That is just one of many bold statements I was ready to shout into the wind about what’s truly and secretly keeping you stuck in your 20s.

I had a rehearsed draft in my head for everything I wanted to say that I had carefully scripted while in the shower; and mentally prepared myself to solo march against the army of self-help books and podcasts and doctrines that urge you to find a purpose NOW, that make you feel like you’re doing humanity wrong if you don’t know exactly what you’re here to do at the incredibly unripe age of 24.

And then Ela, my family’s dog, died. I woke up half-dazed, half-alive at 6:29 am to a frantic call from my mother on a Tuesday. Between her sobs I could faintly make out that Ela was dead. In the background, I could hear my brother wailing as my dad told him the news. I jumped out of bed, not even bothering to change out of my pajamas, and got in the car.

As I drove to their place, I could barely make out the road before me from the tears clouding my vision. Ela hadn’t been just a dog. She had been family. She had brought a type of happiness and stress relief I’d never seen in my parents. She kept my brother company when he felt alone. She made my sister laugh when she felt down. Her presence alone had profoundly changed my family for the better, and now she was gone. Not even 4 years old and she had passed away unexpectedly in the middle of the night. My mom woke up to find her dead at her feet. Probably from a heart attack, the vet would later tell us.

I spent the whole day keeping my family company. Holding my mom together as she sobbed, the bouts of tears coming and going sporadically throughout the day. Kissing my dad’s forehead as he shook. Hugging my siblings as we tried to make sense of this huge loss and to understand what this new normal would be like. And all the while a gaping hole in my chest throbbed, reminding me that yes, it was still here. That it had never quite left. And that it wasn’t going anywhere.

So no, I’m not here to talk about purpose, but about something much quieter. Something people rarely talk about because it might feel like too much to hold. Or because it might make them look weak. Or vulnerable. Or dumb for feeling it in the first place. But it is one of the things secretly, insidiously, keeping you stuck in your 20s.

And that thing is grief.

There’s the “normal” grief we typically acknowledge. The death of someone we care about. Being laid off. Losing our health to an illness. Breaking off a long-term relationship.

And then there is the grief that gets glossed over because society has deemed it not loud enough. That we expect to just deal with and get over because it’s “not that deep”. Because “that’s just how life is”.

The way your gut dips after the first couple weeks on your first 9-5 that makes you defeatedly question if this is all life will ever be.

The dream you had to leave your country and finally see the world, but the $ amount on your bank account suggests tonight will be another night of eating instant ramen.

The college best friend you thought would be forever, until she starts responding to your texts every 10 business days, then every 6 months, then not at all, until you eventually find out she got married and you were not invited.

The awful news that slaps you in the face the moment you open Instagram, but you keep scrolling anyways because you feel so powerless that the only thing you can do is dissociate.

The list goes on. And regardless of the type of grief you’re experiencing maybe you do take some time to process it. You put your life on pause for a little bit. Talk it out with your therapist a couple times. Journal about it. Get familiar with this new normal. Or you sweep it under the rug along with the dust and pretend it was never there. Honestly? Sometimes you don’t even know it’s there to begin with. But you checked the boxes. You tell yourself that you overcame this. That you fixed it. You pushed through. You moved on.

Until you want to pivot careers to something that actually lights you up and the possibility of making the wrong decision crushes the breath out of your lungs.

Until you want to get into a relationship that means something to you and fear paralyzes you worse than a straitjacket.

Until you decide to set boundaries with your family and spend nights wide awake replaying conversations like a broken record.

The moment you decide you want to do something that you actually care about, you crash out. You get stuck. A wall inexplicably forms in front of you and no matter how many times you butt your head against it, it just won’t budge.

Because grief doesn’t distinguish between being loud or quiet. It doesn’t care that you checked all the boxes and “moved on”. It digs a hole in your chest and makes its home there. Left unchecked, it takes away your focus, your capacity, and your confidence.

And it’s not going anywhere.

