This Is Nobody’s Life But Mine

Photo by Leo Wieling on Unsplash

For a long time, I didn’t realize there was another path.

When I was 18, I chose a college education because, throughout high school, it felt like the natural next step. Don’t get me wrong — I had an incredible college experience and some of the best days of my life, but I didn’t arrive with a burning sense of purpose or a lifelong dream. I flipped through the book of college majors, knowing I was good at math, and landed on pre-engineering. Career aptitude tests had suggested lawyer or doctor. Engineering seemed adjacent enough. Logical. Sensible. Respectable.

Sophomore year came, and with it the requirement to declare a major. Once again, I flipped through the book. I chose one without any real idea of what I wanted my life to look like — only a vague sense of what I was “supposed” to do.

I interned the summer before graduating and discovered something surprising: I liked the work. I didn’t like the environment. I didn’t like how it felt to imagine myself in that world long-term.

But by then, I was at the end. I had worked hard. I was close, and I wanted that challenging degree to be mine — so I finished.

I went on to work as a quality engineer for four years. I did meaningful work. I collaborated with NASA. On paper, it was impressive. And parts of it were genuinely interesting. But it wasn’t my passion. It wasn’t my life.

Then my daughter was born, and I became a stay-at-home mom.

Fast forward many years, and I found myself navigating something no one ever expects: divorce — a season that turns you inward and quietly rearranges how you view your life. Suddenly, I wasn’t just reflecting — I was re-positioning. In my mid-40s, asking questions that felt both terrifying and honest:

What do I want my life to look like now?
What matters most?
What am I willing to build — and protect?

I want to be present for my kids. My youngest is still in elementary school. I want flexibility. I want to be available. I don’t want to be so focused on rebuilding that I miss what’s happening right in front of me.

And I want to be truly passionate about what I do.

So I followed the thing that has quietly lived in me for years: health and wellness. I studied. I learned. I became certified as an integrative nutrition health coach. A few months later, here I am — interviewing with wellness companies, imagining my own business, and learning how to build something from scratch while still not having all the answers.

I’ve always been drawn to real estate, too. I’m still figuring out what that path looks like and how much time it truly requires to be successful. I may pursue that as well — but I’m allowing myself not to have every step mapped out yet.

Because this is where the road turns.

This is the part where I finally understand something that took decades to sink in:

This is nobody’s life but mine.

No aptitude test gets to decide it.
No major catalog.
No expectation.
No fear of “wasted time.”

There’s another layer to this, too.

I’m watching one child move through the age where the world starts demanding answers — What’s next? What are you going to do? — long before they’ve had time to understand who they are. School has never fit neatly. The idea of a single, prescribed path feels heavy rather than motivating.

I’m watching another child move through the same questions — the ones that grow louder the closer you get to the end of college. Like happened to me, they’re being asked to choose a “forever” path at an age when the decision can look thoughtful and well-reasoned from the outside, but is often built on very limited information.

Who really knows at that stage what they want to do forever?
What that work will actually look like day-to-day?
Whether it will feel the way everyone promises it will, once you graduate and land the job?

No one talks enough about that part — the mornings that follow the degree. The routine. The environment. The people. Whether the work you chose will leave you feeling fulfilled, or quietly disconnected, as you move through the ordinary days of your life.

And I want them to see something different.

I want them to understand that not having a clear plan — whether you’re a teenager staring down high school decisions or a young adult approaching the end of college — isn’t a failure. It’s a reflection of how unrealistic it is to ask people to choose a lifelong direction before they’ve had time to live, work, and learn who they are. There are many ways to build a meaningful life, including paths that don’t involve a four-year degree, if that’s the choice they make. Curiosity, resilience, creativity, and self-trust matter far more than checking boxes on someone else’s timeline.

Most of all, I want them to see an adult choosing their life intentionally — imperfectly, honestly, without having every answer — and understand that no one else gets to decide their path either.

We don’t talk enough about how many of us followed a road simply because it was there. How many choices were made out of momentum, not meaning. How many lives look “successful” but feel disconnected inside.

One thing adulthood has taught me — and something I wish more young people knew — is that most adults don’t have this all figured out either. It can look that way from the outside. Money, titles, and carefully curated images on social media can create the illusion of certainty. But beneath all of that, many people are still asking the same questions — about meaning, fulfillment, and whether the life they’re living actually feels like their own.

What matters most isn’t how impressive a life appears, but how it feels on the inside. Whether you wake up with a sense of alignment. Whether your days reflect your values. Whether you recognize yourself in the life you’ve built.

At some point, though — quietly or dramatically — the question changes.

It’s no longer:
What should I do?

It becomes:
What do I want to create?

I don’t have everything figured out. I’m still learning. Still building. Still choosing — sometimes slowly, sometimes uncertainly.

But the difference now is that I’m no longer asking for permission.

I’m no longer measuring my life against what once made sense with the limited information I had, or what looks good from the outside. I’m choosing flexibility. Presence. Passion. A life that actually feels like mine.

And that clarity — quiet but steady — has changed everything.

Because this is nobody’s life but mine.