I am not qualified to give life advice. I forget to drink water, I answer texts in my head, and my laundry schedule is vibes-based at best. But somewhere between academic chaos and my third identity crisis of the month, I realized something: I don’t need a five-year plan, I just need a set of rules that follow oddly specific guidelines that keep me from crashing out over a random Canvas notification or a weird interaction I will overthink for three days. So, here are six of my rules (because six is my lucky number). Feel free to borrow, steal, or remix them into your own.
- The “Third Place” Rule
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I am not allowed to exist in only two locations: my room and wherever I am required to be. At least once a week, I have to show up in a “third place” that is not about being productive. Think a coffee shop I do not usually go to, a club meeting with no resume value, a friend’s dorm, or a random patch of grass on campus where I just sit and people-watch.
When I follow this rule, my week stops feeling like a constant battle between “stressed” and “exhausted.” It reminds me that my life is not just deadlines and recovery; it is also weird overheard conversations, laughing too loudly in public, and that one barista who definitely recognizes me now.
- The “Something To Look Forward To” Rule
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Every week needs at least one thing on my calendar that exists purely for joy, and it is not allowed to be the first thing I cancel when I feel guilty for resting. It can be as simple as a planned FaceTime with a friend, a standing Thursday night show I watch live, or a solo walk where I listen to an album all the way through.
This rule turns my week from one long hallway into a series of little rooms. Even when everything else is chaos, I know there is one moment approaching that is just for me, not tied to performance, grades, or anyone else’s expectations.
- The “Soft Landing” Rule
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If I know a hard thing is coming (a presentation, a long shift, or a draining social situation), I have to plan a soft landing before it happens. That might mean leaving the next hour empty, having comfy clothes waiting on my bed, pre-saving a silly show to watch, or deciding in advance that I am getting fries afterward, no questions asked.
This rule keeps big moments from feeling like cliffs. Instead of obsessing over whether I will “do well,” I can focus on the fact that, however it goes, I have already promised myself a gentle way back to normal. The hard thing becomes one part of my day, not the whole story.
- The “Two-Tab” Rule
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When my brain feels foggy, and I catch myself mindlessly clicking around, I am not allowed to have a million apps or tabs open “just because.” I get two: one for mindless entertainment, and one that quietly feeds me; a playlist I am curating, a recipe I might try, a Pinterest board, a hobby, or a Google Doc where I brain dump ideas.
This rule does not demand I stop scrolling; it just makes the scrolling share space with something that actually feels like me. Suddenly, my screen is not only about other people’s lives, but it is also a little corner where I am building something, even if it is just a chaos playlist titled “main character but confused.”
- The “Low-Effort Connection” Rule
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If someone pops into my head and it would not be weird or unsafe to reach out, I have to do one tiny thing: react to their story, send a meme, text “this made me think of you,” or ask a one-sentence question. There is no pressure to have a whole conversation or no expectation for immediate replies.
This rule keeps my friendships from living only in the “we should hang out sometime!” void. It reminds me that relationships aren’t built on big gestures once a year, but on small, consistent “hey, I still like you” moments that take ten seconds and no emotional prep.
- The “Five-Year Stranger” Rule
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Whenever I’m replaying an interaction for the 47th time, how I laughed, what I wore, or whether I seemed “weird,” I ask myself: “In five years, will this person even know where I am, what I am doing, or how I feel about myself?” If the answer is no, they do not get to be the main judge in my head.
This rule doesn’t magically erase embarrassment, but it shrinks the audience in my mind. Most people in my life are temporary characters; I am the only one who sticks around for every season. I would rather disappoint a future stranger than abandon the version of me who has to keep living in this body.
None of these rules is official or deep. They are just small, made-up deals I keep with myself so life feels less like damage control and a little more like something I actually get to participate in.
If anything, they are at least a reminder that getting through your twenties does not have to be glamorous or profound; it just has to be a little bit kinder than yesterday.
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