For the longest time I’ve hated this gaping hole in my chest. In the last two years, I’ve had no shortage of things to grieve about, both loud and quiet. Whenever I feel like I’m finally getting it together, something else comes to punch me in the face and bring me down. Many times I’ve questioned if I can get back up.

My US visa expiring and having to uproot an entire life I had built over 7 years.
Moving back to my home country, Costa Rica — something I never thought would happen — to live with my parents.
Losing my dream of doing a Master’s in the US, like I always thought I would.
A friendship breakup with my best friend.
The sudden death of my grandpa.
Moving places several times.
Not having the financial stability I used to.
Genocide, and war, and shady politics I feel impotent to change.
And now, Ela’s death.

The thing about grief is that it rarely arrives alone. Most of the time, it comes accompanied by its cousin, the shame goblin, who takes up residence in your head and refuses to pay rent. Oh, but it loves to let you know it’s there.

It does that by whispering in shoulds.

I should be more productive. It’s been six months since my grandma passed away, I should get over it already.
I should be grateful. It’s no big deal I got passed over for that promotion. At least I still have a job.
I should be further along with my business. That bitch was toxic AF anyways, I shouldn’t be losing focus over her.

The shame goblin loves to beat you up, especially when you’re already down. And the worst part is, its voice sounds exactly the same as yours. Most of the time, you can’t tell the difference.

And the more the shame goblin speaks, the more you lose your ability to stay in touch with your grief and be compassionate with yourself. So, grief burrows deeper into her hole, quietly eating you away without being noticed. That wall in front of you gets impossibly taller, inexplicably thicker. And you keep pushing, head-butting it, questioning if you should give up, asking yourself if you’re the problem.

I’m going to say this with all the love that I have for you and for myself:

It’s no wonder you’re stuck. It’s no wonder you’re tired. It’s no wonder you’re angry, and overthinking, and spiraling. This is the normal, human response after years of accumulated grief and shame that have gone unchecked. Actually, if you were just waltzing through life after all of this, that would probably make you a psychopath.

The problem is not you. The problem is that you’ve been taught to follow a script that says: you need to overcome this grief, you need to move on quickly, you need to fix yourself ASAP to keep going through this life. And that quieter grief? Those dreams left unlived? Those desires that never came true? They are inconsequential. This is just how life is. Keep pushing forward.

It is time to let that script go.

Grief is not something to move on from. It is not a setback, here to push you into the floor and sit on you, like a kindergarten playground bully with sticky fingers. It is not a sign from God or the Universe that you’re going in the wrong direction.

Grief is just a part of life. The longer you walk the path of adulthood, the more you will encounter it along the way. And it’s going to walk that path with you until the moment it ends, no matter how many detours you take in hopes it gets lost.

Once you encounter grief, it stays in that home it made in your chest. It is felt in waves. It echoes across years and decades. It is not going to leave. It is not supposed to. Because there is nothing to fix. There is nothing broken in you. Everything is working exactly as it was designed to, because this is what it means to be alive and human. And the more we understand this, the more grief becomes something we can hold instead of something we try to escape.

I don’t know everything. I’m not a therapist. I’m still figuring my own grief out. But here is what has helped me lower that infinite wall in front of me I kept trying to head-butt my way through, until it turned into a door I could just open.

Start charging the shame goblin rent

The shame goblin sounds like you, but it is not you. And thus, it needs to pay rent. Because unfortunately, no matter how many times you tell it to fuck off, it’s also not going to. What the shame goblin needs to be tamed is not force, but subtlety.

So, give it a name. Anything you want. Just a name that is not yours. For example: George.

Now that it has been baptized, become aware of it. When it whispers in your voice, notice it is George, not you. Tell George you know it’s him speaking. This will startle him and get him to shut up for a moment.

And then, you meet George with compassion. Imagine if your bestie was going through the grief you’re going through. Would you talk to them like George talks to you? No. If anyone talked to your bestie like George talks to you, you would punch them in the throat. And then, you’d turn around and tell your bestie that babe you’re amazing. You’re going through so much. Please be kind to yourself. I love you.

