Lately, I’ve been spending more time talking with other people’s kids than my own. That’s not because mine need less of me — though they do — but because many of my friends and clients are, like me, in their mid-to-late 50s. Which means their kids are entering that post-university, quarter-life, existential “who-am-I-and-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life” phase. And like the neighbourhood bartender who’s heard it all before, your local recruiter is as good as anyone to talk to your kids when it comes to existential career angst, goes the logic.

I recognize the look when it walks into my office: hopeful, curious, politely anxious. The “my-mom-and-dad-said-you-might-be-able-to-help” look — as though the LinkedIn Open to Opportunities green circle were orbiting above their head like a pulsating halo.

To be clear, we are a retained executive search firm. That means organizations hire us to find talent — usually senior executives, closer to the end than the beginning of their careers. We are not a placement agency. We don’t work for individuals looking for a job; we work for the companies doing the hiring. And yet, when one of these twenty-somethings finds their way into my office — usually on the strength of a request from a cherished friend or client — I almost always say yes to the meeting. I am certain that in another life I lived in a house full of cats.

I take these meetings not because it’s part of our business model. Not because it pays the bills. But because I remember what it felt like to be in their shoes, and because I find myself having these same conversations around my own kitchen table with my own kids. One of them, 24, has begun her post-university life, working a real job whilst paying real rent. Another, 21, is navigating the dual path of pursuing a business degree while also running his own small business. The third, 18, is taking a gap year to travel the world and learn life’s lessons in hostels and train stations rather than classrooms and textbooks. Watching them, and others like them, I’m reminded that there’s no single right way forward — only the courage to take the next step. And if I can help others along the way, that’s payment enough.

If the midlife crisis is the domain of my generation — convertibles, crypto, and half-caf cappuccinos — the quarter-life crisis is its less annoying younger sibling. It tends to strike in the mid-20s to early 30s, that moment when the novelty of independence wears off and the real world sets in.