Earlier this summer, I gave the Best Man’s speech at a spectacular, fairytale wedding on the Amalfi Coast. I thoroughly enjoyed the unique challenge of putting pen to paper, somehow blending soppiness and sexual innuendo. I was blown away by the panoramic view from a Ravello rooftop. But around my eighth Aperol Spritz, I engaged in the existential crisis that is common practice for plenty of “midults” like me. As the poolside dance-floor filled, I was saddled with a sense of feeling stuck. I was happy for my friends, and honored to play a role in their special day, but suddenly acutely aware of my own situation.

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A year ago, I was made redundant from my job at a technology magazine. Although I’ve made a decent fist of freelance journalism and copywriting since, the feast or famine routine is a far cry from the stability I had hoped for in my 30s. Mortgage lenders don’t look kindly on the self-employed. I don’t have any paid holiday or sick leave. So as my partner and I clinked glasses and twirled under the moonglow, with our own wedding to plan and pay for in a few months, I was racked by guilt for not having surer footing.

I should be further ahead by now. I should be more settled. These are anxieties I deal........

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