Go tell yourself the words you would say to your bestie. Extend yourself the same compassion. And as you do so, breathe deeply, expanding and contracting your tummy (if you want, try this coherent breathing exercise, which will do wonders for your nervous system). It is all it takes to make George hand you the bills and retreat back to his den in the corner of your head.

Pat yourself on the back. You just tamed the shame goblin. At least for now.

Sit at the edge of that hole in your chest and let your feet dangle

The shame goblin retreated. Now you finally have the bandwidth to turn your awareness to that hole in your chest where grief has made a home.

Take a seat by the edge of the hole. Let your feet sway. Invite grief to come out of the depths and join you. Give her some time — she might not come out immediately. Keep doing your coherent breathing exercise, or at least keep breathing deeply.

When she joins you, stay there, even if it feels uncomfortable. Especially if it feels uncomfortable. Breathe slowly and deeply, sharing that space with grief. Don’t attach stories as to why she is here. Because she doesn’t want a nod in her direction. She doesn’t want your explanations. Grief demands your whole presence. She wants all of your attention, even if it is only for a moment. Not to make you suffer. Not to depress you. She wants you to witness all the love that was left behind so that you don’t forget it.

Grief is here because you cared. It is a measure of all you have lived and all you have loved. She just wants to remind you of everything that ever shaped you, because it meant something to you. She put up that wall not to keep you stuck from moving forward, but so you had no choice but to turn around and witness those things that have made you you, even if they’re not here anymore.

Cry. Wail. Laugh. Scream “WHY ME?!” at the top of your lungs. Whatever wants to come out, let it.

That hole in your chest is not an open wound. It is the place that stores all you once loved. You can come here whenever you want to remember. The door is always open.

Own your story

I don’t know about you but 2026 has NOT been my year so far. I have fucked up so many times. A lot of things with Off-Script Club haven’t really happened the way I wanted. My heart does a somersault every time I look at my bank account. The hole in my chest has been heavy with grief I’d been so sure I had moved on from. And the world has been a terrifying place.

In fact, I don’t think I know anyone who has told me that “this was my year” since 2019.

My whole life I thought that I couldn’t go on and do the things I wanted when I was grieving something. My world would stop, and my life would crash. Which meant that I needed to get over that grief ASAP. It’s okay if it was brutal, as long as it was quick, please and thank you. And because things were generally going well in other parts of my life — or other parts of my life needed me — then it meant that my grief was negligible.

I lost my job, apartment, friends, and a whole life I had built in the US due to visa issues, BUT because I had a gap year to look forward to, then I shouldn’t feel bad about it.

I didn’t get to return to the US to do a Master’s like I always dreamed of, BUT because I got the opportunity to build my own business and that makes me happy, then I shouldn’t feel disappointed.

I lost my grandfather unexpectedly to a stroke, BUT because my family needed me, then I should get over my pain fast and be there for them.

See how George the shame goblin always shows up so sneakily, whispering in shoulds?

It was only after Ela died that I had a reckoning with myself. To charge the shame goblin rent. To meet grief at that hole in my chest. To show myself compassion for this loss, and all the others that have happened in the last 2 years.

I understood then that grief and other things can coexist. Joy. Anger. Desire. Sadness. Curiosity. It’s not a zero-sum-game; they don’t cancel each other out. I can grieve AND continue with my life.

You can grieve the versions of yourself that never came to pass AND enjoy your life.

You can grieve all the ways life hasn’t worked out the way you wanted AND keep striving for the things you want.

You can grieve the loss of a loved one AND show up for the things you care about.

You can grieve the injustice in the world AND work towards a better one.

I’m not saying that you can’t give your life a pause and you have to white-knuckle your way through the pain. Quite the opposite. I’m saying grief doesn’t stop after some arbitrary, predefined period. It doesn’t stop after the 3 business days your boss approved for your PTO. It doesn’t stop because other good things are happening for you.

