The Millennial Dream Is Dead — But We're Still Showing Up For Happy Hour
A field guide to finding meaning while everything burns.
Arthur Humeau | Unsplash Every generation has its witching hour, that magical time when truth seeps through the cracks of carefully constructed façades. Boomers had their 5am coffee, bragging about paper routes and paying for college with summer jobs.
Gen-X had their midnight garage bands, channeling angst into power chords.
We millennials have 2 am panic attacks illuminated by blue light, doom-scrolling through other people’s highlight reels while our antidepressants kick in.
The modern speakeasy isn’t a bar — it’s the group chat, where we’re all drinking alone, together. It’s a digital confessional booth where everyone’s a priest and everyone’s a sinner. Where “u up?” isn’t a booty call but an existential question.
Where “lol” means everything from “that’s hilarious” to “I’m dying inside” to “I just got laid off but I’m pretending I’m fine” to “I’m not really laughing, but if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.”
The nights are longer now, stretched thin like our savings accounts and retirement plans. Time is measured in episodes of shows we’re not really watching, scroll depths we’re not really reaching, and jobs we’re not really applying to. The world spins madly on while we’re frozen in our blue-light paralysis, caught between FOMO and JOMO, between wanting to change the world and just wanting to make rent.
House rules
The unwritten constitution of our digital dive bar, where the drinks are virtual but the hangovers are somehow more real, longer-lasting, and harder-hitting:
- No talking about crypto unless you’re making fun of it (and even then, read the room)
- Your zodiac sign is not a personality trait, but we’ll pretend it is because it’s easier than developing one
- If you still have hope, you’re drinking wrong (or you’re under 25, in which case, give it time)
- Venmo requests must be sent within 24 hours, or the shame is yours to bear
- No discussing how much your parents helped with the down payment
- Therapy speak is allowed, but eye-rolling is mandatory (“oh really, your company is ‘gaslighting’ you into working extra hours?” we ask, eyes rolling back into our skulls)
- All complaints must be wrapped in at least two layers of irony
- No one mentions their real job title on dating apps, and those who claim to be moderates are really just hiding something
- The first rule of burnout is you must always talk about burnout
The regulars
Meet our eccentric cast of characters at this blue-lit bar that never seems to close. You can check out whenever you like, but something makes it feel like you can never really leave.
The side-hustle hero
ViDI Studio / Shutterstock
Three jobs, zero savings, and a “manifesting abundance” poster they got on Etsy — from someone else’s shop, because they haven’t figured out how to upload their own designs yet. Sells handmade candles that smell like “crushed dreams and student debt,” “millennial burnout,” and “your ex’s validation.”
Has a podcast about having a podcast, which is mostly interviews with other people who have podcasts about having podcasts. The entire ecosystem is a pyramid scheme of validation.
Claims to be “building an empire” but can’t build their own IKEA furniture without FaceTiming mom and dad. Refers to themselves as a “serial entrepreneur” because it sounds better than “can’t keep a job.”
Their Instagram bio is longer than their resume, and both are equally fictitious. Every conversation somehow turns into a pitch for their latest venture: a subscription box for other aspiring entrepreneurs that contains various versions of caffeine and a monthly pep talk written by an AI they’re pretending is their personal assistant.
The tragic beauty is in their relentless optimism. Each new scheme is absolutely, definitely, finally going to be the one that lets them quit their day job — you know, the one they already quit six months ago because it just didn’t align with their dreams.
They’re either delusional or visionary, and the line between the two is as blurry as their work-life boundaries. Their parents have stopped asking what they do for a living and started asking if they need money for groceries. They don’t, of course — they’re surviving on free samples from networking events and the occasional brand deal that pays in “exposure.”
The influencer-in-training
Ten thousand followers, ten dollars in the bank, and a boundless capacity for self-delusion that would make a cult leader blush. A master in the dark arts of ring lights and photo editing, they can make a Trader Joe’s parking lot look like Santorini and a mental breakdown look like a “vulnerable moment of authentic connection.” Their Instagram bio reads “Digital Storyteller | Content Creator | Dog Mom,” which is millennial for “unemployed but making it look good.”
