Lately, I’ve been reflecting on who I am, who I was, and who I want to become. A lot has changed, and yet, in some ways, I still feel like that same seventeen-year-old girl, lost, searching. But now, there’s something different about me. I feel like I’ve lived a thousand lives, each time being reborn with every new chapter I start.

When I was nine, I dreamed big. I wanted to be a fashion designer, living in the tallest skyscraper in New York City. In my imagination, I’d built an empire, and my name would be known across the world. I’d practice my signature, telling myself that one day, it would be worth something. It was a world I built entirely in my head, one that seemed just a little closer every time I put pencil to paper.

In middle school, everything changed. I wanted to be everything. A teacher, a writer, then an astronaut. I had a brief moment where I was convinced I could play for the women’s basketball team in the Olympics. My mind was racing in a hundred directions, but none of them felt right for long.

By high school, I was good at a lot of things but I was failing in ways that mattered more. I thought about being an actor, so I joined the drama club. Maybe I could be a professional athlete, so I signed up for every sport the school offered. I thought about starting a non-profit, so I spent the summer volunteering at the hospital. I thought I could be President, so I ran for student body president and won. I was chasing everything but didn’t feel like I was getting anywhere. Each achievement felt hollow, like I was ticking boxes but not finding myself.

Then came my obsession with Criminal Minds. I convinced myself I could be like one of them. I took community policing classes and volunteered for the police department. When I finally got to college, I declared criminal justice as my major. I thought I had it figured out. But it didn’t take long before I realized I was still lost. So, I dropped out.

At eighteen, I became convinced that my story would end on my nineteenth birthday. A strange belief settled into me, I wouldn’t live to see twenty. So, I stopped trying. I quit school. I stayed in a relationship that didn’t benefit me. I worked a job I hated. I was waiting for something to happen, waiting for the end, convinced that every moment was leading me somewhere.

But then nothing happened.

That was the twist, the plot I hadn’t expected, life went on. Nineteen came and went. Twenty followed, then twenty-one, and soon enough, I realized the world wasn’t going to stop turning just because I had. I had spent so much time waiting for an ending that I hadn’t noticed the possibility of new beginnings.