How lucky we are to not have our life planned for us. How privileged am I to have self-determination, to become whatever I wish. Generations of women before me did not have self-autonomy — their fate was decided for them. And yet, here I am, a liberated woman of the 21st century, and I tremble with fear at my own power to make whatever I wish of myself. 

Countless philosophers, spanning many generations and distinct traditions, have dedicated their careers to determining whether we have free will. To their ongoing debate I humbly offer the idea that I very much feel that I have free will, and it scares the living shit out of me. 

For many years, I’ve pitied those who’ve had their lives perfectly planned out for them by someone else. How sad it must be to know exactly which school you would attend. How boring it must be to know which course of study you would pursue at the age of nine. How depressing to know who your future employer would be before you have left university. Tragic. Notice I said “I’ve pitied” — past tense. Perhaps I should now admit that I’m closer to envying those whose life-trajectory has been vivid since they exited their mother’s womb and took their first breath of earthly oxygen. They will never have to confront the terror that I, and presumably some of you, are coming face-to-face with now. 

We’re often seduced by the delusion that we want options. That’s why stores like Costco exist. The cold hard truth of the matter is that we don’t want an infinite number of options. Case in point: the very thought of Costco sends a cold wave of anxious terror down my spine. What we really want is a select few neatly packaged options. That’s why stores like Trader Joe’s exist. I don’t want 20 options for a jar of pesto, I want three at most. The same can be said about life. There are truly a select few individuals above the age of 10 who are actually excited by the thought that they could do anything and be anything their heart desires.  

The overwhelming majority of us do not want an infinite number of potential life paths. Why? Because choosing between them is, firstly, overwhelming, and secondly, exhausting. I’m plagued with terror at the thought that my whole life is laid out right before me every day. I wake up and am immediately confronted by the idea that I’m leaving the paved road of “growing up” and am expected to take my first steps into an alien world. It’s liberating, fantastical and deeply terrifying. Frankly, I feel like a kid. Despite having done “adult things” and having been told all my life that, “you’re so mature for your age,” I feel like a child. And being coddled within the Brandeis bubble of positive affirmation has not worked to ameliorate this feeling. I’ve spent 19-odd years in school and feel as though I’ve got no knowledge to show for it. It’s absurd — objectively pathetic. 

And I know I’m not making things easier on myself by wanting an unordinary life. I’ve talked a big game in the pages of this paper about preferring precariousness over boredom. I think I’m starting to sympathize with those who’ve expressed their preference for the latter. At least boredom grants you some security, a lulling comfort. The precarious life grants you experiences, yes, but at what cost? Am I willing to pay up, despite not knowing whether those payments will be worth it? And what is “it” anyway? The story I get to tell. To whom? The children that I’m unsure if I would ever want. The partner whose identity is shrouded in heavy clouds of mystery? I’m repeatedly asking myself whether this life I so desperately want to live is for me or for others.

Regardless, this state of abject terror is not made any easier by hearing things like, “you’re special,” “you’re going to do great things” and “I’ve got faith in you.” I really don’t want to come off as ungrateful, but let’s please stop saying these things. I’m chock-full of other people’s faith in me and I haven’t got a clue what to do with it. Instead of being inspired by this volume of faith, I’m petrified by it. What if I fail? What if I’m not as clever, as skilled, as talented as those who’ve put their faith in me thought? Then what? I recognize that it’s no one’s intention to make me feel as though I’ve got to live up to their idea of what I should be or do with my life. And perhaps that’s what makes this no-strings-attached faith so much harder to absorb: I have to decide how to invest that faith. 

But what if I miscalculate? What if I fail? We’re told that failure is natural, it’s part of life … to what extent, I ask. What if it all blows up in smoke? What if I have potential that I never live up to? Isn’t that a melodramatic, though genuinely tragic, thought? I’m asking so many questions because I have no answers. I’m about to step into a world that I feel in no way prepared to navigate. And I’m leaving a world that I deeply love and care for. I’m already mourning its loss. I’m not prepared to go unrecognized, I can’t bear the thought of leaving behind my companions in a fleeting world. I’m a native here, I’ll be a stranger in a strange land soon. 

For now, I’m planted at my desk, looking out at the postcards I’ve meticulously stuck onto my wall. They tell a story of where I’ve been, my tastes and interests and of the person I’ve been and hope to become. Past, present and future are all here before me. Now, I have to realize it. I must grasp my free will and step into the light of the world, hoping, praying to a deity I don’t believe in, that I don’t fall.