The Youthful Ego: A Freedom I’ve Outgrown

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Back in my senior year of college, I somehow managed to snag a job before even walking the stage for graduation. I worked part-time at an ad agency, and as soon as I had my degree in hand, I dove into full-time work, crafting radio and TV commercials for small businesses nationwide. I thought I was living the ultimate life hack.

Every Friday, my boss would bring in drinks (even though I was still underage), and whenever we scored a new client, we were rewarded with a crisp $100 bill. I felt like I was checking off all the boxes for the American Dream. I worked hard, and it all seemed to be paying off. I was finally able to put a big check next to my “To Do” list of life achievements.

But the job turned out to be an absolute nightmare. After two years of dealing with harassment, condescending attitudes, and clients who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves, I found myself in the E.R. with dangerously high blood pressure. Instead of helping me cope with the stress, my doctor suggested I go off my birth control and “take it easy.” Always one to follow the rules, I took his advice and—surprise!—ended up pregnant.

Suddenly, I was juggling a terrible job (with “health insurance” that didn’t cover pregnancy), a car that was entirely too small for a baby seat, and a brand-new husband who was just as terrified as I was. My rush towards the American Dream began to feel like a reckless sprint. Why did I think it was a good idea to graduate, get married, and have a baby all before 25? I still don’t have a clear answer, except that I was always a planner—someone who liked to know what was coming next.

Being pregnant and married at 23 wasn’t part of my life forecast, but I pressed on. After several weeks of nausea and cat naps in my car, I started to accept my pregnancy. I tried to ignore how miserable my job was and assured my husband that we’d be fine. We’d be the couple that had kids early and retired early. It would be fantastic.

Then, I miscarried. My revised future plan crumbled. The job got worse, too. My boss decided that instead of focusing on our clients, we were going to write ads supporting an anti-gay marriage proposition in California. That was the moment I snapped. After a lifetime of following rules and making plans, I took a long look in my teal iMac and realized I had no idea why I was in that office. Why was I selling my soul at 23?

I closed my office door, called the first airline that came to mind, and used my emergency credit card to buy a ticket to Hawaii. In a moment of clarity, I remembered my husband, and bought him a ticket too. We had no budget for this trip, and we certainly couldn’t afford the debt it would bring, but I was in survival mode—escape mode. I just needed to get away. I opened my door, called in the office manager, and quit.

Driving home with the top down on my ridiculous convertible, Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin’” came on the radio. I was in the midst of what I can now recognize as a serious breakdown, but I didn’t care. Upon arriving home, I announced to my husband that we were off to Hawaii. To his credit, he didn’t freak out. He didn’t even ask about the ticket costs. He just started packing.

I ended up in Hawaii for nearly a month, staying with my dad, who gave me some space. My husband had to return to work, leaving me to spend my days with Panda Express, Law & Order reruns, and beach time. I often found myself gazing into the distance, feeling like Cameron at the bottom of the pool.

That month-long escape was an indulgence we could not afford and was never part of any plan or budget. Yet, it might have saved my life.

Fast forward 15 years, and I’ve weathered even tougher storms, but I’ve lost the reckless youthful innocence that allowed for such spontaneity. I can’t help but wonder what would happen if I decided to freak out again. What if one day I just packed a bag and bought a ticket to the most distant beach I could find? The truth is, I no longer have the luxury to be that selfish. I have three kids now, and I understand that you can’t just spring surprises on your spouse. I’m an adult.

That doesn’t mean I don’t think about it. I reminisce about that month and the freedom it represented. The luxury of youthful selfishness, the space to make mistakes and learn from them, is something I miss. But I don’t necessarily wish for it back. Learning to accept that not everything can be planned and that life is unpredictable—now that’s a luxury in its own right.

You probably don’t need a beach to figure that out, but some days, it sure would be nice.

In summary, Jenna reflects on her youthful choices, the pressures of adult life, and the freedom she once had to make impulsive decisions. She grapples with the responsibilities of motherhood and adulthood, realizing that while the luxury of selfishness is gone, the lessons learned from her past remain invaluable.