Their feed is a master class in strategic vulnerability: carefully curated mental health posts between sponsored ads for anxiety rings. They’ve turned their quarter-life crisis into content, their depression into digestible carousel posts, and their relationship status into a multi-part series that’s “currently in development with a major streaming platform” (don’t worry, they made a TikTok about it once, so it counts).
The real genius is how they’ve monetized their own unraveling. Every breakdown is an opportunity for engagement, every therapy session a chance to partner with BetterHelp on their ad reels.
They’ve got a morning routine video that takes longer to film than the actual routine, and a night routine that nobody with actual insomnia could possibly follow. The plants in their apartment are plastic, the books are props, and the dog isn’t even theirs — it’s a monthly rental from a service that definitely shouldn’t exist.
Give them credit, I suppose. They know their life is so thoroughly in shambles that they shouldn’t be fully responsible for another life form, so they had the decency to rent the dog 30 days at a time.
The corporate drone
Somewhere between their third and fourth meditation app subscription, they realized inner peace might just be a marketing scam. Has perfected the art of looking busy while having an existential crisis in real-time. Their Slack status is always on green even when they’re crying in the bathroom — a skill they list under “multitasking” on their LinkedIn.
Their calendar is a game of Tetris played with 30-minute blocks of other people’s time. They say things like “let’s circle back,” and “touch base,” and “can I double click on that,” and “let’s talk about this in the standup” without irony now, and that’s what keeps them up at night.
Their therapy sessions are scheduled between sprint planning and stakeholder updates, and they’ve mastered the art of having panic attacks on mute while nodding thoughtfully at quarterly projections. Imagine making a healthy six figures to come off mute, say 15 words, and go right back on mute while being dead inside the entire time.
The health insurance is golden handcuffs, and the equity is emotional blackmail with extra steps. They’ve got enough airline miles to flee the country but too much impostor syndrome to use them.
Their work laptop is filled with half-written resignation letters, and their personal laptop is filled with half-written novels. Neither will ever see the light of day. But hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?
Their personal brand is “corporate millennial who makes self-deprecating TikToks about corporate millennialism,” a recursive loop of self-awareness that somehow pays the bills. They’re one more team-building exercise away from breaking, but they’ll still show up to the happy hour because it’s “mandatory fun” and they’re gunning for that promotion they don’t even want that’s always just a little further beyond the horizon.
The eternal grad student
Time is a construct, and no one understands this better than someone who’s been “almost finished” with their dissertation for the past three years. Could have bought a house with the student loan money, but instead, they’re the proud owners of a complete collection of unread academic journals, a healthy record collection, and a coffee addiction that should probably be studied.
They claim they’re “contributing to the discourse” but haven’t written a word of their thesis in months. Their browser history is a graveyard of abandoned research topics and Reddit threads about alternative careers for failed academics. They still use their university email for Amazon Prime to get that student discount, and their greatest fear is losing library access before they can download every paper they might conceivably need in the future.
Their apartment is a fortress built of photocopied articles and sticky notes containing half-formed theories. They’ve developed a complex relationship with their advisor that would take another PhD to unpack. Every conversation somehow turns into a lecture about their niche research topic, which manages to be simultaneously fascinating and soul-crushing.
They’re fluent in three languages but can’t explain to their parents what they actually study. Dating apps are a minefield of “so when will you be done?” and “what do you plan to do with that?” Their only comfort is that time is meaningless in academia, and they’re technically still younger than their department’s average graduation age.
The reluctant boomerang
Back in their childhood bedroom at 35, under posters of bands that broke up a decade ago. The Pokémon cards are still there, but now they’re an “investment strategy.” They’ve mastered the art of regressing to their teenage self while simultaneously parenting their parents through the intricacies of Wi-Fi troubleshooting and app downloads.
Mom still asks when they’ll get a “real job,” while Dad pretends not to notice they’re drinking his good bourbon. They’ve developed a complex system of pulleys and whispers to sneak dates up to their room, like they’re 16 again, except now their knees crack on the stairs. Their Tinder bio reads “Homeowner” with a winking emoji — technically true, if you don’t ask whose name is on the deed and who’s paying the property taxes.
They’re in a constant state of packing and unpacking, both literally and metaphorically. Job applications are sent between loads of laundry that they didn’t do as a teenager. They’ve got three dating app subscriptions but can’t bring anyone home without an awkward kitchen encounter that feels like a scene from a sitcom that stopped being funny seasons ago.
