It looks like this: You’ve graduated. Maybe even worked a job or two. You thought you’d have “it” figured out by now.

Instead, you’re restless, second-guessing, scrolling LinkedIn and Instagram, comparing yourself to peers who all seem to be “crushing it” while you’re quietly panicking that you’ve made a wrong turn. The symptoms? Feeling stuck in a job you don’t like but afraid to leave. Romanticizing alternative lives — grad school, moving abroad, freelancing. Envy mixed with dread when friends land promotions or post about their “incredible new opportunity.”

And the triggers are almost universal: first-job disappointment, the fear of choosing the wrong path, the mismatch of being over-educated but under-experienced, and the crushing cultural narrative that by 30 you’re supposed to “arrive.” (Spoiler alert: I founded my firm, the OG Pekarsky & Co., when I was 39. Everything up until then, which only made sense looking backwards and not in the moment, was a natural step to the next one. Some forward, some to the side, others still backwards. It’s not a race, it isn’t linear, and worrying what others think is wasted energy).

So that’s the quarter-life crisis. And lately, it’s been walking into my office with greater regularity.

In just the past few weeks, I’ve sat across from the daughter of a home builder — an anthropology undergrad, whip-smart, trying to turn her love of people and place into something purposeful. The son of a retired lawyer, earnest and articulate, just back from time abroad and wrestling with whether to double down on law or leave it altogether. The child of a geologist, determined to carve a career not out of rocks but out of impact. The daughter of a retired investment banker, global marketing experience under her belt, looking for a way to return to Calgary after a long stint in Europe. And just the other day, a philosophy major wondering how to translate Plato into a paycheque (Jeezuz, I’m not a magician!).

Point is, different stories, same crisis.

To each, I offer the same disclaimer: “My advice is worth exactly what you’re paying for it — which is nothing. But I’ll try to leave you with something useful.” And here’s what I usually say: My generation often chased money first, hoped we were good at the job second, and, for bonus points, crossed our fingers that we’d end up loving it. Okay, liking it. That’s a tough way to build a career. So turn it around. First, figure out what you love. Is it people? Process? Ideas? Impact? Then research the industries that need those things. Then the companies that do those things. Have your quarter-life crisis now. Do the heavy lifting early so you don’t have to later.

And don’t fall into the trap of thinking there’s only one respectable path. For decades, the default setting was finish high school, go to university, get a “real” job, collect your 25-year service pin, retire, die. But that conveyor belt isn’t the only way forward — and for many, it’s no longer the best. The trades, for example, are starved for talent and offer rewarding, well-paid, entrepreneurial careers without the six-figure tuition bill and crippling student debt. Likewise, travel, apprenticeships, community service, or starting something small on your own can teach lessons no lecture hall ever will. University can still be wonderful, of course, but it’s not the only stamp of legitimacy. The real question isn’t “What’s the right path?” but rather “What’s the right path for me, right now?”

And in the end, goes the speech, once you’ve found what you love, the rest is relatively simple: if you love it, you’re more likely to get good at it. And if you’re good at it, the market will reward you. Passion first. Paycheque second.

Not exactly Harvard Business Review, but it’s all I got. Besides, I only went to Tufts.

I think these conversations matter — not just for this next generation, but for me. They remind me how long a career really is. Forty-plus years. The 20s, and I’d submit the 30s too, aren’t about mastery; they’re about exploration. They’re about learning, experimenting, failing, and then recalibrating. I know this can sound a bit Pollyanna. There are bills to pay. I get it. But whereas my generation seemed to be in such a rush — from high school to university to a job job, chasing the next promotion, the next title, the next paycheck — this younger cohort reminds me that curiosity and courage are just as important as career milestones. They’re willing to pause, to pivot, to ask uncomfortable questions. And if you take the time to explore, stumble, and recalibrate along the way, you’re far more likely to end up somewhere worth being — not just someone worth hiring. As Socrates put it, “an unexamined life is not worth living.”

They also remind me how different this generation is from ours. They care about things we never considered at their age: purpose, balance, impact. They’re values-first in a way that’s both refreshing and, at times, challenging.

And then there’s the AI factor. For them, artificial intelligence isn’t an abstract headline. It’s the water they swim in. They’re the first cohort to enter the workforce fully aware that many of the jobs they trained for may morph, shrink, or vanish before they even settle into them. At once, AI is their greatest tool and their greatest threat — fuel for both curiosity and anxiety. They don’t panic about it the way older generations might; instead, they ask how to surf the wave rather than try to stop it. Yes, sometimes they ghost a follow-up email or over-index on boundaries. But their curiosity, courage, and pragmatism are undeniable.

In our business, we talk a lot about the “long game.” Sure, there’s a transactional (and highly practical) way to run a search firm, or any business for that matter: measure inputs, tally outputs, sweat each month, each quarter, and move on. But the only game worth playing is the long one. Meeting with these up-and-comers — even though it’s not in the mandate, and not readily evident in the P&L — is part of that. It’s a form of stewardship. Of investing in people before they become placements. Of doing what’s right, not just what’s billable. Less altruistically, they are tomorrow’s feedstock. Because when we take the time to invest in people, we’re really investing in the future — theirs and ours.

Selfishly, these meetings are good for me too. They keep me connected to the next generation. Even with three kids of my own, it’s striking how a message from a coach, teacher, or someone outside the family often lands more than the same words from mom or dad. It reminds me of the uncertainty — and the possibility — at the start of a career, and it keeps me humble. They also have to listen to me (or at least do a really good job of pretending to).

I’ll try to keep saying yes when the kids of clients come knocking. Not because I have a job to hand them, but because I have a chair, a coffee, and half an hour. And maybe, just maybe, a breadcrumb of perspective and the occasional stray nugget of wisdom. That said, what we really need are more searches, not a parade of green haloed twenty-somethings through our doors. So if you’re tempted to send your son or daughter my way, perhaps just forward them this instead. Because despite the anxiety and the existential angst, despite the quarter-life crisis and the specter of AI, I’m convinced of one thing: the kids are alright.

In fact, they might just teach the rest of us how to navigate the future – and remind us to keep learning along the way.

Regards,

Adam