musings—idk what I’m doing

I want to be a writer, a photographer, an architect, and maybe try my hand at something in medicine.

But somewhere along adolescence’s winding road, I was told—rather forcefully (looking at you, guidance counselor)—to choose just one.

Careers are meant to be singular. Stable. Long-lasting. And while I admire those who stick to one path, I can barely eat the same thing for breakfast three days in a row.

I was floored when I learned some people don’t have an inner dialogue—imagine their focus! I’m not saying I hear voices in my head, but if I did, I’d absolutely take them out for coffee and yap.

In high school, I thought I’d be a physical therapist—I even got into a competitive program at a nearby college. But within a week of classes, I was reconsidering my course due to my lack of enthusiasm for advanced physics.

So, I pivoted to my next love: writing, majoring in English. I daydreamed about spending my days tucked away in a cabin, typing my latest narrative. But I also wanted to do things—travel, buy groceries, explore other passions. Indecision, after all, isn’t cheap.

Then I thought I found the holy grail: a major that combined my passion for helping others, my creativity, and just a bit of indulgence. That meant business. More specifically, marketing.

It was pitched perfectly to me: “It’s creative. It’s lucrative. It opens doors across industries. Healthcare, tech, government—you name it. Plus, there’s always a challenge.”

Spoken like a true salesman.

Ten years into a tech career, I’ve built something solid—but I’m still not sure it’s it.

I’m not ready to rule out tech entirely—especially given how expensive eggs are—but I can’t ignore the pull of all the other things I once dreamed of.

This. What I’m doing right now.

Writing has always been my favorite outlet. Cathartic yet pragmatic. There’s no better high than finding your flow.

I’ve spent most of my career getting paid to write, but not the kind that fueled me. Designing apps like Facebook and Instagram wasn’t exactly igniting my soul. Clinical. Robotic. Polished to the point of lifelessness.

“We need the period. Find the period. Where is the period?”

It was giving: poster-child-for-burnout.

So, I returned to things that felt like breathing fresh air. Aside from poetic ramblings that soothe my inner child, I also find joy in a lens’ perspective—a different way of capturing emotion. I love framing a scene to catch the soul of a subject—or the light on a landscape.

And then there’s my admiration for buildings. I can’t help but marvel at blueprints, losing myself in aimless drives through eclectic neighborhoods, studying the intricacies of structures like they’re works of art. Maybe there’s some egotism there—yearning to build something that outlives me.

Even therapy has baited me. My therapist once said I’d be great at it, and I see some truth in that. Few things fulfill me more than deep conversations and offering guidance. But I also know myself—I’m an empath to my core, and I’m not sure I could maintain the commitment to emotional detachment.

The closest I came was being a manager. But here’s the thing about management: You’re not supposed to care too much. Because, bottom line, one day you’ll have to choose between your people and profit projections.

Reader, I cared too much.

That was the hard lesson—no matter how much you care, sometimes you’ll still have to make tough choices. It’s a constant balance between passion and pragmatism, and once again, I’m torn between chasing dreams and choosing what’s realistic.

But maybe I don’t have to choose.

Maybe I can be a wri-pho-arch-apist—wriphoarchapist. (Writer-photographer-architect-therapist, obviously).   

I can hear the dinner conversations now.

“So what do you do?”

“I help people heal from buildings that broke them. And I document it.” The polite nods linger as I sip my dirty martini, my gaze unwavering.

Or maybe I’ll finally write that book. Call the shots as director. Invent something weird and wonderful. Take up basket weaving for orphaned ducklings.

The sky’s the limit, really.

So for those who keep asking: I have no idea what comes after this van life. But maybe that’s the point.

Certainty is overrated. Wonder, on the other hand, never loses its value.