48: If This Is Supposed to Be the Best Time of My Life, What Happens to the Rest of My Life?

Does it all just go downhill from here?

I keep hearing it everywhere. In conversations, in newsletters, on social media, from well-meaning adults: “Enjoy your twenties; they’re the best years of your life.” And every time I hear that, there’s a part of me that feels reassured. Because yes, I want to believe I’m currently living the best years of my life. I want to believe that this is it—this is where all the fun, growth, romance, beauty, and discovery happen. But there’s also a question that follows immediately after: If this is the best part, what happens after now? What happens to the rest of my life?

Does it all just go downhill from here?

I think about this a lot. And I’m writing this as someone who’s still in their twenties, who’s still technically supposed to be “in it”—the golden years. I’m writing this not because I’ve arrived at some conclusion, but because I’m trying to understand the script we’ve all been handed about what our twenties are supposed to look and feel like.

I get it. I understand why people romanticise the twenties. It’s the season when you’re untethered. If you’re in your early twenties, probably don’t have a partner yet, definitely no kids, maybe no mortgage, and in the best-case scenario, you’re living in a city you love, working a job that excites you—or at least pays the bills—and you can still make spontaneous decisions about your life. Like booking a last-minute trip. Or starting a podcast. Or switching careers. You have time, you have energy, and you have very few things tying you down. That freedom is a privilege, and it’s real.

But is freedom the only measure of a good life?

I recently took a trip to Paris, and then to Monaco. It was one of those solo-but-not-really trips where I spent some time alone but also met up with friends. And one of the things I kept noticing, especially in Paris, was how many parents were out with their children. Exploring the Louvre. Sitting by the Seine. Taking pictures under the Eiffel Tower. I’ve heard people say that traveling with kids is hard, and I have no doubt that it is. But these families? They looked happy. Exhausted, maybe. But still happy. Still present.

And so I started to wonder: Who decided that joy ends at 29? Who made the rule that your thirties are for surviving and your twenties are for thriving?

Maybe we’re the ones doing this to ourselves. Maybe it’s less about what’s true and more about what we’ve chosen to believe. Maybe we’ve all absorbed this lie so deeply that we begin to treat our thirties like a slow descent into boredom, routine, and fading relevance.

But I don’t want that to be my story.

I want to believe that joy is renewable. That the best day of my life is not behind me, or even right now, but ahead of me. That I get to choose, again and again, what “best” means. Maybe “best” in your twenties means travel and career wins and self-discovery. And maybe “best” in your forties means sitting on a porch watching your kids chase each other barefoot across the grass. Maybe “best” at 55 is writing your memoir. Maybe “best” at 60 is retiring and moving to a coastal town where you drink tea and draw badly but happily. Who knows?

And here’s something else I’ve been thinking: what if the whole point isn’t to chase a single “best” time, but to live well across seasons?

There are things I can do now that will be harder to do later—sure. But there are also things I can’t do now that I may be able to do later. I don’t have the money to fund all my dreams yet. I don’t have the wisdom to handle certain relationships with grace yet. I don’t have the mental clarity to see some parts of life for what they really are. That might come later. And I’d like to believe that when those things come, life will be just as rich, just as vibrant, just as full of wonder, maybe even more.

Because if not, then what’s the point?

What’s the point of growing older if all it means is shrinking dreams and faded joy? I refuse to believe that.

I think what I’m trying to say is: yes, my twenties are beautiful. But they are not the moment. They are a moment. A good one. But not the only one. And I don’t want to spend this decade living like it’s my last chance to live fully. I want to enjoy it, yes. I want to travel and dance and try new things and fall in love and write and build a life. But I want to believe that there are also other chapters of life ahead that will be filled with the kind of joy I can’t even begin to imagine yet.

We need to stop placing expiry dates on joy. On curiosity. On adventure. On discovery. We need to stop telling people that once you hit 30 or 35 or 40, it’s all downhill from there. Because it’s not. It doesn’t have to be.

And sure, things will get harder. Responsibilities will increase. Bodies will change. Time will move faster. But if joy is possible now, then joy is possible then. If “the best years” are about living with intention and openness, then we can choose to live like that at any age.

So here’s my quiet rebellion against the narrative: I’m not going to treat my twenties like a countdown to despair. I’m going to treat every decade of my life like it has something to offer. Something to teach me. Something to delight in.

Because if, by 30, the best years of my life are behind me, then what’s the point of waking up tomorrow?

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Question for you: Do you still see your twenties as the best time of your life, or do you believe there's even more joy ahead?