Pink Collar Thoughts

When I was a child, I thought success was simple.

Like most kids, I never imagined the concept of career reorientation, burnout, or trying to “find your place” in the job market. In my mind, adulthood worked like a straight line: you study, you get a job you love, people admire your dedication, and eventually you build a good reputation and a stable life.

There were no nuances in that fantasy because I simply did not know they existed.

Before I wanted stability, I wanted to become a fashion designer. I spent hours drawing outfits that objectively looked terrible, dressing my dolls, organizing imaginary fashion shows, and picturing my future collections on real runways. I loved the idea of creating beauty for a living.

But somewhere along the way, I learned that creativity was not considered a “real job.” I was taught, directly and indirectly, that serious people studied serious things. Science, law, medicine, careers people respected.

So I grew up and convinced myself I wanted to study Law.

The strange thing about school is that it rarely teaches you what a profession actually feels like. You choose careers based on prestige, expectations, or movie scenes that made certain lives look elegant and important. Nothing prepares you for the reality of the people, the environment, or the emotional weight of a field.

By my second year of Law school, I realized I did not enjoy either the field itself or the people around it. Still, I stayed. Partly out of ambition, partly because I wanted to prove something to myself. Eventually, I decided to start over and pursue Human Resources while also working full time.

Once again, reality had other plans.

I could not find an HR job willing to accommodate university, so I ended up working in marketing at a corporation instead. That was the moment adulthood truly stopped feeling cinematic.

I do not even know what I expected work to feel like. I think I believed that being hardworking, kind, and genuinely well-intentioned would somehow be enough. Instead, I discovered that workplaces rarely care whether something is your fault or not. You are simply expected to solve problems anyway.

You learn by surviving.

You collect fragments of knowledge from everywhere until everything finally starts making sense. People get frustrated when you do not know something, but nobody tells you where to learn it from. Then, somehow, six months or a year later, you become functional. Useful. Efficient. Nobody raises their voice anymore because now you know what to do.

But even then, you still walk into work every day waiting for the next unexpected problem.

The strangest part is that I no longer feel proud when I succeed professionally.

Not because I immediately chase the next achievement like an overachiever stereotype, but because I simply do not care enough about the work itself. I do my job well, but my emotional connection to it disappeared somewhere between deadlines, approvals, meetings, and exhaustion.

Little me would never have understood this.

As a child, accomplishing anything made me happy, even if it was small or meaningless. Adulthood changes that. Sometimes competence becomes survival instead of fulfillment.

And yet, when I think about it carefully, maybe the most adult thing about me is not my job at all.

Maybe it is the fact that I am doing everything at once.

I take care of my apartment, which I built from scratch into a space that reflects my personality. I take care of my British Shorthair cat. I work full time while pursuing a second degree. I run from university to the office like I am constantly late for my own life. I show up for my friends emotionally and physically. I visit my family in my hometown whenever I can. I pay bills, cook healthy meals, take care of my skin and hair, and still try to protect the small things that make me feel alive: makeup, music, reading, perfumes, essays, playlists, fictional characters, and carefully planned vacations.

I think my exhaustion comes from trying to fit an entire life into twenty-four hours.

Still, I continue to hope that one day everything will fall into place. Maybe that hope is naïve, but right now it feels necessary. It is the only light I can consistently see at the end of the tunnel.

Ironically, the thing helping me survive adulthood is the exact cinematic fantasy I used to resent for giving me unrealistic expectations.

Now, instead of rejecting it, I recreate it myself.

I never leave the house without music in my headphones. On difficult mornings, I listen to songs that make me feel like the main character at the beginning of a romantic comedy, the exhausted assistant with a messy life before everything slowly changes for the better. Lately, that song has been “Alright” by Supergrass.

I plan trips months in advance just so I have something beautiful to look forward to. I build color-coded itineraries, search for museums, landmarks, bookstores, restaurants, concerts, and hidden corners of cities I have not even visited yet. I create playlists specifically for future vacations and listen to them while commuting to work, pretending my current life is simply the opening sequence of something better.

I romanticize responsibly.

Not to escape my life, but to soften it.

And honestly, I love more things than I sometimes allow myself to realize. I love perfumes and skincare. I love reading essays by authors who observe life with honesty and humor. I love rewatching BoJack Horseman because it reminds me how deeply flawed human beings are. I love playing with my cat after long days. I love the feeling of walking through a city with music in my ears, imagining that maybe my life is becoming mine again.

Recently, I realized that this love for small things is exactly what keeps me going.

Not ambition.

Not productivity.

Love.

And maybe growth is not waking up one day as a completely different person. Maybe it is simply learning to stop viewing difficult phases as permanent identities.

I am no longer waiting for my life to begin after I become “successful enough.” I think this is my life, including the exhausting parts, the uncertain parts, and the hopeful parts.

A few weeks ago, after finishing university classes, I rushed directly to the office for a meeting with international management. I was running through the building carrying my laptop, stressed and exhausted, but for a brief second I caught myself thinking:

Dang it. I’m actually doing it all.

And for the first time in a long time, I almost felt like her.

Not the finished version.

Not the final scene.

But maybe the girl from the beginning of the movie who still has no idea how good things will eventually become.

@rebeccatheodorapopa