The millennial plan didn’t fail. It just expired: What it means to be burned out, educated, and still dreaming

Millennials did what we were told to do. We went to college. We got the degrees. We built the resumes. We said yes to internships and entry-level roles and the “just pay your dues” advice. We chased promotions, benefits, and stability. We tried to do it in the right order, too: climb the ladder, buy the house, have the kids, be responsible, and be grateful. Because the message was pretty consistent: if you work hard and follow the plan, you’ll be successful, and you’ll be rewarded.

A lot of us did follow the plan. Faithfully.

What didn’t get included in the fine print was the reality of when we stepped into the workforce and what the world looked like when we got there. Many millennials started their careers during a recession, carrying student loan debt that felt less like a temporary burden and more like a second rent payment. We came up in an era of “do more with less,” where job security was shaky and burnout was treated like a personality flaw instead of a predictable outcome.

Now, a lot of us are in our mid-to-late 30s, and we’re looking around thinking: I did all the things. Why do I still feel so tired? Why do I still feel so… unfinished?

So, yes. Hi. That’s me.

I’m 39. I work full time in corporate America in an industry I don’t feel a deep passion for. And I want to say this clearly because it matters: this isn’t a knock on my job or the people I work with. I’ve learned a lot. I’ve gained skills I’m proud of. I’m grateful for the stability and a paycheck and the kind of experience that makes me sharper, more capable, and more resilient.

But I can also admit the truth: my heart isn’t in it.

And that one sentence is the quiet reality behind a lot of millennial lives.

Because when we say we’re tired or we’re stretched too financially thin or we’re trying to figure out what we actually want, the conversation often turns into cultural shorthand.

“Stop buying avocado toast.”

“Stop ordering iced coffee.”

“Stop complaining.”

“Work harder.”

“Save more.”

It’s usually said like it’s helpful advice. But it rarely matches what’s actually happening.

The truth is: the world we live in is not the world we were coached for. The people who pitched us this formula didn’t know what housing would cost now. They didn’t know what childcare would cost either. They didn’t know what “entry level” would mean today. They also didn’t know how many jobs would require degrees, plus experience, plus extra certifications, plus a willingness to always be available.

They weren’t lying. They just couldn’t see the future. And now we’re trying to make the math work in a system that changed.

What my “making it work” looks like

Here’s what that reality looks like in my life.

I work a full-time corporate job. I also teach at two universities to help make ends meet for my family of five. I pick up workshops and speaking gigs. I take on extra work from an editorial company for additional cash flow. And then, on top of all of that, I do the thing that actually makes me feel like myself: I write.

I write stories. I build my author brand. I work relentlessly to get those stories into readers’ hands. Not because it’s cute. Not because it’s trendy. Not because it’s a “fun little side project.” But because it’s the one part of my life that feels like oxygen.

The moment everything clicked

During the pandemic, I had a realization that felt both obvious and uncomfortable: I wasn’t doing what I actually wanted to do.

I did what I was told. I earned the degrees. I built the career. I was responsible. And yet I couldn’t shake this steady, clear feeling: I’m not using the best parts of myself. I’m not making the thing I’m here to make.

It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. It was the kind of truth that doesn’t arrive with fireworks, just a steady internal nudge that gets louder every time you try to ignore it.

Over the last five years, I’ve built an author brand while still holding the rest of my life together. And I want to be honest about what that has looked like, because it’s easy to romanticize creative pursuits and pretend they happen in perfect little pockets of free time.

For me, it’s been:

·       Writing when I’m tired.

·       Revising when I’d rather scroll and zone out.

·       Learning marketing and branding even when it makes my brain hurt.

·       Showing up online when I’d rather stay private.

·       Sending pitches and proposals and submissions and trying again after “no.”

·       Choosing consistency over motivation.

·       Treating my creative work like it matters, even when it’s not paying like it matters.

There’s a specific kind of grit that comes from being a millennial who’s doing the responsible thing while also trying to build the life you actually want. It’s not glamorous. It’s not linear. But it’s real. And it’s what so many of us are doing.

This is what a pivot looks like for our generation

I think sometimes “career pivot” gets framed as a clean break. Quit the job. Start the dream. Reinvent yourself overnight.

For many millennials, it’s not like that. Because we don’t have that luxury. It’s building the dream while you keep the lights on. It’s staying in corporate America because you need benefits and stability, while also acknowledging it can’t be the only place you put your ambition. It’s refusing to accept that your creative life should be the first thing you sacrifice when everything else gets expensive. It’s deciding you can be grateful and still want more.

That’s where I am. I’m not ungrateful. I’m not lazy. I’m not confused. I’m simply awake to what I want now.

The part that matters most

If you’re in the same boat, I want you to know something: you’re not broken because the “perfect plan” didn’t make you feel fulfilled. You’re not dramatic because you want your work to feel meaningful. And you’re not alone if you’re building a creative life in the margins right now.

I’m rounding the corner on 40. I’m a full-time corporate professional. I’m also a university instructor, a mom, a wife, an editor when needed, and an author. That combination doesn’t mean I failed to pick a lane. It means I’m building a life that fits.

If this is what starting over looks like in your late thirties, then I’m not behind—I’m exactly where my story was always supposed to begin.