A few months ago, I made a decision that felt both liberating and terrifying. I told my boss I was quitting to explore writing, education, travel, and finally study psychology—something I’ve been curious about for years. It was supposed to be a step toward deeper meaning. Instead, I found myself facing a familiar unease—the same unease I felt two years ago when I left a cushy job at L’Oréal and joined Lend A Hand India, a nonprofit that works with schools across rural India. Each time I pivoted across industries, income brackets, and even time zones, I thought it would lead to contentment. But instead, I kept circling back to the same question: Why do so many of us feel deeply unsettled, even when we’re doing what we’re “supposed to”?
Then I read a study by Jean Twenge and David Blanchflower about the global decline in happiness among young people. The report focused on six English-speaking countries, but I couldn’t help but think how India mirrors the same emotional decline—or perhaps even accelerates it.

Are We Doing Better?
On paper, this generation of young Indians has more access and mobility than before: world-class education, global jobs, smartphones, and a growing startup ecosystem. In my early twenties, that meant working with high-performing teams, travelling frequently, and chasing the corporate high. Yet, it didn’t take long for the numbers to feel hollow.
According to India’s National Crime Records Bureau, student suicides have increased by over 32% in five years. A Microsoft India study found alarming burnout levels among Gen Z professionals. An AIIMS report concluded that 80% of young Indians spend over five hours daily on social media, correlating directly with higher anxiety.
In my work at Lend A Hand India, I met students in remote districts who carried immense ambition but were already burdened by pressure. In metro cities, I saw peers burnt out by age 28, trapped in jobs they couldn’t leave and goals they no longer recognised as their own.
We’re a country built on aspiration. But increasingly, aspiration isn’t leading to fulfilment. It’s leading to exhaustion.

The Illusion of Connection
I was never the most extroverted person, but I remember the paradox most clearly during the COVID lockdowns. I’d spend hours cooking elaborate meals, posting a few photos, responding to comments, and yet couldn’t bring myself to message a close friend. Social media became a performative space. I was “connected” to hundreds yet completely alone.
We’ve mistaken visibility for intimacy, validation for connection, and the more we post, curate, and disappear behind the feed. I’ve seen friends spiral into self-doubt because they’re not travelling as much, earning as much, or “doing enough.”
That quiet loneliness? It rarely shows up on Instagram. But it lingers in WhatsApp voice notes at 1 AM, in therapy sessions we’re unsure we can afford, and in the silence after turning off our phones.

The Pressure to Be Exceptional
When I joined L’Oréal, I believed I had checked the boxes: good school, great brand, promising career. But even then, there was always another metric to chase: a global project, a side hustle, a personal brand. Success became a treadmill on which the speed kept increasing, but the destination never arrived.
And now, in my 40s, even as I try to reshape my life around purpose, I find the pressure hasn’t gone away. It’s just taken new forms—service, social impact, storytelling. What once was about titles and raises has become about “making a difference.” And yet, I ask myself: Is this a real calling, or just another ladder dressed up in more ethical language?
For younger professionals, I see this happening even faster. By 25, many are expected to be financially independent, emotionally mature, spiritually grounded, and socially savvy. It’s no longer enough to be good—you must be remarkable—constantly, publicly, and ideally, by 30.

Career Anxiety in an Unstable Economy
When I was growing up, the formula was simple: study well, work hard, get a job, climb steadily. But today’s economy doesn’t operate on formulas. It operates on volatility. I’ve seen friends with Ivy League degrees panic over layoffs, and others with boutique consultancies hit burnout by year three.
Degrees feel less secure. Roles are fluid. Contracts are short-term. Careers have become patchworks of experiments and reinventions. I’m living that reinvention now—trying to align my work with education and psychology, after years of corporate and nonprofit experience.
But let’s be honest—reinvention is expensive. It requires time, safety nets, and sometimes privilege. Not everyone can afford to quit, and not everyone can afford to fail.

Stigma Around Mental Health
Over the years, I’ve watched conversations around therapy slowly gain traction. But access? That’s another story.
Mental health care remains expensive, urban, and intimidating for many. I’ve encouraged friends to seek therapy, but they often hesitate—not because they don’t want to heal, but because they don’t have the time, language, or resources to do it safely.
Therapy often feels like a luxury, not a baseline, even within my circles. It competes with rent, family duties, and deadlines. When emotional breakdowns happen, the default response remains: “Just be strong.” Or worse: “It’s all in your head.”
But what if the head is the battlefield?

The New Metrics of Worth
At L’Oréal, I tracked sales, marketing KPIS, and consumer reach. Now, in the social impact space, I track education and training outcomes. But no matter where I’ve worked, one thing has stayed constant: my obsession with measurement.
Even in life, we’re constantly ranked—follower counts, speaking gigs, home decor, and weekend productivity. I once met a teenager in rural Maharashtra who wanted to be an “influencer,” not because he enjoyed creating but because, in his words, “That’s the only way people take you seriously now.”
We’ve shifted from asking, “What are you passionate about?” to “How can you monetise it?”

The Productivity Trap
After quitting my job recently, I promised myself I’d slow down. That lasted a few weeks. I found myself filling my calendar again with learning, volunteering, writing, and upskilling. Even introspection had become a project.
I felt guilty resting. It was as if I owed the world a constant demonstration of how “well” I was using my time.
This is the productivity trap. We confuse motion with meaning, reward overwork, and judge rest as laziness—unless it’s branded as “wellness” or “self-care.”
What if the most radical thing we could do is nothing? Not just for an hour, but as a way of being?

Intergenerational Dissonance
When I told my family about leaving a stable role again, they were supportive but confused. “What will you do after this?” they asked. “Will it pay the bills?” These are valid questions—ones they ask out of love, yes, but also fear.
They built their lives on predictability—jobs with pensions, homes paid in EMIS, and careers that made sense on a CV. My life, by contrast, reads like a pivot every few years, from luxury brands to grassroots education to writing about psychological burnout.
Our worlds overlap but don’t always connect. We both want safety; we just define it differently.

A Culture That Doesn’t Allow Grief
One of the most unexpected lessons I’ve learned from leaving jobs and identities behind is that grief doesn’t always follow death. You can grieve a role. A version of yourself. A dream that didn’t work out. But our culture has few rituals for emotional loss. We celebrate comebacks, not collapses. We hide in transitions because we don’t know how to explain sadness that isn’t tied to tragedy. I remember crying quietly on a flight back from Dubai after resigning from my international stint. Not because I was unsure, but because I didn’t know how to process the end of something I’d once worked so hard for.
No one prepares us for that kind of grief.

The Hope in Honest Conversations
What has saved me—repeatedly—are conversations. Real ones. Late-night calls, long walks, and voice notes from friends who don’t need me to be sorted.
Recently, a friend and I sat silently in a café for nearly half an hour. Neither of us had answers, and we both needed to be around someone who didn’t mind the silence.
That’s what most of us are craving—not advice or optimisation, but presence.

What We Need
We need access to mental health, not just awareness campaigns. We need slower spaces that don’t reward speed. We need schools that value empathy, not excellence. We need workplaces that support breaks, not bonuses.
But most of all, we need one another—without competition, without judgment, and without the pretence of always being fine.

A Personal Reckoning
I don’t have a five-year plan right now. I have ideas around writing, teaching, and learning more about how people heal and grow. But I’ve stopped treating life like a checklist. I’m more interested in curiosity than certainty.
You’re not broken if you’re reading this and feel tired, stuck, or overwhelmed. You’re just human. And in this current system, being human is the most demanding job.