What Euphoria and My 20s Taught Me About Peace
I used to be a chronic romantic. Even my writing in this exact space was defined by a dreamy, starry-eyed belief in the grand illusion of genuine romantic love and sisterhood, always looking at the world through a soft, forgiving lens. But maturity has a brutal way of clearing your vision. Recently, after a quiet afternoon nap, I woke up with a profound, calm revelation that the version of love I was conditioned to believe in simply does not exist. It felt like breaking out of a simulation.
Watching the latest season of Euphoria served as a stark literary mirror for this shift. The show is often critiqued for its hyperbole, but it functions as a terrifyingly accurate cautionary tale about what happens when women lower their guards or compromise their boundaries. Look at Maddy, a brilliant and fierce force who allowed her attachment to a volatile partner and friend drag her into a cycle of emotional trauma. Look at Cassie, completely destroying her dignity to feel chosen by a low-effort man. Look at Rue, whose lack of armor left her entirely vulnerable to calculated predators, or the tragic background characters stripped of their identities over missing documents in a safe. The thesis of the show is clear. When you drop your standards, the world will gladly step in to strip away your agency.
My twenties were my own personal version of navigating that minefield. I spent years in the city, being young and naive, believing people when they showed me polished facades. I once dated a man who seemed like a great catch on paper because he was highly educated with a law background. In reality, his life was a chaotic cyclone of substances and erratic behavior. When my intuition finally screamed at me to walk away, I sent a final message. His immediate reaction was defensive anger, and then silence. I used to feel a lingering sting about how easily he moved on to messier, more vulnerable targets. Now, I see his silence as the ultimate blessing. He needed an easy victim, and I proved to be too strong to manipulate.
The final straw for my belief in modern friendships came recently while I was navigating the exhausting reality of government bureaucracy. I was actively dealing with complex tax filings and waiting on official reassessments due to an accountant’s error. While I was handling these high-stakes, real-world adult responsibilities, a woman I considered a close friend decided to launch a high school level drama campaign against me. She was taking constant passive-aggressive jabs, gossiping behind my back, and trying to use a low-effort man to triangulate and undermine me. When I finally cut her off with a direct boundary, she spiraled completely. She weaponized fake concern, hurled insults, and even contacted my mother to claim I was mentally unwell. My mother instantly dismissed her because she always saw through the act. That moment solidified everything for me. Why should anyone trade their hard-earned peace for main-character narcissism?
Now, at thirty-one, I have built an intentional fortress of solitude. I moved back into the safety of my parents’ home, surrounded by a protective network of my brother, dad, uncles and close male cousins. As a Canadian citizen with a clean record, I have the absolute protection of my country’s laws. I fulfill my social needs entirely on my own terms through high-energy brand ambassador and hospitality work, leaving the performance behind the second I clock out. My real life belongs to me. It is filled with books, movies, and dancing alone in my bedroom. Choosing to be solo and raising your standards to an unreachable ceiling is not a retreat from the world. It is the ultimate position of power.
If you want to read my earlier, more idealistic essays on romance, intimacy, and the magic of connection, you can explore the archive over in my Shakespeare with a Laptop reading room.