Why most people waste their 20s (and how to avoid it)
Why your 20s aren't for finding yourself—they're for choosing yourself
There are two kinds of men in the world. Those who drift, and those who drive the ship.
“I am the master of my fate, the captain of my soul” - Conclusion of Invictus by William Ernest Henley in 1875
I love this quote because it’s an easy thing to say when you’re young. In your twenties, ambition is endless and energy is abundant, but your results are non-existent.
When you haven’t done anything, you’re judged on what you want to do.
Until you’re judged on what you’ve done.
A 20-year-old with a big dream is ambitious.
A 30-year-old with a big dream is an escapist.
The difference between them isn’t talent or luck—it’s whether they took daily action before the window closed.
The Breaking Point
A mentor once told me that twenty-seven is described as a man’s breaking point—the point where ambition is tested and dreams are brought to reality. I consider this the modern man’s rite of passage.
Here’s what happens: taxes begin to funnel in, wives and kids sneak into the picture, and friends that “would always be there” begin to dissipate—all at once, all demanding your attention.
A man realizes he’s no longer judged on who he “could be” but “who he is”.
The game hasn’t changed but the objectives did. You no longer have more time. The time is now.
No more “I’ll do it tomorrow.”
A lot more “I’ll do it today.”
When the World Gets Stripped Away
Our early twenties are a wishful period. We have the world under our feet and possibilities in our hands. We have dreams to travel the world, build the business, find the relationship. The world is your oyster and we can do it all.
In our late twenties, the world is stripped away.
Travelling now means using up vacation days. Building a business means risking your rent, food budget, and time. What you once saw as the city of dreams is now the city of debt.
The oyster that was yours to conquer has begun to slowly close and conquer you.
I learned this lesson at twenty-three when I dropped out of school.
The day I left, I lost something I didn’t know I was carrying—the magical “I’m studying _____ to be _____” clause. It’s a social safety net. A promissory note for future value. When someone asks what you do, you get to point to tomorrow instead of explaining today.
Without it, conversations changed.
A twenty-year-old studying to be a mechanical engineer has status. People see potential. They see investment. They see someone on a path.
The thirty-year-old mechanical engineer questions whether he has a purpose. People see what is. They see the ceiling. They see someone who arrived.
But the dropout? The dropout at twenty-three has nothing to point to but what he’s doing right now.
No credentials. No trajectory. No “I’m working toward.”
Just: What did you do today?
That question haunted me for months. I’d wake up and have to justify my existence by 9 AM. There was no syllabus to follow. No degree to pursue. No built-in purpose.
I had to choose one.
And that’s when I understood what my mentor meant about twenty-seven. It’s not about the age—it’s about the moment you realize nobody’s coming to give you permission. Nobody’s going to hand you a path. If you don’t choose who you become, life will choose for you.
We’re living in a modern renaissance. Times are good and our chances of survival are in our favour. But that comfort comes with a cost—we’re stuck with the reality of what we decide to do in this world, and most of us are deciding to do nothing.
Many ask about the meaning of life. I choose to wonder: What is the sole reason we don’t kill ourselves?
Harsh—I know. Straight to the point—yes it is.
The answer for me is other people. The future, reality, and provision I can leave them if I were to leave the world. That’s what drives me forward when the oyster starts closing.
Every Year That Doesn’t Compound
As I began my twenties, life was like walking up to a rigged roulette table. The odds are in your favour. If you win, you win it all. If you lose, you have time to start again.
This is a very young age with limitless opportunity. But here’s what nobody tells you: every year passed is another year that doesn’t compound.
At twenty, you can fail and rebuild twice before twenty-five.
At twenty-five, you’re rebuilding while your friends are getting promoted.
At thirty, you’re starting while others are established.
It’s easy to put off work because we always feel like we have time.
When we’re older, we’re reminded how we used the time we had.
Our body is the sum of our habits.
Our relationships show how much we gave versus how much we took.
Our finances directly represent our discipline.
These aren’t abstract concepts. They’re receipts. Evidence of who we’ve been choosing to become, one day at a time.
20s Aren’t for Finding Yourself
I was told growing up that our 20’s are for finding ourselves. I disagree. Our 20’s are for choosing who we’re going to become.
Our dreams and visions for the future don’t mean anything. What matters are the daily actions we take towards them.
James Clear from Atomic Habits talks about how every action we take is a vote for who we are. I’ve held onto this idea because as I get older, I realize I’m not who I say I am but what I do.
It’s the importance of character. In every stage of my life, I’ve always gravitated towards people who do what they say.
It’s been recently, in the last year, where I decided that is who I want to become.
The captain of my soul isn’t the one who dreams about steering the ship.
It’s the one who shows up to the wheel every single day.
What To Do Tomorrow
Don’t let yourself get lost in dreams and ideas.
Here’s what I want you to do: tomorrow morning, before you check your phone, write down one thing you’ve been putting off. The business idea. The conversation. The project. The habit.
Then do it before noon.
Not next week. Not when you’re ready. Tomorrow.
Because the difference between the ambitious 20-year-old and the escapist 30-year-old isn’t the dream—they both have the same dream.
It’s that one of them started taking votes.