Finding My Own Path

It's weird, isn't it, how everyone expects you to have this *plan* at seventeen? Like suddenly you're supposed to be able to predict the next four years, and then the four after that, and then… well, honestly, I don't even want to think that far ahead. My dad definitely doesn't. He keeps sending me links to articles about kids who started businesses at twenty-two and are now millionaires. As if that's the baseline expectation for what my life should look like.

He means well, I know. He wants me to be… secure. Safe. He’s always been that way, calculating every move, worried about the “what ifs.” My mom, she’s different. She asks about the schools, sure, looks at the brochures with me, but she mostly just listens. She lets me talk about the campuses, the programs, the feeling I get when I imagine myself there. That feeling is hard to describe, and it’s definitely not something you can quantify on a spreadsheet. It’s the opposite of what my dad is looking for.

I get it. College is expensive. The pressure is immense. My mom talks about her student loans, how she’s still paying them off, even though she’s been working for almost twenty years. The responsibility feels heavy, and it’s easy to get caught up in the idea that I need to pick the “best” school, the one that will guarantee success. But what *is* success? Is it a fancy diploma from a name-brand university? Or is it finding somewhere that feels right, somewhere that challenges me, somewhere I can learn and grow, even if it’s not on everyone’s “top ten” list?

I’ve been looking at schools that aren’t exactly… prestigious. My dad’s made that clear. He’s subtly (and not so subtly) suggested I consider a few of the bigger names. He doesn’t say “you *should* go here,” but the implication is there, lingering in the air like the smell of burnt coffee in the mornings. He keeps mentioning rankings and graduate school opportunities. I keep thinking about the little coffee shop near the campus of the school I’m actually excited about, the one with the live music on Friday nights.

It's a strange thing, this feeling of being pulled in two directions. Wanting to make my dad proud, wanting to ease his worries, while also honoring my own instincts. It reminds me a little bit of how I felt when I started writing for the blog. My dad thought it was a waste of time, a frivolous hobby. He didn't get why I spent hours crafting sentences and trying to find the right words to describe a song. But it *felt* right. It was something that connected me to something bigger than myself, something that allowed me to communicate in a way I didn’t know I could.

That Phoebe Bridgers show… that was a moment. Seeing people from Tumblr, strangers who had read my writing, actually engaging with it, reblogging it, leaving comments. It felt like validation, not just of my writing, but of the whole messy, unpredictable journey of trying to figure out who I am and what I want. It felt like proof that I didn't need to fit into someone else's idea of success.

I’ve started making a list. Not a list of rankings or acceptance rates, but a list of things that matter to me. Access to certain classes, the availability of a music scene, the general atmosphere of the campus. Little things, seemingly insignificant, but things that add up to a feeling. A feeling that’s harder to articulate than any statistic, but it's a feeling that I trust.

And I think that’s what it comes down to, doesn't it? Trusting that feeling, even when it doesn't make sense on paper. It’s not about choosing the “best” school, it’s about choosing a place where I can be myself, where I can learn and grow, where I can, eventually, figure out what comes next. And maybe, just maybe, that's success enough.