No, I do not know what I am doing after graduation

I remember sitting in my Personal Finance class, senior year of high school, staring at the peeling motivational posters on the wall as my teacher went around the room asking each of us what we planned on majoring in. Nursing. Physical Therapy. Education. Business. All the majors adults nod approvingly at. All the majors with clear paths and clear salaries and clear futures. 

But when it was my turn and I said English, my teacher paused, raised an eyebrow and asked, “What on earth will you do with that?”

It was not cruel, just careless. But this remark landed like a prophecy I was suddenly afraid I would fulfill. From that day on, I promised myself I would prove her wrong. I would learn everything I could. Become successful. Make something of myself. I would show her that stories matter — that words matter. 

Fast forward four years. There I was, the Sunday night before my last week of college, sitting on the toilet in my tiny apartment bathroom, dyeing my hair at home because I am too broke to get it done professionally. My towel is permanently stained, the dye fumes were making me dizzy and the truth is… I have absolutely no idea what I am doing. Not with my hair, not with my life, not with any of it. 

This is not the glamorous post-grad version of myself I once imagined. When I was younger, I pictured a full-blown Carrie Bradshaw moment the minute graduation ended — strutting around in the city in some fabulously impractical outfit, sipping martinis that tasted like nail polish remover, a life where every mistake became witty material. 

But the older I get, the more I realize that maybe the reality of my “Sex and the City” dreams looks nothing like the show. Maybe they look like the messy moments: the panic, the budget-induced hair dye, the overdrafted bank account.

The world keeps reminding me of that. 

Just a few weeks ago, I was at a bar celebrating the weekend with my girlfriends. An older gentleman overheard me discussing my upcoming graduation. After sharing with him that I was earning a degree in English, he gave me a look that I recognized immediately. With the same raised-eyebrow expression from my senior-year classroom, he said, “English, huh? What on earth will you do with that?” Then, as if delivering a punchline, he added, “You’re gonna need a shot,” and bought me one. 

It was funny. It was ridiculous. And yet, it hit that same soft, insecure spot inside of me that I have been trying to outrun for nearly four years. 

The truth is, I am graduating with no solid plan. I am staring down the likely reality of moving back into my mother’s basement, where the walls feel too close and the future feels too big. Chicago, the city I have always imagined myself in, still waits like a dream. I want to go. I want to write. I want to build the life I have been promising myself since that day in high school. 

I just do not know how to begin. 

But maybe beginnings were never meant to be polished. Maybe they are awkward and uncomfortable and even a little humiliating. Maybe they involve cheap tequila, stained towels and the quiet fear that you have made a mistake – even when you have not. 

I am starting to understand that my success is not about proving my teacher wrong. It is not about silencing strangers at bars. It is just about choosing myself and my dreams, even when the path is uncertain. It is trusting that my passion is enough to build a life from, even if it is slower or messier or less linear than everyone else’s.

So no, I do not have everything figured out. But I have heart. I have ambition. I have stories inside me that will not leave me alone. And somewhere out there, my dreams are waiting for me to finally take the leap. 

And for now, that is enough.

• #graduation
• college
• postgrad