i think everyone can kinda relate to this because it’s something we daily go through while growing up, the question what we’re going to do with our life, what job we’ll be having in our future and if we’ll be satisfied with our decision
I don’t know what I’m going to do with my life.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
Everybody keeps asking me that question like I’m supposed to have an answer.
What’s your dream job?
What do you want to study?
What are you going to do after school?
What do you want to be?
I don’t know.
And I feel like that’s the wrong answer.
Because everybody else always seems to have something.
Some big dream.
Some story.
Something that makes sense.
And I just don’t.
I used to.
When I was younger, my best friend and I were going to have our own kindergarten.
We were going to work together.
We were going to have it somewhere in the forest we grew up in.
That was the plan.
That was the dream.
But we’re not best friends anymore.
We’re still friends.
Just not best friends.
And somehow the kindergarten disappeared too.
Funny how that happens.
One day something feels certain.
The next day it’s gone.
Now I have different best friends.
I think.
See?
That’s another thing.
I think they’re my best friends.
Most of the time.
Sometimes I think I’m too much.
Sometimes I think they don’t actually like me.
Sometimes I think they only tolerate me.
And then we laugh together and have fun and everything is fine again.
Until the next time I start thinking.
I think too much.
I know I do.
I think too much about what people think of me.
I think too much about being weird.
About being annoying.
About being a know-it-all.
About being a geek.
About being a freak.
I don’t want people to think I’m weird.
But I also don’t want to be boring.
I want people to wonder about me.
Not in a bad way.
In a good way.
Like,
What does she do in her free time?
And then maybe they ask.
And I can tell them.
I write.
And then maybe they ask what I write.
And maybe I’d actually have something to show.
That would be nice.
But nobody asks.
At least not really.
Most people at school know who I am in the same way you know a background character in a movie.
They’re there.
That’s it.
I know who they are.
They don’t know who I am.
And maybe that’s why it’s easy to imagine them judging me.
Even when they’re probably not thinking about me at all.
I don’t know.
There’s that again.
I don’t know.
My parents don’t really get the writing thing.
Not completely.
They keep thinking about the future.
What will you do with your life?
And honestly?
I’d love to know too.
Because in a little more than half a year I’ll have to start thinking seriously about AP classes.
Then university.
Then a job.
Then apparently the rest of my life.
And right now the only thing I know for sure is English.
That’s it.
English.
Words.
Books.
Writing.
Maybe literature if that’s even an option.
I don’t know.
I know more words than most people my age.
At least it feels like I do.
People make fun of me for it sometimes.
For the way I talk.
For the words I use.
For the way I explain things.
Whatever.
I still like words.
I always will.
The problem is that words don’t sound like a career.
Or at least people act like they don’t.
Everybody says follow your passion.
Then they immediately ask how much money it makes.
Which feels a little unfair.
Because my passion is writing.
Poetry.
Songs.
Stories.
I haven’t written poetry in a while.
I want to.
I keep meaning to.
Instead I’ve been writing songs.
I’ve written multiple songs.
One with my friend.
One that I’m genuinely proud of.
Like actually proud of.
The kind where you finish it and think,
wait,
maybe this is good.
Maybe not good good.
But good.
I have lyrics.
I have chords.
I have ideas.
And that’s something.
The problem is that I can’t sing.
I can’t really play guitar.
I’m too embarrassed to show people.
And being a songwriter still sounds suspiciously close to being a writer.
Which brings me right back to the same problem.
I don’t know what to do with it.
I don’t know what to do with the one thing I actually love.
Because loving something and making a life out of it seem like two completely different things.
Maybe I should work with children.
Maybe.
I think I’d like that.
Maybe I’d be a teacher.
Although my mom always says that people who don’t know what they want to do become teachers.
And that doesn’t exactly make me feel confident.
No offense to teachers.
But I don’t want to become something just because I couldn’t think of anything else.
I want to become something because I actually want it.
And I don’t know what that thing is.
Doctor?
Absolutely not.
No.
I could never.
Too much pressure.
Too much responsibility.
Too much blood.
Too much everything.
So that’s gone.
Teacher?
Maybe.
Writer?
Maybe.
Songwriter?
Maybe.
Something with children?
Maybe.
Everything is maybe.
Nothing is yes.
And honestly,
sometimes I don’t even let myself consider certain jobs.
Not because I don’t find them interesting.
Not because I hate them.
But because I immediately start imagining myself failing.
I could do that.
Maybe.
But what if I’m bad at it?
What if everybody else is better?
What if I work really hard and it still doesn’t work out?
What if I choose the wrong thing?
So sometimes I don’t even get to the part where I ask myself if I want something.
I stop at the part where I decide I probably wouldn’t be good at it.
And then I move on.
Which is kind of stupid.
Because how am I supposed to know what I’m good at
if I’m too scared to find out?
I want to get my license one day.
But I’m scared.
I’m scared of failing.
I’m scared of falling.
I’m scared of messing up.
I’m scared of people watching me mess up.
Actually that’s the problem most of the time.
Not the failing.
The watching.
People seeing it.
People having opinions.
I care way too much about opinions.
I know I do.
I just don’t know how to stop.
I deleted my Instagram account because of that.
I only had a few followers.
Nothing huge.
But I felt exposed.
Like I was standing under a spotlight I never asked for.
So I left.
And honestly I don’t regret it.
But it also means all the things I create stay hidden.
The poems.
The songs.
The ideas.
Everything.
And then I wonder why nobody sees them.
Which is kind of stupid.
Because I’ve hidden them.
Of course nobody sees them.
Still.
When people ask me what I want to do with my life,
I wish I had one of those stories people tell where everything suddenly makes sense.
My friend got sick.
My grandmother inspired me.
I had a dream.
I found my calling.
Something like that.
Something clear.
Something simple.
But I don’t have that.
I just have books.
And songs.
And poems.
And words.
And a lot of questions.
I want true love like the books talk about.
I want a life that feels meaningful.
I want a job I actually care about.
I want people who understand me.
I want to stop being embarrassed about the things I love.
I want to know where I’m going.
But mostly,
I want an answer.
Just one.
Because right now everybody keeps asking the question.
And I keep giving the same response.
I don’t know.
I don’t know what I’m going to study.
I don’t know what job I’ll have.
I don’t know what I’ll become.
I don’t know which classes to choose.
I don’t know why everybody else seems so sure.
I don’t know why growing up suddenly feels so close.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
But maybe there is one thing I do know.
Maybe the reason I keep coming back to writing isn’t because it’s the answer.
Maybe it’s because it’s the only thing that has never left.
The kindergarten dream left.
People changed.
Friendships changed.
Plans changed.
Everything changed.
But the words stayed.
And I still don’t know what I’m going to do with my life.
But maybe it’s worth paying attention to the thing that keeps staying when everything else leaves.
