We Couldn’t Even Keep a Tamagotchi Alive, and Yet Here We Are

Let’s be honest: if childhood was an audition for adulthood, most of us failed in the first round. How? Because we couldn’t even keep a Tamagotchi alive for more than three days.

These pocket-sized digital creatures were meant to teach us responsibility. Instead, they mostly taught us shame. One minute, you're the proud parent of a pixelated blob named Bobo. The next, you're attending his tiny funeral because you left him unfed while watching Cardcaptor Sakura reruns and customising your Stardoll avatar to perfection.

And now, somehow, we're expected to do taxes? Schedule dentist appointments? Remember passwords that aren’t just your pet's name and a birth year? The audacity.

Back then, the world seemed so simple. A trip to the newsagent's for the latest Dolly mag was a major event. MSN Messenger was your social hub. Your biggest stressor? Making sure your Tamagotchi didn’t poop itself into an early grave before school.

But here's the plot twist no one warned us about: the world we were prepping for, the glittery future of hoverboards, cool jackets with built-in fans, and world peace via Sailor Moon logic, yeah, that never showed up.

Instead, we got doomscrolling, climate anxiety, and "adulting" as a verb. Our inboxes overflow, our rent eats 70% of our soul, and our internal monologues sound like tired customer service reps trying not to cry on the job. And yet, somehow, we’re alive. Thriving? Debatable. But alive? Miraculously, yes.

There’s something weirdly beautiful in that. Maybe those Tamagotchi deaths weren’t failures, they were early lessons in impermanence. A prelude to a life where sometimes the sourdough dies, the succulents wilt, and the Google Calendar overflows. And yet, we reset. We try again. We get a new one, name it something chaotic like “BeepLord,” and promise ourselves this one will live a long, fulfilling life. (It won’t.)

At twelve, I thought by twenty-five I'd be married, a published author, and maybe have magical powers. Instead, I have a weird knee click, a growing collection of tote bags I always forget, and a Google Doc titled “Maybe I’ll Get My Life Together This Year (Final Final Copy).”

So how are we doing it? How are we still going despite the odds? I consulted my inner child (who once cried because her Tamagotchi got sick overnight) and came up with a survival guide for modern adulthood, as written by a 12-year-old who just discovered the healing power of Sailor Moon, pick ‘n’ mix lollies, and passive-aggressive MSN away messages.

THE MODERN ADULT SURVIVAL GUIDE (TAMAGOTCHI EDITION) by someone who once fed a virtual pet 17 times in one sitting, then forgot about it for 4 days

Sleep when your battery is low. Ignore the productivity apps. Listen to the beeps.

Feed yourself regularly. Gold Stars for snacks. Bonus points if it’s not just shapes and Red Bull.

Clean up your mess before it evolves into something worse. (Looking at you, laundry pile.)

Cry when necessary. You're not broken, you’re just in maintenance mode.

Poop wherever you want. (Wait, no, wrong audience. Skip this one.)

Forgive yourself for yesterday. Even if “yesterday” was 2009 and involved accidentally killing three Neopets.

Evolve. Reboot. Start again. No one’s counting lives but you.

We dreamed big at twelve. We believed we could save the world with friendship, eyeliner, and the power of anime. The reality? We’re saving ourselves in small, quiet ways. Getting out of bed. Drinking water. Messaging a friend. Voting. Crying in public without shame. Maybe, just maybe, that's the real victory.

So here's to us , the former Stardoll stylists, Neopets caretakers, and Tamagotchi mourners. We might not have it all figured out, but we’ve made it further than any of our childhood digital pets ever did. And honestly? That deserves a gold star and a juice box.