And just because it doesn’t stop, that doesn’t make you weak, or dumb, or incapable. It makes you human. And humans aren’t made in binary code — a collection of ones and zeros. You contain multitudes. You can hold entire universes inside you.

When you can accept that you can grieve AND [fill in the blank]. When you can hold this paradox. When you can own up to all the fuckups, and the things that didn’t go your way, and the losses you have endured, that’s when the wall in front of you becomes a door.

That’s when you can simply walk right through it, and continue writing your story, so it becomes exactly what you want it to be.

Ride the waves

And if that’s all it took, that would be nice, right? But your life doesn’t change and your brain doesn’t rearrange itself because you did something once.

The shame goblin will keep coming out of its spot. The grief will keep burrowing deeper into her hole. The wall will keep coming up. You’re gonna forget all the compassion you just gave yourself and default to your autopilot.

And that is normal.

Grief is felt in waves. And not every wave is the same. On some days the shame goblin will be so loud and the grief will feel so heavy, all you’ll do is lie in bed and wish you could melt into the floorboards. On other days, one look from you will send the shame goblin scurrying into hiding.

And that is normal.

Because just like waves, your capacity also fluctuates. On the days when it feels shallow, give yourself some extra compassion. Forgive yourself for forgetting. Take a pause and just float. All you can do is ride the wave that is in front of you.

The more you ride it, the more you’ll know what to do, regardless of its size.

Immerse yourself in wonder

When the grief feels truly heavy and sitting with her in that hole feels like more than you can handle, find something that fills you with wonder.

Go somewhere with a view and admire the way the clouds roll over the mountains. Cherish a sunrise. Witness the way the moon makes her way across the sky. And if you can’t be out in nature, find somewhere to people watch. Wonder at how every living being flowing around you has a conscience, and a life, and a million things happening to them that you will never know about. Turn on a documentary and learn about the hundreds of fish you didn’t know existed that thrive at the depths of the ocean.

The sublime is everywhere, if you choose to notice. And when you notice, not only with your eyes but with the force of your entire existence, the grief becomes lighter. Wonder does not diminish your grief. It does not help you dissociate. It gets you to zoom out and reconnect with yourself and the world around you.

The fact that we’re all here, standing and breathing on this earth is already a mathematical anomaly. We’re just a sack of meat and bones on a rock that’s floating in space and we get to feel pain, and anger, and joy, and love, and grief, and shame, and excitement. We get to have our hearts splintered open and healed again. We get to take a step forward in a new direction.

Isn’t that crazy? Isn’t that wonderful?

The day that Ela died we were graced with the most jaw-dropping sunset. Swashes of pink, orange, and yellow blurred together in softness, cushioned by clouds. And in the middle, one whole rainbow, bridging the sky and the earth together.

My mom and I stood at the edge of her backyard, awestruck. It was only minutes, but it felt like time stood still. I felt empty and full all at once. I felt like Ela herself was smiling at us from wherever she was.

I let the tears roll as I understood. That we would be okay. Not in spite of this loss but because of it. That life could go on, and that was okay.

That I could grieve and take one small step forward.

If you want to take that step forward but feel unsure of what direction to step into, here is your invitation to The Main Character Challenge. We will start by practicing taming the shame goblin, sitting with your grief, and owning your fuckups, so you can leave the baggage at the door and start writing your story on your own terms. Cesca Centini from The Modern Renaissance and I, your co-facilitators, will be right in the middle of it with you.

After we’ve set you on your way to ride the waves of grief like a pro, we’ll turn to one of the other things keeping you stuck. That’s right, purpose. Or what I prefer to call it, discovering what you actually freaking want to do with your life. And spoiler — it doesn’t have to be just one thing. So, whether you’re someone who draws a blank when asked what they actually want to do, or someone who has too many desires and can’t fit them neatly in a single box, this challenge will disrupt your autopilot, stop you from spiraling about “what do I actually want”, and help you start finding out.

