Millennial beige had a good run. For a while there, we were all very proud of our monochromatic backdrops, oat-coloured linen bedspreads, and perfectly aligned stacks of Kinfolk magazines. But as of late, we’re seeing walls painted in primary colours, lamps shaped like dachshunds, and living rooms that feel like a sickly-sweet tribute to Katy Perry’s 2010 California Gurls music video (fine, fresh, fierce!). Enter: dopamine décor. A maximalist, sensory overload of an interiors trend, designed to make you feel anything but beige.

I’m three interviews deep when I find myself in a vibe-heavy final catch-up with the company founder. We’ve popped into a trendy pokie-pub-turned-natural-wine-bar in Surry Hills, and I have 30 minutes to seal the deal, tie a neat little bow on the package I’ve been selling myself as. This is the final boss, the last level, and my confidence is walking a fine line between casual and chaotic.

They say most relationships don’t survive your 20s. Mine did… but it wasn’t with a person. It was with a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor. For nearly a decade, Lexapro has quietly walked beside me: through career chaos, situationships, relocation spirals, and my ever impending doom of the unknown.

Every Sunday, like clockwork, I transform into a budget economist with one mission: secure eight one-dollar coins for my apartment complex’s washer and dryer. And every Sunday, I find myself playing emotional roulette at the checkout. If I get a female cashier, she hands over the coins like I’ve asked for a plastic bag. ⋆✿ No drama ✿⋆. If it’s a male cashier? Suddenly, I’m hearing my own Dry July response echoed back at me: “I’ll try… but I can’t promise anything”.

A few years ago, I was $13,000 in debt, living paycheque to paycheque, caught in a dopamine-depleted cycle of impulse purchases and weekly overdrafts. Each week, I’d repay what I owed from the week before, instantly putting my next week’s spending in the red before it had even begun.

I’m on my weekend morning walk, trying to undo the junk food I inhaled the night before, when a cat appears. Affectionate. Sultry. It follows me down the street, brushing up against anything and everything with full-body flirtation.

Somewhere between reaching my mid-30s and booking in more routine skin checks, something in me shifted. I used to chase things that looked impressive: the title, the chaos, the story-worthy version of my life. Now I crave low-stimulation workdays, quiet moments with my own thoughts (or a podcast), and a skincare routine that doesn’t involve the internet watching me get ready.