by Mia Hartwell
Biomedical engineer.
Lawyer.
Neurosurgeon.
Entrepreneur.
The answers came quick, so accustomed, almost pre-programmed. Some students even giggled while they said them, so sure, with that certainty one feels only when they already know exactly what they want.
When it was their turn, the room felt much smaller.
I don’t know yet.
The silence that followed was short, but felt infinitely long.
Walking home from school, with their backpack heavy on their shoulders, they saw students their age constantly building something-a nonprofit, a passion project, a future. Social media only amplified this. Their bios were clear, and packed full of purpose.
Future doctor.
Aspiring filmmaker.
Founder.
Researcher.
They couldn’t even decide which flavor of ice cream they enjoyed long enough for the week.
Working at their desk at night, they pretended to study while the blank document on their screen just glowed. Their parents believed they were studying. Friends believed they were occupied. Teachers assured them that they had so much potential.
Potential was the word you said to someone who hadn’t done anything yet.
One day, avoiding their homework, they walked into a small used bookstore, nestled between two others. It smelled of old books, and dust, and rain. The elderly woman behind the counter gave them a quick look and then went back to her own book.
They spent almost an hour inside without even noticing the time. Not because they’d found a passion, not because anything changed, but for the first time in what felt like a long time, their head felt clear. There was no competition, no pressure, no reason to perform.
Only shelves. Pages. Silence. Before they left, they purchased a notebook they didn’t have any use for.
That night, instead of searching for “how to find your passion,” they started writing random thoughts into it. Observations from the day, phrases they liked, questions that had no answers. None of it was impressive.
But it was honest. And perhaps growing up wasn’t about waking up one day knowing the exact future mapped out for you. Perhaps it was a little less grand than that, but much more profound. Perhaps it was learning to simply hear yourself in the chaos.
Art by Mia H, “Rainbows“
About the Author
Mia writes personal essays in between studying, doomscrolling, and wondering if she just imagined that thing she said five minutes ago.