Making Peace with Plan B

There’s a quiet kind of grief that nobody prepares you for - the grief of the life that didn’t happen.

It doesn’t come with flowers or condolences. There’s no funeral for the dreams you once held close, no ceremony when you let go of the version of yourself you thought you’d be by now. But it’s real. It sits heavy in the chest. It shows up when milestones pass you by. It whispers late at night, “This isn’t how it was supposed to go.”

For a long time, I carried that grief silently. I thought I was just being ungrateful or dramatic. After all, I had a job. I was getting by. On paper, things looked fine. But inside, something didn’t feel right. I felt stuck - not just in a job, but in a version of life that no longer fit. 

I was living a life that once made sense - the routines, the role I played, the decisions I made - they were built on what I needed at the time. But somewhere along the way, that version of life stopped aligning with who I was becoming. It felt like wearing something too tight - clothes that once fit but now feel uncomfortable, restrictive, even suffocating.

What used to be comfort slowly became confinement.

And yet, I stayed.

Because comfort, even when it’s unfulfilling, can feel safer than uncertainty.

There were opportunities I let pass by - job openings I bookmarked but never applied for, possible promotions I didn’t even dare to try for, ideas I sat on because I feared they wouldn’t work out, versions of myself I never gave a chance to exist. I told myself I was waiting for the “right time,” but deep down, I was afraid. Afraid to fail. Afraid to change. Afraid that maybe there was nothing better out there for me. Afraid that change might cost more than I could afford - emotionally, financially, mentally.

To be honest, I also struggle with low self-esteem. It’s hard to believe in yourself when you’re constantly second-guessing whether you’re even good enough to want something more. Sometimes I’d start imagining a different path, only to shut it down with thoughts like, “Who do you think you are?”

And then there’s the part I don’t always say out loud: I’m a breadwinner. My choices aren’t just about me. They affect people I love and support. That responsibility weighs heavily on every risk I consider. It might sound like an excuse to some, but it’s my reality - one that makes stability a priority, even when something inside me is quietly craving change.

So I’ve learned, for now, to hold both truths: I want something more, and I’m choosing stability. I’m doing what I can with what I have. I may not be leaping forward, but I’m surviving - and that matters.

Still, it’s hard not to compare. Especially in a world that celebrates speed, milestones, and success stories on display. I see people changing careers, chasing dreams, thriving, and sometimes I wonder if I’m being left behind. But I’m learning, slowly, to stop measuring my life against someone else’s pace. Their path isn’t mine. My timeline doesn’t have to look like theirs.

It took me a while - and a lot of quiet self-conversations to realize that I was grieving. Not a single loss, but many silent ones. The life I expected. The person I thought I would be. The path that didn’t unfold the way I planned.

And when I finally gave myself permission to feel that grief, something softened.

I started seeing my current life not just as a failure to launch, but as a version that survived. One that made it through confusion, fear, detours, and disappointment. One that kept going, even without applause or certainty. I realized that even if I wasn’t where I wanted to be, I was still here - and maybe that mattered more than I gave it credit for.

I stopped punishing myself for not “getting it right” by now. I began to see that staying stuck didn’t mean I was lazy or unworthy, it meant I was scared. And being scared is human. Especially when you’re carrying the weight of unmet expectations and the needs of others.

No, this isn’t the life I imagined. But it’s still mine. Still unfolding. Still holding possibilities I haven’t met yet. And little by little, I’m learning to meet myself with compassion instead of criticism. To take small steps, even when I’m uncertain. To believe even just a little that I’m not too late, and I’m not too lost.

This isn’t a success story. I haven’t figured it all out. I’m still working at the same job. Still wondering if something better is out there for me. But I’m writing this. I’m admitting the truth. And maybe that counts for something.

Maybe peace doesn’t come from everything falling into place. Maybe it comes from letting go of the pressure to be anywhere other than here - from choosing, again and again, to be kind to yourself in the process.

And maybe, just maybe, the life you’re building - even through the mess and the misses — is still worth holding onto. - MESSY E.

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