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We were told adulthood would be about building a career, mastering finances, maybe raising a family.

What no one prepared us for was the deep, almost sacred satisfaction of ending a long day with grilled fish, roasted foxnuts, and a show we’ve seen just enough times to predict the dialogue—yet still rewatch with reverence.

They said there’d be ambition, structure, growth plans.

They didn’t say anything about the quiet thrill of slipping into soft pyjamas at 8 p.m., dimming the lights like it’s theatre night, and queuing up a show that understands our emotional limits.

We were trained to hustle. But no one trained us for the peculiar joy of finishing one really good episode with dinner and calling that success.

You know that moment when the workday ends, and instead of racing to a networking event or cooking something extravagant, you plate your dinner with intentional simplicity—grilled chicken, mango slices, maybe a square of dark chocolate—and press play on a show that feels like comfort food for your brain? That’s the magic no one put in the adulthood brochure.

Our days start early. Alarms go off at 5 a.m., gym clothes on before the birds have finished their morning meeting. That first hour of movement and silence? It’s sacred. But so is what comes later. The ritual of the wind down. The careful calibration of food, lighting, and streaming content. Not because we’re escaping life—but because we’re living it gently.

Some people drink wine. Some journal. We do grilled fish with lemon and olive oil, paired with a plotline we don’t have to Google to follow. Because by 8 p.m., emotional complexity is cancelled.

We don’t rewatch shows mindlessly—there’s too much good content out there. But we do curate. The vibe has to match the energy of “I’ve had a full day and want to feel entertained, not interrogated.”

Isn’t that the real flex? Knowing what you need and building an evening around it?

There’s a rhythm now. We know which snack goes with which show. Light comedies? Trail mix or roasted foxnuts. Emotional dramas? Something dark and a little bitter (chocolate, not our personality). Documentaries about French pastry? A spinach salad, so we feel morally balanced.

And our streaming system? Oh, we’ve got tiers.

>> Tier 1: Background shows we’ve seen 17 times—perfect for folding laundry or overthinking.

>>Tier 2: “I’m half paying attention, half snacking” shows.

>>Tier 3: Phones down, subtitles on, blanket tucked in—this is sacred screen time.

Netflix asking, “Are you still watching?” doesn’t shame us. It sees us.

Yes, Netflix. We are. Still watching. Still breathing. Still choosing calm over chaos and mango over mayhem.

There was a time we wondered—does this make us less ambitious? Shouldn’t we be going to night school or learning something new instead of watching “The Office” again?

But then we realised: real ambition isn’t just about doing more. It’s about doing what matters. And sometimes what matters is rest, clarity, and a perfectly seasoned plate of food in the company of a plot we trust not to emotionally hijack us.

We’ve stopped trying to make our evenings “productive.” We’re making them peaceful. Not in grand, Instagrammable ways—but in small rituals that whisper: You’ve done enough today. You’re allowed to enjoy it.

We still hit deadlines. We still stretch. We still grow. But we also fiercely protect the hour between dinner and dreams. The part of the day that’s just for us—not our boss, not our calendar, not the world.

Because sometimes healing looks like therapy. And sometimes it looks like finishing a season in two days, matching snacks to genre, and refusing to apologise for a night that ends at 9:30 p.m. with a fuzzy blanket that knows our entire emotional history.

They told us adulthood would be about performance. But maybe it’s also about peace.

About knowing what fuels us instead of drains us. About turning down plans because our couch and curated queue are waiting. About trading late-night FOMO for full-body exhale.

We used to chase “having it all.” Now, we curate what’s enough.

A perfectly ripe mango. A show we love. A life that fits.

So if you need us tonight, we’ll be right here: remote in one hand, foxnuts in the other, living a version of adulthood no one warned us about—but we’re quietly mastering anyway.

~