Last year, I could’ve told you with the utmost perceived certainty what I wanted to do. Not just that day. Not just that year, even. But for a very long time.
Now, I don’t have the slightest clue.
College has taught me that I love learning. I love exploring. I want to know so much and do so much and be so much. I’m a writer. But I don’t have interests that solely, or even mostly, reside in journalism. For so long, I’ve tried boxing my interests in. I’ve tried putting labels on what I like and don’t like, on what matters the most to me, on what my one true passion is.
But I don’t have one true passion. I have lots of them. So many things in this world excite me and give me energy. They exhaust me on some days, but I keep going back to them. I can’t keep myself away from the stories and adventures and problems.
I want to ponder and have deep conversations and wander. And what I want to do cannot be confined within a single degree. What I want to learn cannot be labeled “anthropology” or “journalism” or “women’s studies” or “religion.” Unfortunately, “the world” is not a college major, but I’m trying to just take in as much as I can.
I don’t have the slightest clue what I want to do. I want to read lots of books and write lots of stories and go lots of places and share lots of laughs and adopt lots of animals.
I want to study different languages and religions and go to South America and collect knowledge, not things.
There’s no reason to distance myself from the truth; the truth is that I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing or what I’m looking for. I’m an academic and an artist, both logical and emotional, both realistic and idealistic. What do I want to do? I don’t have an answer. I simply have questions. I simply want to know more.