Over 4 weeks you also will:

• Revisit your inner child, that version of you who knew things your adult self has since buried under layers of should and practical and what-will-people-think.

• Build your archetype — the version of you who has already overcome your current struggle — then method-act as them.

• Review everything that surfaced and run it through the one filter that matters: do you want to do this, or do you just like the idea of it?

• Design and go on your own quests to put your desires in action, instead of just spiraling about them.

• Attend live Circle calls to integrate the work as a collective, and show-up calls for quiet co-working with the community.

• Get matched with your own Ally for accountability.

• Access to the community, curated resources, and a workbook with all challenge activities.

Cesca and I believe that there is no such thing as making the “right” decision. There’s only trusting yourself enough to navigate whatever comes after. You will leave this challenge becoming this person. That’s real main character energy.

You can find more info on the Main Character Challenge and apply here.

Join the Challenge

Have you ever made a big decision and instantly questioned everything?

I’m not talking about impulsive decisions made from anxiety, comparison, or a false sense of urgency (which, if we admit to ourselves, we know deep down never felt right in the first place).

I’m talking about those decisions that felt so aligned, so thought out, so settled and expansive in your chest. Those that were initially even hard to make, but you did it! You crossed the bridge and you felt good and proud about yourself for a second, until the anxiety and doubt crept in. Until you found yourself in this strange, new, uncertain place, and suddenly there is this voice in your head criticizing your every move — not just that one decision — when only just moments ago you felt so sure this was right for you.

If this is you — or has been you at some point — don’t worry, you’re not alone. It’s something normal to experience in our 20s, a decade characterized with multiple life transitions and big decisions, and something I have been dealing with a lot lately. Let’s start by calling that nagging, negative voice in your head that makes you doubt your every move by its name: lack of self-trust.

I’m in my late twenties, and after almost a decade of moving countries, overcoming bad relationships and friendship breakups, solo traveling, and pivoting careers, I thought my self-trust was rock solid.

Especially after last year, when I decided to create Off-Script Club, a platform that helps quarter lifers get unstuck and create lives they actually love. I thought I had made the most difficult, life-altering decision already and what came after would be easier.

But what nobody tells you is that, while making that first decision is hard, the most difficult part is the follow-through, the maintenance, the moments when you’re thrust into the uncertainty that comes with new territory and oftentimes even a new identity.

Two things can happen in these moments: 1) your fear and need for safety drive you to throw the towel or 2) you build trust in yourself and take the next small step forward, trusting (for the lack of a better word) in your ability to recalibrate when things don’t go your way.

This is where the magic happens.

The science behind building self-trust

In those moments of in-between that lead you to question every decision you and your ancestors have ever made, why is grounding in self-trust so hard? The answer lies in your brain’s biology.

Your brain is made from millions of connections between neurons. Through these connections, neurons transmit electrical and chemical signals along your nervous system, which allows you to think, move, and feel.

They aren’t permanent though; a process called neuroplasticity allows the brain to reorganize its structure and function through learning and experience.

Neuroplasticity follows a simple rule: neurons that fire together wire together. Every time you repeat the same action, the same neurons fire together1. In other words, practice makes perfect AND new neural connections.

This is why driving the same route to work or brushing your teeth doesn’t take you on a downward spiral — they are actions you have repeated over and over, and have well-established neural connections in your brain. You identify with a person who does these things. Thus, these actions feel safe, trustworthy.

But when you’re faced with a new situation, the neural connections are not there yet or they might be in their early stages. Your new identity hasn’t yet formed, and the panic sets in.

But it doesn’t mean you’ve made the wrong decision, it just means you have to put in the reps so you can start feeling like the ground below you is solid.

Showing up = building self-trust

Here’s what nobody tells you about building self-trust (or any kind of trust, really):

It does not require you to make bold moves or grand gestures. Unfortunately, your life is not a romcom. Some grand gesture won’t build your self-trust back or fix anything. This is just a sure-fire way to burn out and throw the towel at the beginning of your self-trust journey.

