The Pandemic Skip Is Real—We Grew Up Online, And Now We're Still Syncing IRL

If you graduated high school on a Facebook livestream, started college on Zoom, and are now figuring out your first 9-to-5—hi! Same. 👋 We basically entered adulthood through a screen, fast-forwarding from breakout rooms to office cubicles.

There's a weird kind of whiplash that comes with realizing you're technically an adult, but emotionally, you still feel like you're catching up. You pay bills now (sometimes late, but still) and schedule your own appointments, yet something about it all feels… off. It's like we accidentally skipped a tutorial on "How to Be an Adult 101."

And that disoriented, still-catching-up feeling has a name. Welcome to the "pandemic skip."

The pandemic skip is that gap between how old you are and how old you actually feel. Technically, we're in our early 20s, but emotionally and socially? It still feels like we're stuck in 2020.

Life hit pause just as we were supposed to be figuring ourselves out. College students who had just tasted independence went back home. Graduates lost jobs or struggled to find one. Networking, dating, even making friends—suddenly it all happened through Zoom.

Even researchers are noticing it. One study found that during lockdown, time felt like it sped up or slowed down. When your internal calendar gets scrambled like that, it's no wonder stepping back into the "normal" world feels totally out of sync.

Case in point: when the pandemic hit, I was two months away from turning 18—the "official" debut into adulthood. I had imagined the dress, the theme, the 18 roses. Spoiler: my coming-of-age happened in the living room, with the TV playing video messages from friends and relatives, and the roses going to the then 18-member K-pop group NCT.

I remember sitting there with my frizzy, poorly curled hair and a Christmas-y outfit, scrolling through messages while thinking, am I really going to live my entire adulthood in my childhood home?

High school graduation felt like another Google Meet call. No stage walks, no confetti, no teary hugs from friends I'd known since kindergarten. I just threw on a blue polka dot dress, smiled at the camera, and as my name was called, the comments blew up with "SLAYYYY" and cheering emojis. That was our version of applause—pixels and lag standing in for people and noise.

My graduation picture was also a heavily edited photo of my face awkwardly plopped onto the school's toga. (I NEVER acknowledge that photo. 😩)

Discord became our hallway, our cafeteria, our makeshift social life. We swapped memes and real-talked about all the little senior year moments we never got to experience: prom where we could've danced our hearts out, immersion trips with late-night bunk bed chats, intramurals we could've flexed our "senior supremacy," and all the random chaos of the last days of high school.

Then came (online) college. My "campus" was a bunch of tabs: Canvas modules, Zoom org meetings, and professors who couldn't figure out how to unmute themselves.

I still remember my first day orientation seminar. The host went, "Are you guys ready?! Excited to be in college?!" and the entire call just… blinked back. A few reaction emojis, some "👏👏👏" in the chat, and one brave soul who unmuted three seconds late with a soft "yeah." CRINGE.

Will we be like this once we get back onsite?

Behind the nodding along like I understood anything and unmuting just to say, "Yes, Ma'am, we can see your screen," I had to figure out how to apply for my driver's license—searching for schedules of the theoretical lessons, watching YouTube driving tutorials, and sneaking in practical drives with my sister around the village. I even learned how to change my baby nephew's diaper and keep him entertained with random (but safe) things I found lying around the house.

Stepping onto a physical college campus after spending nearly two years online was my real pandemic skip whiplash. My virtual school life had its perks: safety, comfort, and total control of my schedule. I had my beloved Muji planner and my Reminders app—tiny lifelines that gave me the illusion of balance.

As long as I checked off my to-do list for the day, I was fine. Or so I thought.

Even as an introvert, I walked in with big "I got this" energy—after all, these people only knew the online version of me, so I was ready to show a quirkier, more outgoing side in person.

But honestly, it felt like orientation all over again with delayed reactions, shy voices, and a lot of awkward smiles that made me miss the "You're on mute" era.

Instagram Stories also made it seem like everyone had their life together. They breezed through the cafeteria, formed study groups like it was second nature, and somehow managed to grab coffee, squeeze in a workout, and attend a seminar before sunset.

Meanwhile, I was still debating whether it was too embarrassing to email my professor for a deadline extension.

Everyone looked like they had it together until you realized… we were all just winging it. It's that quiet "Me too" moment in a group chat when someone says, "IDK where this building is." Or a friend admitting that she hadn't figured out her thesis topic yet, either. Those small confessions became tiny anchors, proof we're all just trying to keep our heads above water.

And if there's one thing I've learned, it's that IRL doesn't care about your perfectly planned schedule. Sometimes, it means showing up to your 8 a.m. class running on two hours of sleep because a group project ran late or ditching your detailed study plan to help a friend through a meltdown. 

Then came internships and first-job reality checks—adulting on hard mode. I had to map the cheapest, fastest routes to places, laptop bag permanently slung over my shoulder because discussion boards still needed replies, react check-ins hadn't disappeared, and Adobe Acrobat was my bestie in signing government forms. 

Months of bed-rotting after graduating college had my brain on vacation, and now I'm catching up on making office small talk, decoding the new work lingo, and pitching out worthy stories that didn't sound like panic-written drafts—even though my resume screamed "ready."

Yet there I was, with a dozen tabs still open past 8 p.m., tweaking one last article because my brain hadn't gotten the memo on clocking out. There's no handbook for getting past the awkward greetings or the end-of-day writing grind—just trial, error, and a whole lot of convincing myself I'd eventually get the hang of it.

I even got through the annoying adulting tasks that no one warns you about, like calling offices because they're only reachable by phone (not emails, seriously?!) or dragging yourself to a bank trip only to be told "You can apply online." They're not exactly highlight-reel moments, but they count.

TBH, a part of me is still that girl who dreamed of a starry-night debutante party, the one with sparkly lights, slow dances, and a sense that life was supposed to start there. Instead, adulthood showed up through a laptop screen. And right now, I'm still figuring things out slowly, but that's kind of the point.

These days, I'm learning to see growth in remembering to schedule that dentist appointment, cooking a semi-decent dinner that doesn't involve canned tuna, or sending that work email without overthinking every word.

This isn't about catching up to some imaginary timeline or pretending your life looks like a curated Instagram post. We're the generation that learned to find connection in a "Me too" and strength in admitting we're all a little lost together. We're still showing up, and that's more than enough.