It’s strange, isn’t it, how a whole year can pass, and you’re left holding fragments—moments that shine too brightly or ache too deeply to fade. That’s what 2024 feels like to me now. A blur of meetings, deadlines, overpriced everything, and moments when the weight of it all stopped me mid-step, wondering, Why am I here? Silicon Valley. The place where dreams are sold and lives are spent—sometimes literally.
I didn’t always feel this way. At the start of the year, I was still riding that wave of optimism that brought me out west. You grow up in the Midwest, like I did, and Silicon Valley feels like this mythical place where ideas turn into billion-dollar realities. My job? Developer at a SaaS startup. Nothing glamorous, but solid enough to pay rent—barely. I told myself it was worth it, that I’d learn, grow, maybe even “make it big.” Whatever that means. But life has a way of challenging your narratives, doesn’t it?
January was all adrenaline and ambition. I threw myself into work like everyone else. Late nights coding, early mornings debugging, endless Slack messages asking, “Can we push this by EOD?” (We couldn’t, by the way. We never could.) There’s this unspoken rule here: You’re only as good as your last deliverable. And if you’re not grinding, you’re wasting time. I told myself I loved it. Maybe I did, in a way. But somewhere around March, I started wondering why I hadn’t unpacked half my moving boxes yet.
Maybe it was the burnout talking, but there were days when I’d stare at my code, and everything just… blurred. Like my brain forgot how to focus. Even during those so-called “wellness Wednesdays” the company introduced. No meetings, no after-hours pings—great in theory. But deadlines didn’t magically adjust. So, instead of relaxing, I’d sit on my couch, laptop open, pretending to care about yoga videos playing on my phone. Honestly, I think I was more stressed trying to seem “well” than when I was just working through lunch.
Somewhere along the line, the absurdity of it all started hitting me. Like, there I was, earning what my family back in Chicago thought was an incredible salary. Yet every trip to Trader Joe’s felt like a financial strategy game. Eggs were a luxury. Eating out? Forget it. I’d have friends suggest “grabbing dinner,” and my first thought wasn’t great! but how much is this going to cost me?
The rent was the real kicker. $3,200 for a shoebox studio in Mountain View. I tried joking about it—“This place is basically a glorified dorm room!”—but the humor faded after my landlord raised it again in June. At one point, I sat down with my budget and realized I had about $200 left each month after bills. For what? Fun? Savings? A pipe dream, honestly.
Then there’s the social side of things. Everyone here is building something. It’s exhausting. Networking isn’t about making friends; it’s about connections. At a party, someone asked me what my “angle” was. My angle? I didn’t have one. I just wanted to eat my chips and dip without pitching a startup idea. But that’s the thing—you either play the game or risk being irrelevant. And the fear of irrelevance? That’s the real currency in Silicon Valley.
I remember one date that still makes me cringe. Nice guy, software engineer, seemed promising. Until he turned our conversation into an interview: “What’s your five-year plan? How do you think you’re leveraging your role for growth?” I think I muttered something about wanting a dog someday and watched his interest evaporate like steam from my $6 coffee. You’d think I’d be upset, but honestly, I just laughed. It was ridiculous.
The hardest moments, though, weren’t about me. They were about people I care about. Like Jason, my college buddy. He moved out here in March, excited to start fresh. But the job market wasn’t what it used to be, and by June, he was crashing on my couch. I watched his confidence erode with every rejection email. By August, he gave up and went back to Chicago, bitter and broke. I tried to be supportive, but part of me wondered if I’d end up like him someday—disillusioned and defeated.
And then there was Priya, my teammate. One of the best developers I’ve worked with, hands down. When the layoffs hit in September, she was gone in a day. Just like that. Watching her pack up her desk felt… wrong. Like the system had chewed her up and spit her out, no regard for the person behind the work. She told me, “I thought I was doing everything right.” So did I. But what does “right” even mean here?
By the end of the year, I started asking myself questions I’d been avoiding. Like, what am I actually chasing? Stability? Success? Validation? Or was I just running because everyone else was? There’s this idea in Silicon Valley that you’re always one breakthrough away from changing your life. But maybe… maybe it’s okay to stop chasing for a moment. To let the world spin without trying to outrun it.
One night in November, after a particularly grueling sprint, I went for a walk. No headphones, no phone, just me and the cold air. I found myself in a park, staring at the sky. The stars were faint, drowned by city lights, but they were there. And for the first time in months, I felt still. Like the world wasn’t demanding anything from me. It was just… there. Existing. And maybe that’s enough.
I don’t have all the answers. Hell, I’m not sure I have any. But here’s what I do know: Life isn’t about grinding until you collapse. It’s not about being the best or the brightest or the most innovative. It’s about finding those small, quiet moments that remind you why you’re alive. A laugh with a friend. A walk under the stars. Even just a decent cup of coffee that doesn’t cost half your paycheck.
2024 taught me a lot, but maybe the most important lesson is this: Sometimes, the best thing you can do is stop. Stop running. Stop pushing. Just… stop. And maybe, in that stillness, you’ll find something worth holding onto.