You didn't Peak at Chuck E. Cheese

Adulthood feels like constant emotional whiplash. But maybe that’s better than when you lost Rainbow Road that one time.

me and my brother, Kailash, with Chuck E. uncle, a rare moment of camaraderie :)

I love a rollercoaster. Great America’s the Grizzly lives in my head rent-free. The squeals at the top, the immediate drop that leaves you wondering if your lungs are still in their cavity. The adrenaline rush that makes you feel like you just survived a showdown with the laws of physics.

But I can’t say I feel the same thrill about the emotional rollercoaster of everyday life.

You wake up to a doom-scroll of global injustice. A pick-me-up pastry offers a moment of sweetness. Your first Slack message reminds you that we are, in fact, operators of the corporate machine. The mid-afternoon Cava run gives you a flicker of purpose, but your mom just called asking why you don’t come home more often. You’re finally back in your apartment, and the everything-shower with the new body balm you impulse-bought gives you just enough reason to do it all again tomorrow.

Sometimes, I wish my biggest decision was still which sticker I wanted after a visit to the dentist.

This is where my friend Sakina comes in.

A few weeks ago, we were walking home from dinner when she made a surprising proclamation. She confidently said she would choose the struggles of adulthood over the seemingly trivial problems of childhood. I paused.

“You're telling me you’d rather grapple with the weight of society’s chaos than worry about what game to play at a birthday party?”

“Absolutely.”

And the more I thought about it, the more I understood her point.

Adult life brings harder problems. But it also gives us tools, especially the power to choose our community, to carry them with more grace and agency. In return, we get a deeper, more vibrant human experience.

Sure, when you were 11, your biggest problem might have been picking a playground game. But let’s say you were playing kickball and gave up the winning point. Your team groans. Your whole world feels rattled. That crushing feeling of failure hits hard. The pain feels raw and total because we hadn’t yet learned that feelings pass. Each one took up ten times the space in a worldview a tenth the size of our adult minds.

Your parents might have praised your athleticism, but it was your peers' voices that rang loudest. Tommy’s disappointment stung more than anything. The shame wasn’t something we could name. It was something we briefly became. And the shrinking felt uncontrollable.

Now look, I’m no stranger to the weight of the world. The concern that coats every conversation, every scroll, every headline. Without boundaries, it can feel suffocating. But in adulthood, we can name our suffering. We can act on it. What once felt endless now feels navigable. We have perspective. And, more importantly, we have each other.

One of adulthood’s greatest gifts is the privilege of building our own communities. We get to create support systems that reflect our values, dreams, and needs. We’re no longer confined by a school system or our parents’ social lives. We get to choose. And that kind of chosen love is what drives change. It’s hard to pour from an empty bucket, but a life filled with connection and abundance can fuel something bigger than ourselves.

My parents always discuss the importance of community. I used to roll my eyes so far back I’m shocked they came back down. But I didn’t fully understand what they meant until community stopped being a given. Suddenly, every friend, every hangout, every group chat becomes a choice. A deliberate step into connection. A choice to give and receive care.

When we talk about high-value things, we usually mean property, investments, tech, and data. But community is the real luxury good. It’s invisible but invaluable. The power of having people who choose to see you and understand you. People who will celebrate you or even argue with you because you matter enough to be worth the effort.

We live in a time that rewards isolation. Remote work, self-checkouts, solo meals. But even the smallest moments of connection matter. Chatting with your barber. Commiserating with a stranger when the train is delayed. These tiny human exchanges offer levity, even joy. And joy creates meaning. A world full of people living with meaning may be our most powerful path through the confusion, grief, and overwhelm we face.

So yes, maybe life gets harder every year. But it also gets richer, more layered, and more human if we allow it to. We don’t outgrow joy or connection. We just learn how to carry them better. The burden is shared, and the joy multiplies.

I hope you connect with someone in your community today. It might make both your days.