All that it requires is that you show up, over and over, in the small ways. That you build evidence, step by step, that you are a person who can operate under this new arena you’re in.

Think about it this way: if your partner broke your trust and showed up with a fancy dinner and a big bouquet of roses — would you trust them again immediately? Probably not. It’s a nice gesture, but trust doesn’t come back in one big moment. It comes back when someone shows up, consistently, day after day. And building self-trust works the same way.

This is how new neural connections and new identities form. Every time you take the next small step and show up, neurons are firing and wiring together, and in doing so, you are becoming someone who can figure it out as they go, and be okay.

I know that this is simple to comprehend, yet hard to put in practice. I struggle with it all the time. So, here are some steps I started taking to put in the reps more easily, and maybe they will work for you too:

1. Get clear. What do you value? These values are the reason “why” you act a certain way. They are your north star. If you’re not sure where to start, take a look at this list of values by Brené Brown and pick 3-5. It is not all encompassing, but it is a good starting point.

2. Map the path. Now, using your values as your compass, ask yourself these 2 questions: what do I want? and what will I do to get there? I know these questions can be a lot. Just let yourself imagine for a moment and ignore all the reasons you tell yourself why something can’t happen for you. This doesn’t have to be a grand 5-year plan, it can be as simple as looking an hour, day, week, or month into the future, depending on your situation. If this is still too much, then ask yourself: what am I willing to explore without needing the answer first?

3. Gain confidence through evidence. Remind yourself that you’re not starting from zero. What are other difficult moments where you have acted with self-trust? How can you translate that trust into your current situation and what you want to do?

4. Brainstorm contingencies. Having a backup plan often helps our brain calm down. Write one or two ways you could pivot and adapt if things went sideways. Then calmly reason with yourself: if any of those pivots happened, would it be the end of the world? The answer is more than likely a no.

5. Get going + figure it out. Take the next small step. When things don’t go as planned (because they usually don’t), put your contingencies in motion or figure out a new way forward. No matter what, stick to your values.

“It is not the size of the action that builds your trust; its the gesture of honoring your values to any degree.” - Dr. Katherine Morgan Schafler

6. Practice metacognition. Think about how you think, which will help you understand how you learn best, choose better strategies, and strengthen those baby neural connections. I love the Plus Minus Next Method by Dr. Anne-Laure LeCunff for metacognition practice.

7. Repeat. Put in the reps, even if you fail — especially if you fail. Apply your lessons from your metacognition practice and do better (or different) next time.

I love this quote because it exposes the three most important things to understand about building self-trust:

1. It is a choice. If you don’t actively decide to build that self-trust, your autopilot will choose for you, and that choice will most likely be to take the path of least resistance and throw the towel.

2. You must support that choice with action. Choosing by itself is not enough, which is why you have to show up. Every rep builds more trust.

3. This happens over time. Building self-trust is not something you do once. It is a process that requires weeks, months, or even years depending on the person and the situation. Don’t let this deter you, though. Good things take time, and you will start reaping the benefits somewhere along the way, not just at the end (spoiler alert: there is no end).

Building self-trust doesn’t end, it upgrades

I thought I already trusted myself and I’m still questioning everything.

That’s the boat I found myself in when testing out my first Off-Script Club prototype with a pilot cohort.

I had worked myself to the bone building the “perfect” platform, then fell on my ass countless times as things went wrong, people didn’t do what I expected them to, and I doubted whether I was cut out for this. I re-worked the entire platform in one day mid-cohort, then decided to trust my original instincts and undid all that work.

This experience made me question whether I had any self-trust at all, where before it was something I was so sure of. When I hit my lowest point, I decided to give stream of consciousness journaling — a tool to braindump all the junk and ideas from your mind into paper in 15 minutes to stop overthinking — a try, and a surprising realization came out:

When you’re faced with new situations due to decisions you made acting with self-trust, then feel like that self-trust is gone, it is not that it suddenly left you or that you never had it in the first place; it means that you are in a new arena, which requires upgrading that trust.

