25, Jobless — and Choosing Myself for the First Time

I do not recall the moment I stopped calling myself a writer.. I remember the moment someone else

made that decision for me.

When I was young I had a dream. The dream had a name. Arts. Writing. Putting words on a page that

meant something.. Somewhere between my wanting and what the world expected, a different path got

chosen. Science. Because that's how you earn respect right? That's what they said. That's what they

did. At least to me.

So I listened. Because you do, when you love the people talking.

My mother and I, we had a shared dream once. She wanted me to become a writer. I wanted to

become a writer. We used to talk about it like it was already real, like it was a matter of time.. Time

belongs to whoever is loudest in the room.. The world is very loud about what a respectable life looks

like.

So I went into science. I told myself I'd find a way. I told myself the writing would wait. Writing does

not go away I thought. It'll be there.

It was. It waited. That's both the good and the bad of a talent you leave behind.

What nobody tells you about living someone's version of your life is how quietly it hurts you. It's not

dramatic. There's no moment where you think. This is wrong. It's slower than that. It's waking up

tired. Not feeling better after sleep. It's doing your job well. Feeling nothing. It's looking around at

everything you were supposed to want and not finding yourself.

That's where I was. Twenty-five years old, employed, functional and somewhere I did not recognize.

My mental health was telling me what my voice had been trying to say for years. This isn't yours. This

was never yours.

So I left. I left my job. Not for another job, not for a plan, not for a degree or a roadmap or anyone's

approval. I left because staying was costing me something I could not keep paying. I left because I

finally understood the resentment I was carrying. Toward the choices, the pressure, the people. It was

not going to go until I made a different one.

I want a life where I do not blame the people around me for the life I have. That sentence took me

twenty-five years to mean.

The only way to get there was to start choosing for myself. Even now. Even late. Even without the

degree without the credentials without anything except a love for writing and the quiet stubborn need

to write.

I am not a writer with a certificate. I am a writer because I cannot stop. Because I was one before

anyone told me I could not be. One that has stopped asking for permission.

I do not have the ending of this story yet. I'm twenty-five. I just began. There will be months of doubt

and the particular loneliness of betting on yourself when no one else has yet.

For the first time in a long time when something goes wrong. I will not have anyone to blame but me.

Strangely, impossibly, that feels like freedom.

This is, for everyone who chose the path and lost themselves on it. It is not too late. It was never too

late. It was just waiting for you to be ready.