They say that life gets better. It doesn’t.

Life was just an upward treadmill. If you run too slowly, you’ll tumble down. If you run just fast enough, you’ll remain in place. As for running fast and hard? Who would do that when the only reward is to continue running fast and hard??

Risa Johnson had finally survived four years of college, 7 cups of c0offee a day and only a few traumatic group projects that she had to carry. Naturally, she thought this meant adulthood would be kinder.

It was not.

Adulthood, it turned out, looked a lot like her childhood bedroom—but with worse lighting and a crushing sense of failure.

She lay on her twin bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars still stuck to her ceiling from when she was nine. One of them had fallen halfway off and now dangled like a celestial warning sign. The posters were gone, replaced by framed inspirational quotes her mother had insisted on hanging.

Dream Big.
Success Is a Choice.
Live, Laugh, Love.

Risa suspected the last one was a threat.

At twenty-two years old, freshly graduated with a shiny new degree and absolutely no plan, she was back in her parents’ house. Not visiting. Not “just for the summer.” Back back. Like bring-your-entire-life-in-three-boxes back.

The house itself hadn’t changed. Same beige walls. Same aggressively floral couch cushions. Same faint smell of lemon disinfectant mixed with disappointment. What had changed was Risa—technically an adult, legally allowed to rent a car, emotionally unprepared to be asked why she was still asleep at 8:12 a.m.

“Risa,” her mother’s voice called from downstairs. “Are you awake?”

Risa squeezed her eyes shut and pretended to be dead.

Footsteps approached. The door creaked open.

“I know you’re awake,” her mom said, in the calm tone of someone who had raised a child for twenty-two years and could smell consciousness.

“I’m thinking,” Risa muttered into her pillow.

“About what?”

“About my future. About capitalism. About how beds are a social construct.”

Her mom ignored this. “Did you apply to any jobs this morning?”

It was 8:14 a.m.

“Yes,” Risa lied, rolling onto her back and staring at the dangling star. “Several.”

“How many is ‘several’?”

“Emotionally? Like twelve. Technically? None.”

Her mom sighed—the long, theatrical sigh of a woman who had birthed a human being and expected a return on investment. “You can’t sleep all day, Risa.”

“I’m not sleeping,” Risa said. “I’m resting my spirit.”

Her mom left without responding, which was worse. Silence meant judgment.

Risa eventually dragged herself downstairs, where her father sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper like it was still 1998. He looked up at her over the rim of his glasses.

“Morning,” he said. “Any luck on the job front?”

Risa poured herself coffee. Black. Bitter. Just like the job market.

“No,” she said. “But I’ve only applied to—” she checked her phone “—nine hundred and ninety-seven positions so far.”

Her dad nodded seriously. “Maybe you’re being too picky.”

Risa paused mid-sip. “I applied to something called Junior Assistant Associate Coordinator Trainee. I don’t know what that means. I don’t think they know what that means.”

Her mom slid a plate of eggs in front of her. “Well, something will come through if you just keep trying.”

Risa smiled tightly. She was trying. She tried every day. She tried so hard her laptop fan sounded like it was begging for mercy. She tried until LinkedIn congratulated her connections for jobs she didn’t want at companies she’d never heard of.

She tried until rejection emails felt personal.

And then, one afternoon—three weeks into living at home and one passive-aggressive comment away from losing her mind—it happened.

Her phone rang.

An actual phone call. Not spam. Not her aunt. Not a reminder that her student loan grace period would end soon.

She stared at the screen.

Unknown Number.

Her heart began to beat like it had somewhere to be.

“Hello?” she answered, suddenly sitting up straight.

“Hi, may I speak with Risa Johnson?”

“This is she,” Risa said, sounding professional despite wearing sweatpants that said Brunch Club on the butt.

“This is Amanda from HR at Luminelle Beauty. I’m calling regarding your application.”

Risa froze.

Application. Singular.

“Oh—yes—hi—hello,” she said, words tripping over each other. “Yes. Hi.”

“We were really impressed with your background,” Amanda continued. “We’d love to move you forward in the interview process.”

Risa nodded aggressively, even though Amanda couldn’t see her. “Absolutely. Yes. That sounds amazing. I agree.”

Amanda laughed lightly. “Great. This would be a second-round interview with the hiring managers. Would you be available tomorrow morning at 9:30?”

Tomorrow. Morning. Managers.

“Yes,” Risa said immediately. “Yes, absolutely. I am free. I am very free. I have never been freer.”

“Wonderful. We’re located downtown—I’ll send you the address and details shortly.”

“Perfect,” Risa said. “I love downtown. Big fan.”

They hung up.

Risa stared at her phone.

Then she screamed.

Not a horror scream. A my-life-is-moving-forward scream. She ran into the kitchen, waving her phone like it was proof of citizenship.

“I GOT AN INTERVIEW.”

Her parents looked up in unison.

“With who?” her mom asked.

“A company. A real one. With HR. And managers.”

Her dad smiled. “See? Persistence.”

Risa didn’t correct him.

That night, she laid out her interview outfit like a warrior preparing armor. She pulled out her best blazer—black, structured, crisp. Paired it with tailored pants and sensible heels. She looked at herself in the mirror and nodded.

Corporate, she thought. Capable. Mildly intimidating.

Her mother appeared behind her like a ghost.

“Oh no,” her mom said.

Risa turned. “What?”

“You can’t wear that.”

“Yes, I can.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Mom, it’s a professional interview.”

“It’s a beauty company,” her mom said. “You’ll look like a lawyer who wandered into Sephora by mistake.”

“I want to look serious.”

“You want to look approachable.”

“I want them to respect me.”

“They’ll respect you more if you don’t look like you’re suing them.”

They compromised, as all healthy adult-parent relationships do: her mom won.

The blazer was replaced with a soft, fancy sweater layered over a crisp collared shirt. The pants stayed—Aritzia, expensive enough to hurt, professional enough to justify the pain. She stared at herself again.

Less Wall Street. More “creative but still pays taxes.”

The next morning, Risa left the house two hours early.

“Isn’t that a bit much?” her dad asked.

“No,” she said. “The subway is a lawless place.”

She boarded the train, transferred twice, got off at the wrong stop, panicked, Googled directions, followed a man who looked like he knew where he was going (he did not), and finally emerged onto the street, breathless and victorious.

She arrived fifteen minutes early.

Too early, probably. But late was not an option. Late was death.

The building lobby was sleek and quiet, full of glass and minimalist furniture that whispered you don’t belong here. Risa checked in with security and sat down, hands folded, posture perfect.

Employees streamed past her, grabbing coffee, chatting, laughing. No one acknowledged her. She felt like a decorative plant.

She checked the time.

9:15 a.m.

She waited.

She rehearsed answers in her head. Tell me about yourself. What’s your biggest weakness? Why do you want to work here? (Because you emailed me back.)

She checked LinkedIn. Stalked Amanda’s profile again. Blonde. HR. Five years at the company. Liked a post about workplace culture.

9:20.

Her palms were sweaty.

9:25.

She adjusted her sweater.

9:27.

The elevator doors opened. A woman stepped out, phone in hand.

“Oh!” she said, spotting Risa. “You’re so early!”

Risa smiled politely.

Inside her head, she screamed: You’re so late!!!

But out loud, she said, “I like to be prepared.”

Amanda beamed. “Love that. Let’s get started.”

Risa stood, heart racing.

Maybe adulthood wasn’t kind.

But maybe—just maybe—it was finally beginning.