By: Ma. Patrice L. Manzano
They say your twenties are supposed to be the best years of your life—a time of exploration, freedom, growth, and becoming. But no one tells you how lost you might feel while everyone around you seems to have it all figured out. No one warns you that your twenties might be less about living your best life and more about learning how to survive the weight of your own expectations. For me, this decade hasn’t felt like a highlight reel. If anything, it’s been the most confusing, uncomfortable, and emotionally raw season I’ve ever walked through.
From the outside, it might look like I’m doing well. I graduated from college, passed the licensure exam on my first try, and stood proudly during my oath-taking as a professional educator. I landed my first teaching job—something I once only dreamed of. These are the moments people tend to see: the achievements, the polished photos, the checkmarks. But what followed those milestones wasn’t peace or certainty. It was pressure. It was self-doubt. It was waking up every morning thinking, Now what?
I thought success would feel more solid. That checking boxes—degree, license, job—would finally bring me a sense of security. But instead, my twenties have taught me that each accomplishment only opens the door to more questions: Am I doing enough? Am I behind? Am I making the most of this season, or just surviving it?
The hardest part is how lonely it can feel. Not because I’m alone, but because so much of this journey happens quietly, beneath the surface. Everyone’s trying to figure it out in their own way, but no one really talks about it. We post our wins and filter out the rest. And so, even though we’re all walking through the same fog, it often feels like we’re doing it alone. I scroll through social media and see friends getting promoted, getting engaged, moving abroad, or starting their own businesses. And while I’m genuinely happy for them, I sometimes wonder: Am I falling behind?
But even in the mess, there’s a soft, unshakable truth I’m beginning to realize: I will never be this young again.
There’s something sacred about this time, even with all its confusion. Even when I feel lost. Even when I don’t know who I’m becoming. One day I’ll be older and look back at this version of myself—the girl who showed up to her classroom with trembling hands but a brave heart, who stayed up late lesson planning and still doubted herself in the morning, who felt everything deeply and kept going anyway. I’ll remember her. I’ll be proud of her. I might even miss her.
That thought alone makes me want to embrace this era more fully, discomfort and all.
In your twenties, people tell you to dream big, to say yes to every opportunity, to live with no regrets. But what they don’t tell you is how exhausting that can feel. The world expects you to build a career, find love, stay healthy, look good, manage your finances, maintain friendships, and somehow stay inspired through it all. Sometimes I feel like I’m juggling ten versions of myself—each one trying to meet a different expectation. And sometimes, I’m just trying to get through the day with enough energy to eat dinner before falling asleep.
Still, I’ve come to understand that growth in your twenties doesn’t always look like big, bold moments. Sometimes it looks like getting out of bed on a hard morning. Sometimes it looks like crying quietly in the bathroom during your break, then walking back out with a smile because your students are waiting. Sometimes it’s canceling plans to rest. It’s choosing to breathe through the anxiety. It’s doing your best when you feel like you have nothing left. And all of that—that quiet strength—is worth honoring too.
There’s an invisible pressure in this decade to know who you are and where you’re going, to build your “dream life” while pretending you’re fine. But I’ve learned that this era is less about certainty and more about unlearning. Unlearning what I thought success had to look like. Unlearning the belief that I must earn my worth. Unlearning the idea that being unsure means I’m failing.
This season is humbling. Careers aren’t linear. Friendships shift. People you thought would stay drift away. Plans you were so sure of start to feel distant. Some days feel like I’m walking in circles, only to end up right back where I started. But maybe that’s okay. Because this is also the time when I’m learning how to sit with uncertainty. How to listen to my own voice. How to be soft and strong at the same time.
There are days when I mourn the version of me who was once so sure, so bold, so certain of what she wanted. The younger version who believed that if she just worked hard enough, things would fall into place. And while I miss her simplicity and fire, I don’t want to go back. Because slowly, I’m learning to love this new version of myself—one who asks deeper questions, feels more, reflects more. One who doesn’t have all the answers but chooses to keep showing up anyway.
This version of me isn’t perfect. She cries. She overthinks. She questions. She doubts. But she also hopes. She loves deeply. She tries hard. She shows up. And maybe that’s what being in your twenties is really about—not mastering life, but learning how to live it while holding space for your own becoming.
There’s something incredibly brave about simply trying. About showing up to your life every day even when it doesn’t feel glamorous. About choosing to believe that your path, with all its detours, is still worthy. I think we need to talk about that more. We need to remind ourselves that it’s okay to grow slowly. That healing, figuring things out, and becoming the person you’re meant to be isn’t a race. It’s a process. A sacred one.
Being one of the youngest educators at Bataan National High School – Senior High School, I’ve felt the weight of comparison in unexpected ways. My colleagues are in their 30s, 40s, and 50s—seasoned, experienced, sure of their footing—while I’m still figuring out who I am in my twenties. There are moments I feel like I’m racing to catch up, trying to match their composure, their confidence, their certainty. They move with an ease that only comes with time and experience, and some days, I can’t help but feel like a little girl wearing shoes far too big for her feet.
But I’ve come to understand that we’re not meant to be on the same timeline. I’m not behind—I’m just at the beginning of my own story. I’m still learning, still stumbling, still finding my voice. And that beginning, with all its growing pains and quiet victories, is still valid. Still worthy. Still beautiful. I’ve learned to stop measuring my progress against someone else’s middle. I’ve started to honor my own pace.
And so, to anyone else in her twenties—especially those trying to find their place in a world that expects so much from you so soon—please don’t rush through it. Don’t wish it all away just to feel “figured out.” Enjoy being young while you’re still young. Take the trip. Laugh a little louder. Cry when you need to. Let go of the pressure to have it all together. This is your becoming, too. It’s messy, it’s real, and it’s entirely yours to live.
Talk to your friends—not just about the good things, but the hard ones too. Be honest about your struggles. Tell someone you’re proud of them. Let someone tell you they’re proud of you. We’re all just trying to figure it out together. We all feel lost sometimes, and we all need a little reminder that we’re not alone in that.
You’ll never be this young again. So live it fully—even if you’re scared, even if it’s hard.
Because one day, you’ll look back and realize: this was the season that quietly shaped you into everything you were meant to be. The nights you stayed up overthinking. The mornings you showed up tired but present. The tears you cried on your own. The silent victories no one saw but you. They all mattered. They were all part of the becoming.
This is not the end of the story—it’s the tender, unfolding middle. The part where you’re not yet who you’ll be, but you’re no longer who you were. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the most sacred part of all.
So for now, I’ll honor this version of myself—the one still growing, still dreaming, still trying. Because she is enough. Because she is brave. Because she is still becoming.
Citation & Access:
This article is archived and citable via DOI:
Bughaw Review 
Leave a comment