Every family dinner is a masterclass in deflection, turning questions about their five-year plan into impassioned rants about the housing market. They’re one avocado toast joke away from snapping, but they’ll still ask mom to pick up oat milk at the store because dairy is just “too hard” on their stomach, and cows deserve better treatment. Their savings account is labeled “Escape Fund,” but it’s mostly being used for therapy co-pays and contributions to the household bills they insist on making, but their parents always try to refuse.
The tech bro in recovery
They survived the latest round of layoffs, but at what cost? Their stock options are underwater, their startup hoodies are gathering dust, they’ve turned “rest and vest” into an art form, and their dreams of changing the world have been downgraded to hoping their severance package clears before the next rent is due. They still wear the company merch, partly out of habit, partly because they’re too depressed to do laundry, and partly because they don’t have other clothes at this point.
Once they spoke in grandiose terms about disruption and scale; now they mutter about “exit opportunities” and “pivoting to fintech.” Their LinkedIn is a graveyard of congratulations on new positions that were obsolete before the first day of work. They’ve got a cemetery of domain names for startup ideas, each one a tombstone for a future that never was.
Keeps talking about starting their own company but really just wants to learn pottery, or woodworking, or anything that doesn’t involve staring at a screen and pretending to understand blockchain while making a number go up in a retirement account they may never live to actually use. They’re one motivational LinkedIn post away from a complete breakdown, teetering between hustle culture, the grindset, and the growing realization that maybe, just maybe, not everything needs to be an app.
Their dating app profiles still list their former job titles because “Senior Rust Developer” sounds better than “Actively Seeking New Opportunities.” They attend networking events with the desperation of someone who knows their skills might be outdated before the free drinks run out. Every conversation is a potential job interview, every handshake a lifeline to a world that’s moving on without them, every business card a polite gesture from their conversation partner to end the discourse early.
The wellness wannabe
Charges $200 for manifestation workshops while manifesting their rent money through increasingly desperate Venmo requests to friends. Has strong opinions about Mercury retrograde and will gladly explain how it’s affecting your chakras, your career, and the global economy. Their crystal collection is worth more than their 401(k), which they justify as an “energetic investment.”
Claims to be “living their best life” but cries during yoga — not because of the deep spiritual connection, but because they pulled something trying to get the perfect pose for Instagram. Their fridge is a science experiment of adaptogens, tinctures, and probiotic somethings that may or may not be sentient at this point.
They’ve got certifications in Reiki, sound healing, and something involving cacao that they can’t quite explain without sounding like they joined a cult. Their apartment is a hazard of precariously balanced salt lamps and dream catchers, with a faint aroma of palo santo masking the scent of impending eviction notices.
Every life setback is an opportunity for a post about “growth” and “the universe’s plan,” accompanied by a selfie that took 16 tries to get right. They’re one green juice away from a total meltdown, held together by affirmations and the vague hope that if they just align their energies right, everything will fall into place. Spoiler: It won’t.
The special of the day: existential crisis with a side of hope
fizkes / Shutterstock
We’re all playing musical chairs with careers that might not exist in five years in an economy that seems designed to keep us perpetually off-balance. The dream used to be a corner office; now it’s having enough savings to last through the next few rent checks without having to sell a kidney. We’re the generation that turned anxiety into an art form and burnout into a lifestyle, wearing our exhaustion like a badge of honor in a race we’re not even sure we want to win.
Every day is a tightrope walk between adulting and regressing, between striving for success and redefining what success even means. We’re expected to save for retirement while the planet burns, to plan for the future while the present feels increasingly unsteady. We’re told to hustle harder, sleep faster, and meditate our way out of systemic issues.
The menu of life choices before us is both overwhelming and underwhelming. Do you want the avocado toast with a side of eternal renting, or the bootstraps soup that’s definitely missing some key ingredients? Perhaps you’d prefer the “follow your passion” pie, served with a hefty dose of reality check and a garnish of gig economy?