Like a character in a videogame, you have unlocked a new level that is more difficult than the last, requiring more resources and complexity.

So when you start doubting yourself, I hope you catch yourself. I hope you can anchor in that self-trust that got you there to begin with, and not see it as a failure or as a sign you “chose wrong”. Instead, I hope you see it as a sign you’re becoming — one neural connection at a time.

With love,

Lucy
Your Quarter Life Pen Pal

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Dear Quarter Lifer,

Over a year ago I landed in my home country, Costa Rica, after visa issues dismantled the life I had worked so hard to build over seven years in NC, USA. I had no idea what to do next, so I decided to solo travel for a year to “find myself” (whatever that means). Even though I was fulfilling my life long dream to solo travel, I still wanted to become a puddle of goo and melt into the dirt. The uncertainty I was facing in my life weighed on me like a mountain I had no idea how to start climbing. I had never felt so lost.

Back in the USA I’d had everything I thought I should want: the college degree, the job that looked good on paper, a beautiful apartment in downtown, and financial stability. This is everything I had worked towards since graduating high school, but inside something felt off. Still, I didn’t leave willingly because this is what I was supposed to do, right?

Even though I wasn’t stoked about the life I’d left behind, grief cracked me open. I grieved the life I’d had, but also the person I thought I’d be. It forced me to admit that the life I’d so carefully crafted didn’t fit—and to stop pretending that it did. My whole life I’d been a planner. I knew exactly who I was, what I wanted to do, and how to go about it. But for the first time the path before me not only became murky—it disappeared altogether.

Although feeling lost feels like the loneliest experience ever, many of us experience this feeling in our quarter life era. We often feel lost because of grief or a perceived sense of loss. This is the chapter of life where transitions come in waves—we grieve the jobs, people, places, and possibilities we leave behind. Breakups. Deaths. Futures that suddenly close off. Identities that dissolve. Grief is everywhere, and most of us were never taught how to carry it.

I didn’t “find myself” while solo traveling (surprise!), but it did change me. It helped me understand something I had been too blind with panic and grief to comprehend: that uncertainty is not a crisis—it’s an opportunity. It made me feel lost, yes, but it also forced me to let go of everything that wasn’t for me, so that I could figure out what was.

What if getting lost is the point? I thought.

What if instead of looking at the murky ground before me, I could lift my gaze and wonder at the view?

The neuroscience behind feeling lost

At the time, I thought I was broken. Turns out, my brain was just doing its job.

Hating uncertainty doesn’t mean you’re failing at life—it means your brain is doing exactly what it was built to do. When we face uncertainty, our brain lights up certain regions in its salience network: the insula, amygdala, and anterior cingulate cortex (ACC). These regions detect what’s important and flag potential risks, increasing the likelihood that our brain treats uncertainty as potentially threatening. In short, our brain is trying to protect us1.

Our brain runs on predictions and mental models—internal representations of our external reality made up of our beliefs, experiences and knowledge that helps us navigate our world. It constantly compares what it expects about the future with what actually happens—like a GPS recalculating after every wrong turn. When life throws you off script, prediction errors pile up, and panic kicks in.2 3

That’s predictive coding: higher brain areas make predictions; lower ones report back how wrong those predictions were (aka prediction errors). The ACC monitors these “errors,” helping us update strategies and learn from what’s new.4 5

When life feels predictable, the brain’s prediction errors are small—you feel safe and in control. But when life gets uncertain, the errors spike, our mental models become insufficient, and the brain interprets that gap as danger. The good news: we can work with this system. If we learn how to recalibrate it, uncertainty can become the very place where growth happens.

And dopamine helps us do just that. Dopamine—the chemical messenger behind motivation, learning, and reward—helps the brain assign value, predict rewards, energize effort towards them, and decrease prediction errors 6. But not all dopamine is created equal.

