Fear of not having a purpose in life.
Throughout my life, I’ve entertained a revolving door of dreams, none of which ever seemed to stick. I’m almost a year out of high school, and the truth is, I still have no idea where I’m headed. Right now, I’m studying fashion, having deferred my graphic design course for ten months. But if you had asked my ten-year-old self, she would have expected me to be anywhere but here — certainly not sitting on my bed writing about the uncertainties of my life instead of conducting groundbreaking research as a world-renowned marine biologist.
In my mind, life has always felt like a crossroads with two distinct paths: the road that leads to a stable income and the one that offers fulfillment. The struggle lies in finding a way to merge them into a single journey. I used to think I would have it all figured out by now. That I’d be on a clear path, pursuing a career that felt right, even if my love life remained a mess. But here I am, unsure of everything, feeling like I’ve missed some crucial turn while everyone else seems to be racing toward their dreams with a sense of purpose.
People always talk about having one true calling, something you’re not only good at but also passionate about. For me, it feels like every dream I once had was just a fleeting infatuation, fading as quickly as it came. I’m not the painter I imagined myself to be at five, splashing colours onto canvases like an artist discovering their muse. I’m not the fashion designer I dreamed of becoming at eight, sketching elaborate dresses that would one day grace the runways of Paris. I’m certainly not the marine biologist I aspired to be at ten, exploring the ocean’s depths with the thrill of discovery coursing through my veins (I actually have a fear of the ocean now). Instead, I am an unemployed, single adult who isn’t even sure if she has a passion left to pursue.
I can’t help but think it would all feel different if I had an unlimited sum of money, a bottomless well of resources to explore every interest until I found the one that fit just right. But the reality is that I don’t have that luxury. So here I am, lying in a cluttered room, surrounded by the remnants of discarded dreams, wondering if I’m moving forward at all — or just treading water.
Lately, I’ve developed a strong inclination toward writing, a newfound love that feels both comforting and terrifying. But even that comes with a host of questions and doubts. Can I make a living from this? Will anyone care about what I have to say? What if my words don’t resonate if my books never sell? How stable is a career built on the precarious balance of creativity and public approval? Most importantly, do I even want to turn this into a profession, or am I just grasping at the latest thread of hope because everything else has unravelled?
I wonder if it’s naïve to think there’s a perfect fit waiting out there for me, a path that combines passion and practicality, joy and security. It feels like I’m fumbling in the dark, trying on one identity after another, never quite finding one that feels like home. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s okay to be lost for a while, to wander aimlessly as I figure out who I am and what I want. Or maybe that’s just another comforting lie I tell myself to soften the sting of uncertainty. Either way, I’m here, still searching, still trying to piece together a version of my future that I can believe in.
