Finding Your Whimsy in a God-Awful Job Market

The Girl Who Wanted to End It All Is Now Twirling in Her Kitchen

By Stella Speridon-Violet

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Why at sixteen was I so desperate to end it all, but at twenty-two, I’m twirling around in a pink tutu I bought from my favorite antique store?

I was on the phone with my friend the other day when she asked,

 “Why is being an adult so hard?” 

I agreed, mid-spin, barefoot on the hardwood floors of my kitchen, wearing something I definitely didn’t need but absolutely felt compelled to own. Some sort of a soft, absurd little reminder that I can still choose joy, even when it feels like childhood is long gone. 

Because sure, I am plagued by adulthood, just like everyone else. I have a corporate job that I’m not the most keen on, I have my own apartment, and I pay off my credit card each month. Yet somehow, I feel the same level of “whimsy” as I did when I was five.

It’s like age regressing without all of the pedophilic narratives that can come with those 50-year-old men and women walking around with a sippy cup in their oddly designed secret rooms. 

It’s like, now that I have all this free time and a stable job, I’m remembering how it felt to exist before everything became a necessary feat of survival. And, realizing what made me so happy as a child before it was ripped away from me by teenage angst and the intoxicating rush of self-induced ‘sad girl syndrome.’  

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As kids, we don’t question why we like things. We just do. We don’t ask if something is “worth it’ or if it aligns with our five-year plan. We don’t measure happiness against time, money, or how it might be perceived. 

We just spin around in circles until we fall. 

And then one day, we just stop. Or maybe more accurately, we are told to stop. 

Adulthood becomes synonymous with restraint. With minimalism, in both aesthetic and emotion. Neutral colors paired with controlled reactions and a personality that is curated for the public’s perception. 

So when I’m standing in my kitchen, twirling around in a pink tutu at twenty-two, it feels absolutely ridiculous, but so freeing. I’m rebelling against people telling me I should be reading a book on my couch, looking for new extra-stretch, full-comfort work slacks from Target. 

Because I’m not supposed to go rollerskating at 8 o’clock on my apartment complex’s rooftop or buy a bunch of glitter and construction paper for a new vision board, I’m supposed to be focused and grounded because that’s what “adults” do. 

But, I do what adults do, technically. I go to work, I pay my bills, I answer emails with the appropriate level of enthusiasm (most of the time)… But I also let myself be free. 

I let myself buy things I don’t necessarily need because they make me feel something. I let myself romanticize small, otherwise insignificant moments on my daily sunset walks. I let myself exist outside of constant self-improvement. 

And that’s where the “whimsy” comes in. 

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While I do see some taking it as an aesthetic, I don’t necessarily see it that way; it’s more of a new copy mechanism. A way to soften the sharp edges of a world that often feels too harsh and demanding. Because the truth is, adulthood is hard. 

Not just in the obvious ways of financial stress, pressure to find a job in this god-awful market, or not knowing what the fuck you’re doing, ever. But, also in the way of losing built-in joy and imagination, losing what it felt like to not care about what you like or dislike in fear of public perception. 

So the best way we can handle it is to find our “whimsy” again. Through walking around with a princess crown on for the hell of it, or buying new trinkets you found on eBay, or by starting hyper-specific rituals where you dedicate an hour to a candle, some paper, and the full moon. 

When we start treating our lives like they’re something worth experiencing, not just managing, we are able to become far more “whimsical” than we are told we “should” be.