How did I end up here?

 

As a kid, I never had a “dream.” My eldest brother loved cars. He could name every model as a kid and now works with them. My other brother was the artistic, nurturing, caring type who eventually found his way into the medical field. And then there was me. I had interests, sure, but nothing that looked like a career path. I drifted, hoping one would appear, like those magical doors in fantasy novels that just show up when you need them. Yeah, that didn't happen.

When time came to pick a stream in high school (because in India, apparently, you’re supposed to know your life’s calling at fifteen), I chose science. Not because I loved it, but because it was what was expected of me. Deep down, I knew my heart belonged to the arts, more specifically, to words. But at that point, I didn’t think to fight for something I wasn’t sure of.

Senior high school was a blur of depression and low self-esteem, held together only by the fact that I was “good at studying”. When it came to choosing a college major, I finally put up a fight and chose psychology because I found people to be very complex and fascinating. Did I have a grand plan? Nope. I just picked what stood out. And then, because I apparently like to torture myself, I triple-majored in psychology, criminology (because it sounded exciting in theory as a true crime documentary fan), and English literature (because I liked stories). Each choice felt less like a passion and more like grasping at something that looked respectable, acceptable, defensible. I wasn’t chasing a calling; I was just trying not to fall behind. Ambitious? Definitely. Burnt out? Oh, absolutely.

Still, I thought the exhaustion was the price of being on the “right” track. College gave me friends I will always value, but not a sense of direction. Looking back, I realise I wasn’t actually choosing. I was reacting—picking things because they made sense to someone else, or because they were things I was “good at.” Imagine building your future on the same logic as “you’re tall, you should play basketball.” That was me, quietly convincing myself I wanted something simply because I hadn’t been told otherwise.

At eighteen, the world looks like a buffet of absolutes—this is success, that is failure, this is good, that is bad. I thought each degree choice would hand me certainty, but in reality, all I was saying yes to was someone else’s idea of certainty. And so, I stumbled. Not dramatically, not heroically—just clumsily, like someone tripping over their own untied shoelaces. I didn’t yet understand that “not wanting” something is just as important a compass as wanting it.

After graduating, I jumped straight into a master’s in the UK in organizational psychology. Why? Because it felt reasonable. Because I thought it didn’t matter what I did, as long as I could do it. Turns out, it does matter. It matters a lot.

It took a random conversation with a near-stranger to shake me. I was talking about job hunting, and he asked me the simplest question: “But why do you want to be in this career? What do you actually like about it?” And I didn’t have an answer. I’d never asked myself that before. I had existed in that limbo for so long, it became normal. I’d always chosen paths that sounded employable, never ones that actually lit me up. I had always measured myself by competence, not joy.

So, I started reflecting, and things kept showing up in the reflection. I’ve always loved reading (my terrible eyesight is basically a love letter to reading under the blanket with a tiny flashlight). I’ve always cried at ads (yes, even the cheesy ones). I obsessed over ad series like Long Long Man (hilarious Japanese gummy ad, still lives rent-free in my head) or Imperial Blue CDs (witty, very witty) because they told stories so well I couldn’t forget them. I used to laugh it off as quirks. Not real interests. Not serious.

But maybe they are serious. Maybe they’re the most serious thing about me. Maybe those quirks were the point all along.

I don’t have it all figured out yet. I’m still drifting, still experimenting. But I know one thing: I want to move toward words. Toward stories. Toward creativity.

Right now, I’m leaning towards words. Making books my job would be the coolest thing ever. Maybe that’ll change, maybe it won’t. But for the first time, instead of thinking about what would make me employable, I’m starting to think about what might make me happy.

And honestly? That feels like a much better place to start.

And when I’m not overthinking my career path or trying to write the perfect sentence, you’ll probably find me rereading an old crime novel, diving into a game with a killer story, sketching something random or bookmarking another random, weirdly specific article for “later.”

That’s me — still figuring it out, but enjoying the process along the way.