And yet, despite it all, there’s a stubborn undercurrent of hope. It’s not the bright-eyed optimism of our younger years, but a battle-worn determination. We’re the generation that’s fluent in both memes and social movements, capable of organizing protests via TikTok and turning hashtags into headlines. We’re resilient not because we want to be, but because we’ve had to be.
Happy hour thoughts
Remember when we thought burnout was a phase? Turns out it’s a lifestyle choice, like veganism or pretending to enjoy kombucha and fermented foods.
We’re all chasing a version of success that looks suspiciously like our parents’ lives, just with better Instagram filters and more therapy bills and the crushing realization that no, we’ll never be able to afford a house. We’re caught in a perpetual state of aspirational adulting, buying plants (or pets, if we’re really desperate) to prove we can keep something alive while our dreams wither on the vine.
The funny thing about hitting rock bottom is discovering it has a basement. And a sub-basement.
And a wine cellar stocked with impostor syndrome and discontinued La Croix flavors. We’re archaeologists of our own potential, digging through layers of expectations set by Baby Boomers, forgotten by Gen-X, and left for us to somehow fulfill while the ground shifts beneath our feet.
We’re the generation of contradiction: environmentally conscious but addicted to next-day delivery, advocates for work-life balance while answering emails at 4 am. We fight for social justice online but struggle to make eye contact in real life. We’re connected to everyone yet feel more isolated than ever.
Our relationships are a complex dance of vulnerability and self-protection. We swipe right seeking connection, but keep our emotional armor firmly in place.
We’re experts at curating our online personas but struggle to define ourselves offline. Love is a battlefield, and we’re armed with read receipts and “it’s complicated” status updates and war stories of getting ghosted for what we promise ourselves will be the final time.
Last orders
Here’s the truth no one tells you: we’re making it up as we go along, and so was every generation before us. They just didn’t have to post about it.
We’re not lost; we’re navigating without a map in a landscape that changes faster than we can document it. The real millennial dream isn’t about having it all — it’s about having enough.
Enough to pay the bills, enough to help a friend, enough to occasionally order guac without checking the account balance first. It’s about finding meaning in a world that often seems meaningless, about creating connections in an age of disconnection.
We’re the generation that learned to turn breakdowns into breakthroughs, even if we’re still not sure what we’re breaking through to. We’ve mastered the art of the pivot, professionally and personally. We’re resilient not because we’re stronger, but because we’ve had no other choice.
So here’s to us — the over-educated, under-employed, perpetually stressed but still somehow hopeful. We may not have the job security, homeownership, or retirement plans of our parents, but we’ve got memes, solidarity, and a dark sense of humor that gets us through.
The morning after
We’ll wake up tomorrow, switch from night mode to dark mode, and do it all again. The sun will rise on another day of possibilities and paradoxes. We’ll face it with a mix of dread and determination, armed with cold brew and coping mechanisms.
Some of us will drag ourselves to offices, real or virtual, to jobs we’re not sure matter. Others will face the uncertainty of freelance life, where every day is a hustle and every client a potential lifeline. We’ll update our LinkedIn profiles and our dating apps, not sure which one we’re pinning more hopes on.
We’ll check our likes and our bank accounts, both leaving us vaguely dissatisfied. We’ll wonder if today’s the day we finally start that meditation practice, write that novel, or figure out what NFTs actually are. (Spoiler: We won’t.)
But we’ll persist
We’ll make memes out of our misery and TikToks out of our troubles. We’ll fight for causes bigger than ourselves, even as we struggle to believe in ourselves. We’ll nurture our plants, our friendships, and the stubborn hope that somehow, someway, things will get better.
Because that’s what we do, we adapt. We persist. We find humor in the darkness and community in the chaos. We’re the generation that’s rewriting the rules of success, relationships, and society itself…even if we’re not always sure what the new rules are.
So here’s to another day in the life of the millennial dream. It may not be what we expected, but it’s ours. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
Last call, folks. The bar’s closing, but the group chat never sleeps. Remember, you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. Same time, same place tomorrow? Of course. Where else would we be?
Alex Garoffolo is a writer whose work moves fluidly between biting cultural commentary and unexpectedly tender explorations of modern life. His essays, often balancing humor with insight, have appeared in major Medium publications and reflect on everything from grammar and late capitalism to loneliness, language, and the quiet absurdity of being alive right now.
