Welcome to the first post in a new series I’m calling “Notes from the In-Between – Professionally Confused Since 1992.” This is for anyone who’s ever felt like they missed the memo on how to be a grown-up, or who’s quietly questioning what it means to live a meaningful life in a world that keeps asking for more. It’s part essay, part therapy, part “is it just me?”—and it starts here.
“When I Grow Up”
An essay from Professionally Confused Since 1992 — Entry One
I’m 32 years old and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.
Honestly, I thought I would have figured it out by now. I’ve worked hard, done all the “right” things. I’ve been responsible, driven, passionate. I’ve done the soul-searching, I’ve tried the jobs, I’ve paid the dues. But here I am, three decades and some change into this thing called life, and I’m still staring into the void every time someone asks me that classic question: So, what do you do?
The answer? Depends on the year. Or the season. Or the mental health status.
What I do know is this: I love helping people feel seen. Heard. Safe. That’s the through-line in everything I’ve ever done, even when I couldn’t put words to it.
When I was a teacher, I poured myself into my students—into their joy and their pain, into the trust I built with their families, into the hope that maybe, even just for a moment, school could be a place where they felt like they mattered. I brought that same energy to my colleagues, checking in on them when no one else did, trying to be the person who noticed the quiet unraveling under the surface.
In college and even now as an alum, my sorority became another place where I could quietly show up for people. Be the one who listened. The one who stayed up late on the porch swing or texted a check-in after a hard week. I never really needed a title for it—it’s just who I am.
Then came law firms. The first was big and chaotic, but I worked in intake, which meant I was the very first voice people heard when they called. Most of them were distraught—navigating some of the worst days of their lives—and somehow I became a soft place to land. I knew how to listen. I knew how to stay calm when they couldn’t. I knew how to make people feel safe enough to tell a stranger about something deeply personal. At the second firm, which was smaller, I got to go even deeper—speaking to people multiple times, following their stories as they unfolded, being someone they could trust and return to.
I’ve had people call me a “ball of sunshine.” Warm. Calming. Safe. I don’t always see myself that way, but I know I carry that intention with me wherever I go.
And yet—despite all that heart, all that effort—I keep hitting the same wall. It’s like I’m pouring water into a bucket with a slow leak. No matter how meaningful the connections, no matter how good I am at the job, I leave feeling depleted. Like what I do is ultimately…pointless. Or maybe not pointless, but unsustainable. Like no matter how much love I bring to the work, capitalism wrings it out of me until I’m a husk of a human Googling things like how to quit everything and become a forest witch.
I’ve worked since I was 14. Part-time jobs, full-time jobs, all-the-time jobs. I’ve smiled through shifts and swallowed my panic attacks and burned myself out over and over and over. And the older I get, the more I realize how little “work” actually means to me anymore—at least in the traditional, paycheck-equals-purpose kind of way. I don’t want to climb any ladders. I don’t want to hustle for a title that makes me sound impressive but leaves me empty.
I don’t know what I want to be. I just know I don’t want to be this exhausted, this disillusioned, this detached from my own aliveness.
Maybe the better question isn’t “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Maybe it’s “What kind of life do you want to build?” One where rest isn’t earned. One where presence matters more than productivity. One where my warmth isn’t commodified, and connection isn’t a customer service skill.
So no, I don’t have an answer. But I do have hope. I have a deep well of care. I have a longing for something slower, something softer, something real. Maybe I’m not lost—maybe I’m just refusing to settle for a version of adulthood that doesn’t fit me. Maybe not knowing is a form of resistance.
Or maybe I’ll open a sandwich shop that only plays The Rolling Stones and Kendrick Lamar on vinyl. Honestly, that sounds pretty good too.
Next up in the series: “Warmth Isn’t a Job Title”—a piece about what happens when your greatest strength is being the emotional support human in every room, and how hard it is to sustain that in a system that doesn’t value care work. Spoiler: it’s a little bit rage, a little bit softness, and a whole lot of truth.