Uncertainty

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I don’t know what I will be doing ten years from now. Actually, I don’t know what I will be doing five years, four years, or even one year from now. Everybody thinks that I do, though.

I had my future planned when I was in second grade. I would graduate high school at the top of my class, attend school for fashion, live in New York City, become a famous and successful designer, and then perhaps travel the world. Maybe I would even marry and raise a family; at seven years old, my possibilities seemed endless.

Now, however, my future seems to be suffocating me. Its impending doom seems to be crushing me with the weight of its importance; it is holding me down, taunting me with remarks like, “you want to succeed, but you won’t.” My future has taken on a persona of its own. An abstract, inanimate concept has become my omnipresent enemy.

The future hasn’t always been my foe. I consistently took the advanced courses that I needed to, achieved high grades in my classes, joined clubs and organizations, and never strayed from what I thought to be my destiny. When I entered high school, I soon realized that after graduation, I would be thrust into the real world—a world devoid of the cushions that my friends, family, and teachers provided. Reality was my destination, but I was not at all prepared for the journey. My mind joined with my future to become a monstrous enemy that lurked at the back of every thought. If I was lucky enough to have a day without homework assignments, I would unwittingly forego temporary relaxation because thoughts of college would present itself. Rather than relax, I would end up furiously looking up scholarship opportunities, writing contests, and volunteering.

I never took time to relax. Ever. There was always a little voice in my head saying, “college,” and although I was smart enough to take AP classes in school, I was not smart enough to ignore the incessant thoughts. Now, as I prepare to enter my senior year of high school, my thoughts are now amplified by my teachers and peers, both of whom are articulating the anxieties that I have harbored for three years.

The end of the school year is a time to reflect. I reflect upon the changes that I have experienced not only this past year, but throughout my entire career in school. In second grade, I naively sought a future that appeared so easy to attain. In eleventh grade, I am conflicted about my future. I still do not know where I will be this time next year. However, the mysterious journey is beginning to look more appealing than the clear-cut path.





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