The Autumn Inventory

Gen X, Heartburn, and the End of the F*cking World (Again)

There’s something weird happening to Gen X lately.

Not in a “we’re going off-grid and making our own kombucha” kind of way—more in a “quietly breaking down inside while still making dentist appointments for everyone else” way.

We’re in our 40s and 50s now. The autumn of life. The season of pumpkin spice, high cholesterol, and intrusive thoughts like “Is this chest pain from stress or the pastrami sandwich?”

And while we’re juggling kids, aging parents, mysterious health quirks, financial pressure, and the creeping existential horror of AI doing everything better than us… we’re also realizing: We might not be okay.

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We’re trying to stay relevant in a culture that moves faster than our joints can handle.

We’re watching people go viral for eating Tide Pods while our résumés collect dust.

We’re terrified of job loss, yet we still can’t figure out how to update the Wi-Fi router without muttering “motherf—” under our breath.

We’ve read just enough self-help to recognize our generational trauma—but not enough to do anything about it.

We’re grieving parents. We’re raising kids. We’re caring for everyone except ourselves.

We are burnt-out household infrastructure with teeth-grinding and questionable coping mechanisms.

And maybe worst of all—we’re doing it quietly. Because that’s our way. We’re Gen X. Raised on latchkey afternoons and emotional repression. Our love language is “I got it, don’t worry about it.” We’re fluent in sarcasm and silent endurance.

But the weight is getting heavier. And the silence? Deafening.

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A lot of us are clinging to hobbies like life rafts.

We write blogs no one reads.

We collect toys or sneakers or purses that remind us of when the world made sense—or at least had villains you could punch.

We game at midnight. We paint models. We doomscroll with a jaw clenched so tight we can hear it in our ears.

Because deep down, we’re not just looking for distraction.

We’re looking for identity. For connection. For some echo of who we used to be before life layered us in responsibilities, anxieties, and unexpressed grief.

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And yeah—we still want the adventure.

We still want the spark. The connection. The hot sex that doesn’t involve back support pillows. We want to feel wanted. To feel seen. To feel like we still exist beyond roles and responsibilities.

But let’s face it—we’re in that weird in-between zone.

Too old to be “cute” in a TikTok way.

Too young to not care about it.

We’re still checking mirrors. Still adjusting shirts to hide the soft spots. Still flirting—awkwardly, yes, but earnestly.

A lot of us are watching our bodies betray us in slow motion.

Trying to decide if we’re “Ozempic curious.”

Wondering if a little blue pill counts as cheating if you’ve just hit that point in life where everything needs a bit of help.

The desire is there—it never left. But by the time the house is quiet, the dishes are done, and your kid goes the fuck to sleep… let’s just say the spirit is willing, but not much else.

We’re not giving up. Not even close. We’re just trying to navigate intimacy and identity while also dealing with mystery shoulder pain and emotional burnout.

We are no longer in possession or our identities. We are providers. Parents. Dad. Mom. Caregivers. Employees. But we are no longer a name.

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And meanwhile, the world?

Yeah. That’s on fire, too.

Racism’s trending again.

Idiots have platforms.

Elon Musk is somehow still relevant.

Every other day brings a new historical crisis—climate, political, cultural—and we’re supposed to process it in between meal prepping and checking our kid’s math homework (which, by the way, is now basically calculus at age 10).

We lost two years of human connection to a pandemic.

We’re still twitchy and numb, but the world just expects us to bounce back like nothing happened.

And if you’re not thriving, you’re somehow the problem.

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So we vent.

We mutter.

We buy that new hoodie that makes us feel like maybe—just maybe—we’re still cool.

We scroll Amazon for vitamins with words like “Focus” and “Renew.”

We flirt with hobbies and meal plans. We crack jokes that are a little too honest.

We sit in parked cars for five minutes before going inside.

And we keep going—because we always have.

We are, once again, the middle children of history.

Caregivers, fixers, emotional first responders.

Wondering if anyone notices we’re fading.

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But here’s the twist: we’re still here.

Still writing. Still collecting. Still thinking. Still giving a damn.

And that’s not nothing.

If you feel like a ghost in your own life—I see you.

If your only form of therapy is organizing your cables and rewatching The Thing—you’re my people.

If you’re still holding onto hope that there’s more ahead than just managing decline—you are not alone.

We’re not okay.

But we’re still standing in the smoke, middle fingers up, figuring shit out.

Like we always do.

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If you want the bigger-picture version of this collapse — the one that starts in spring and ends in quiet defiance — read: Bracing for the Fall