Perhaps one of the most overlooked privileges is not wealth itself, but having enough margin in your life to respond to reality. Over the last few years, we have become fluent in the language of privilege, speaking easily about financial privilege, pretty privilege, racial privilege, passport privilege, educational privilege and social privilege, and in doing so we have become increasingly aware that people do not all start from the same place and that some doors open more easily for some than for others. Yet there is one form of privilege that seems to receive far less attention, and that is the privilege of being able to do something with the information you have, not simply knowing, but acting, because the truth is that information alone changes very little. We like to imagine that if people only knew better, they would do better, and entire industries are built around this assumption, from self-help books and documentaries to podcasts, awareness campaigns, public health initiative...
The other evening, I went for an after-work coffee with two colleagues. Another day, I had dinner by myself — twice — in a nice restaurant. The kind of place that appears often in movies, books, and vlogs: soft lighting, carefully plated food, the suggestion of a life unfolding well.
I remember sitting there and thinking: is this it?
In stories, this is meant to feel like success. An evening out after work. A quiet dinner in a good restaurant. The kind of adult life that is supposed to arrive once you’ve done the right things. It’s framed as enviable, aspirational — a marker that you’ve made it into a certain version of adulthood.
But nothing landed.
The conversations were pleasant. The food was good. There was nothing wrong with the experience. And yet, all I could think about was how much I wanted to be in bed.
There was no spark. No sense of arrival. Just a subdued awareness of time passing.
I’ve been noticing this more often lately — not just with social rituals, but with milestones.
When I got adult braces.
When I bought land using my own savings.
These were things I had once imagined as pivotal moments. Signs of discipline, maturity, progress. Achievements that were supposed to feel weighty and satisfying. Instead, they passed quietly, almost awkwardly, as though life itself had nodded politely and moved on.
I did not feel transformed. I felt… normal.
And now I find myself wondering — a little nervously — whether the same might be true when I finally build the tiny house I’ve dreamed of for years. Whether even that long-held vision will arrive without fanfare, settle into routine, and reveal itself as simply another place to sleep.
There is a particular kind of disappointment that comes with these moments. Not the dramatic kind. The quiet kind that has no villain. Nothing went wrong. Nothing failed. And yet something deflated.
Maybe the problem is not the moments themselves, but the way we’ve been taught to anticipate them.
So much of what adulthood promises us — in media, in lifestyle narratives, in aspiration culture — is built on scenes. Selected highlights edited for mood and meaning. A coffee date. A dinner alone with a book. Signing papers. Achieving independence.
But scenes are not lives.
They don’t carry the weight of repetition, fatigue, or nervous systems stretched thin. They skip the hours between. They ignore the fact that by the time many of us reach these milestones, we are already tired — not of life, exactly, but of striving toward symbols.
Perhaps the exhaustion isn’t physical. Perhaps it’s emotional. Or imaginative.
We work so hard toward certain ideas of “having arrived” that by the time we get there, the energy to feel is gone. Or perhaps we discover that arrival was never supposed to feel like fireworks — that it was always going to feel like quiet continuation, just with different furniture.
There is also something sobering about realizing that milestones do not rescue us from ourselves. They don’t inject meaning on command. They don’t guarantee excitement or fulfillment. They just show us more clearly where we are — and who we’ve become while getting there.
Maybe part of growing older is unlearning the belief that life peaks in curated moments. That satisfaction is not encoded into settings or achievements, but into alignment — which is harder to script and harder to see.
I don’t know yet what to do with this awareness. I just know that the question keeps appearing, softly, without drama:
Is this it?
Not in despair.
Not in bitterness.
Just in quiet honesty.
And maybe that question isn’t a failure of gratitude or ambition. Maybe it’s an invitation to re-examine what we expect life to give us — and what we’re hoping certain milestones will finally explain.
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