”

The laughter sometimes sounds harmless....