What To Do When You Don't Know What To Do...Maybe...?

I have been absolutely nowhere. I've done next to nothing, experienced thrills based in naivety and boredom, and quite frankly, I wake up every morning feeling pitifully sick to my stomach.

I am a woman in 2020. I have freedom, though still shadowed by embedded, societal fears. I have passion, wit, I have voice and pride and arms which open for others. I have a body which I work on everyday in order to maintain and a mind with ideas vast but scattered and intimidated, and above all, I have dreams—

Dreams of which I’ve come to realize I have completely ignored.

Or maybe even imagined.

For as long as I can remember, I've never known what I’ve wanted to do with my life. I feel I’ve come close, though my fingertips have brushed tenderly against that unforetold destiny I’ve yet to uncover. But never, in anything I’ve ever done, have I felt positive or sure of anything being my end-all; my passion project; the thing to shape my future and carve my path and bring light to my dim world.

And yes, as lucky as I am, and as stable as I may seem, my world is dim.

I take medicine to make the bad ideas I have hide in the craters nestled in my mind; I wake up every morning disgusted by what looks back at me in the mirror; I’m cruel and have selfish tendencies and I utterly DESPISE myself, and these bits that nibble at me like maggots just never cease to exist. They linger and taunt and spit in my face and it makes achieving anything damn-near impossible on the daily.

I write a story and burn it immediately after. I bake a cookie, something new and inventive, but instantly, I place shame for not knowing exactly what I’m doing—imposter syndrome, a hypochondriac nestled like a bad roommate in my soul.

On Monday, I want to be a baker, but I also want to work with horses. On Tuesday, I want to write the next bestseller but by Wednesday, I want to start a business. On Thursday, I want to sell everything I own and learn how to make wine in Italy, but on Fridays, I want to break my lease and work at an elephant sanctuary in Africa, only to leave my identity behind.

And there it is, traveling—now, that’s something I’ve always wanted to do.

Explore, experience, be terrified, fall in love with location, or with food that’s exotically ridiculous. I want to shake hands with new flesh. I want to dance to music I’ll never understand but admire deeply. I want to learn languages that scream at me when I’m wrong, languages that show just how white and young and silly I actually am. I want to be embarrassed because I’m lost, want to feel anger at the beauty of forgotten beaches. I want to bathe in water clearer than the clouds, want to get dirty and sweat and injure myself and try things I’ll never do from the comfort of my cozy, safe existence.

I want to tell new stories of old families and sacred traditions. I want to find corners of the world under-appreciated. I want to learn about animals and plants and why people choose to live the way they do. I want to understand religion, and I want to find “God” in nature and serenity of place. I want to find a new dive bar, and eat in a dirty kitchen serving clean food. I want, I want—

Selfish? Yes. Maybe this desire to escape is nothing but a selfish fantasy I’m not meant to experience. But yet, maybe viewing this want as an escape is wrong as well.

The want to experience and grow is not escapism. Escapism is the tendency to seek distraction and relief from unpleasant realities by engaging in fantasy. But to travel is reality, isn’t it? It’s achievable, it’s not fantasy. Going beyond what you know is brave, right?

Maybe I’ll never know what it is I’m supposed to do, or want to do. Maybe I’ll grow old wishing I would've. Maybe I’ll find my place while lost in the woods or maybe I’ll die early and regret nothing. Maybe I’ll get married or adopt a dog or apply at that damn elephant sanctuary. Maybe I’ll do it all, or maybe I won’t.

Either way, whatever happens, maybe I’ll stop asking questions, and just let go.