• Cheap dopamine engagement with exploitation decision-making fuels habits and comfort. It’s the scroll, the binge, the routine—familiar, easy, and safe.

• Goal-directed dopamine engagement with exploration decision-making fuels curiosity and exploration. It’s the spark that makes us test, learn, and expand our mental models when life feels uncertain. 7 8

Our default is to stay in exploitation mode—doing what feels familiar and safe, even if it keeps us stuck. But to grow through uncertainty, we have to switch on exploration mode. That’s where curiosity comes in.

Curiosity doesn’t just make life more interesting—it literally rewires our brain. It reduces prediction errors, improves learning, and quiets the brain’s panic regions (insula and amygdala) while increasing engagement in the prefrontal cortex. In other words, curiosity helps you shift from crisis to opportunity.9 10

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From Theory to Action

Before we can get curious, we have to calm the chaos inside.

Try this to regulate your nervous system: diaphragmatic breathing technique recommended by Dr. Daniel Amen. Place a hand on your belly. Inhale for four seconds, hold for two, exhale for eight, hold for two. Let your belly rise and fall. Do this for a minute or two, until your body softens and your mind feels less frantic, and try doing this every day a few times a day. You’re literally quieting your amygdala and turning your prefrontal cortex back online.

Now that the alarm bells are lower, we’re ready to activate curiosity.

Enter: side quests.

If life is a story, we’re the main character—so we gotta stop acting like a background prop. Here’s how to start:

1. Lean into your curiosity

• Identify one to three things that spark your curiosity.

• If nothing comes to mind, spend a week as a scientist of your own life. Observe what catches your attention. Write it down.

• Focus on curiosity, not passion. Curiosity is lighter—it doesn’t come with the pressure of “this must be my thing.”

2. Go on the side quest

• Choose one curiosity and turn it into a side quest. Determine the what, how, and when. Optional: recruit someone to accompany you on your side quest.

I will [action] [frequency] for [duration].

For example if creative writing peaks your curiosity, your side quest might look like this:

“I will write one short story and show it to a friend every week for one month.”

For more details, follow Dr. Anne Laure LeCunff’s PACT system.

• Don’t overthink it. The main quest—whatever’s making you feel lost—can wait. Just take the next small step.

3. Reflect as you go

• After each side quest session, check in: What went well? What didn’t? What did I learn about myself? I love the Plus Minus Next Method by Dr. Anne-Laure LeCunff for quick reflections.

• As you explore you will naturally shift from exploration to exploitation mode, which will help us form habits and persist through the changes. That’s how curiosity becomes clarity. Without this balance, we might get stuck in restless exploration without reaping any of the benefits.

• Once you’ve reached your duration goal, reflect: do you wanna keep going on this side quest and further incorporate it into your life in a way that feels more meaningful? Or is this just not for you and you’d rather explore other side quests?

The point of these side quests isn’t just to make uncertainty bearable—it’s to make it transformative. Every small action increases dopamine, deepens learning, and helps you imagine success more easily. It becomes a feedback loop that builds momentum. Before you know it, you’re spiraling upward—the kind of spiraling we want to be doing.

And if you need convincing, remember this:

At worst, you find a new hobby and learn more about yourself. Maybe you meet new friends and become a part of a community you love.

At best, you find something that lights your ass on fire—and the side quest becomes the main quest.

To keep yourself accountable:

• Involve friends or family.

• Leave your side quest in the comments and update us on your progress.

• Or email me at luciana@off-script.club. I promise to write back—I love pen pals.

Maybe sometimes we have to get lost. It is a wake up call.

It is the moment we stop pretending something’s working when it’s not.

It is an invitation to let go of what doesn’t serve us and explore what does—so that we can become a truer version of ourselves.

Next time you feel lost remember this:

You’re not lost. You’re becoming.

With love,

Your Quarter Life Pen Pal