All through the ’90s and early aughts, any female character in any given medium followed just one arc: the struggle to “have it all”. No variation of this hero’s journey existed until Lena Dunham invented complex female characters in 2012 (oh my god, it’s a joke, relax), and even now, the trope persists.

For the most part, “it all” comprises a great job and a lovely partner, but it expands to include things like a solid found family of close friends, a massive but miraculously inexpensive apartment in a major city, perfect health, an athleisure model’s body and an expansive wardrobe, and later, when the push-pull of their romantic plotline has tied itself up, a kid or two, and perhaps a golden retriever.

Carrie Bradshaw, Bridget Jones, Rachel Green and Monica Geller, every role Meg Ryan and Sandra Bullock ever took, Peggy Olson, Liz Lemon, Mindy Lahiri, hell, even Eve Polastri — none of them ever quite managed it. At least not until the credits began to roll.

Collective wisdom suggests that it’s impossible. Something always has to give, and usually, these heroines end up choosing their job, and they leave their Austenian fantasies to gather dust on the shelf a little longer. This is empowering. This is canon.

This story isn’t just confined to formulaic television. It’s pervasive in the suspended reality of celebrity – the supposed tragedy of Jennifer Aniston and Taylor Swift’s sad, hollow, unenviable lives – and somehow, it has leaked into our water supply. Now every woman on earth must wander the desert looking for parts of themselves, or else end up alone, pitiable, and incomplete.

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That only applies to women, by the way. I have never passed a photo of Timothee Chalamet looking sad and bloated on a magazine at a supermarket checkout, a big yellow headline announcing that he’s been “DUMPED AGAIN”. No “close source” divulges that he cries himself to sleep in his big, empty mansion every night, famous beyond measure but fundamentally unlovable, hurtling towards male menopause and this close to getting a cat.
Having it all. What a concept. As though contentment exists at the bottom of a long checklist, and self-actualisation is a treasure hunt. As though we don’t all chase, chase, chase little totems of joy and grow bored of them as soon as they’re within our grasp.

I have friends whose careers paused or regressed or imploded when they had children. I have friends with good jobs, healthy kids, and awful exes. More than once, I considered quitting my job to move across the country, or the planet, to be with the man of my (deeply misguided) dreams. I once got dumped in the middle of a third date because the guy wasn’t sure I could give him enough attention during the two-week promotional window that followed the release of my second book.

That’s how it always goes: when your life is going too well in one area, another area must implode to ensure balance is kept.