Treehouse: He wrestles friends after work—is that his truest self?
Graduating college—it's this huge milestone, right?
The kind of achievement that's supposed to mark the beginning of something new, something important, something that fundamentally changes who you are and how the world sees you. It's the moment everyone talks about, the one your parents dream of, the one that's supposed to validate all those years of hard work, sleepless nights, and financial sacrifice. But here's the thing—I'm not here to talk about whether it was an associate's degree, a bachelor's, community college, or university. I'm not here to debate the prestige of the institution or the letters that follow my name on a résumé. I'm not interested in comparing GPAs or talking about honors and distinctions. What matters—what really matters—is that I made it through. I showed up, day after day, semester after semester. I put in the work, even when I didn't feel like it, even when I questioned whether it was worth it, even when the finish line seemed impossibly far away. And I crossed it. I actually crossed that finish line. And now, I've successfully transitioned into the workforce—a shift that felt both natural and completely foreign at the same time, like stepping into a role I'd been preparing for my entire life while simultaneously feeling like I had no idea what I was doing.
Now, I'm working a 9-to-5 as a compliance assistant at a legal and consulting firm. It's a role that demands attention to detail, patience, and a lot of careful, methodical thinking. This isn't the kind of job where you can coast or phone it in. Every single day, I'm tasked with making sure things are done right—not just well, but correctly, legally, ethically. There's no room for shortcuts or assumptions. My day is filled with reviewing documents, cross-referencing regulations, making sure everything lines up with the rules and standards that govern our industry. I'm constantly checking, double-checking, and triple-checking to ensure that nothing is out of place, that every clause is accounted for, that every detail is accurate. I communicate with clients and colleagues to keep things running smoothly, to ensure that nothing slips through the cracks, that deadlines are met, and that everyone is on the same page. It's structured, it's demanding, and it requires a level of focus and discipline that I didn't always know I had. Some days, it feels like I'm juggling a dozen different priorities at once, trying to stay organized while the world around me moves at a relentless pace.
It's a world away from the chaos of college life—the late-night study sessions fueled by coffee and desperation, the last-minute cramming before exams, the freedom to skip a class or sleep in when I felt like it, the spontaneous hangouts and the sense that time was somehow more flexible, more forgiving. College had its own kind of pressure, sure, but it was different. There was always another chance, another semester, another opportunity to make up for a mistake. But this? This is different. This is real. This is adulthood. There's no syllabus to follow, no professor to ask for an extension, no safety net of student loans or parental support to fall back on. The stakes feel higher, the consequences more immediate. Every decision I make, every document I review, every email I send—it all matters. It all counts. And there's something both terrifying and exhilarating about that.
But then I come home. And that's when everything shifts. That's when the other side of me—the side that doesn't fit neatly into a job description or a LinkedIn profile—comes roaring back to life. I kick off my dress shoes, peel off the business casual uniform, and suddenly I'm someone else entirely. I grab the controller and dive into video games, losing myself in worlds where the rules are different, where I can be a hero, a warrior, a strategist, where failure doesn't mean a compliance violation but just another chance to respawn and try again. Sometimes I invite friends over, and we wrestle—actually wrestle—grappling and laughing and pushing each other around like we're kids again, like we never left the playground. We climb into the old tree in my backyard, the same one I used to climb when I was eight years old, and for a few hours, the weight of adult responsibilities just lifts off my shoulders.
We watch MMA competitions together, studying the fighters, analyzing their techniques, getting hyped over knockouts and submissions. We debate who would win in hypothetical matchups, we mimic the moves, we talk trash and laugh until our sides hurt. Sometimes we even dress up—costumes, characters, whatever feels fun in the moment—because why the hell not? We watch cartoons, the kind that are supposedly for kids but hit different when you're an adult who understands the jokes and the deeper themes. I slip into my pajamas, the comfortable ones that have no place in the professional world, and it's like I'm that kid again, carefree and full of life, unburdened by deadlines and regulations and the constant pressure to perform.
So here's the question that keeps me up at night: which one is closer to the real me? Is it the compliance assistant who navigates the complexities of the professional world with precision and focus, who shows up every day in pressed clothes and a composed demeanor, who speaks the language of regulations and risk management? Or is it the kid in his pajamas, wrestling with friends, watching MMA fights with wide-eyed excitement, climbing trees and playing video games and holding onto that spark of joy and freedom that the world keeps trying to extinguish? Is the real me the one who sits in meetings and reviews contracts, or the one who laughs so hard he can barely breathe while pretending to be a superhero in his living room?
Maybe it's both. Maybe the real me is the balance between responsibility and play, between the person I've become and the person I've always been. Maybe I don't have to choose. Maybe the tension between these two worlds—the professional and the playful, the structured and the spontaneous—is what makes me whole. Because life isn't about choosing one or the other, is it? It's not about killing off the parts of yourself that don't fit the mold. It's about embracing all the parts that make us who we are, even when they seem to contradict each other. And maybe that's okay. Maybe that's more than okay. Maybe that's exactly how it's supposed to be.