The Race I Don't Remember Entering

(Disclaimer: This article is incredibly personal. I did not write this with the intention of attracting sympathy, rather, with the intention of hopefully letting someone know that even though they flew under the radar, their feelings are entirely valid.)

I cannot recall a single instance in my life in which I enjoyed school. Not one. Never have I thought, “Wow, I actually enjoy school,” or “Wow, I like being here to learn.” Never. Maybe pre-high school, but as far as I can recall, these thoughts have never existed in my brain.

The truth is, I have never enjoyed the process. As I say this, though, I think people might find it hard to believe. I’m a solid student. Don’t get me wrong, I am in no way the best, but I enjoy getting the academic validation nonetheless.

I realized, honestly, within the last few hours, that school has only ever been a competition to me. Have I always been good at this competition? No. And I don't think I'm that great at it now. But I look through the things I've studied, and while there are things that interest me more than others, I can't place my finger on something I'm genuinely passionate about. And that is the most terrifying thought I've ever had.

See, for as long as I can recall, I was told that no matter what I tried, I should strive to be the best at it. It created pressure. And while winning the competition that was school was fun on occasion, the pressure that came with competing made me sick. It still actively does.

I genuinely believe it was this illness of competing that sucked the enjoyment out of learning for me. The act of acquiring knowledge, of bettering my understanding of the world around me, was always secondary to my performance. Understanding and digesting information means nothing to me so long as I know how to apply it. As long as I can put the words on paper, recall the information in an exam, or apply it in a performance test, actually sitting with what I'm “learning” seems pointless. And maybe that's part of the problem.

But what scares me the most is that at the end of the race, I'll have nothing to show for it. Sure, maybe I'll have a degree. Maybe I'll get a slightly higher-paying job. But what does that actually mean to me? My biggest fear, probably in life, is ending up in a career that I'm not passionate about. And yet, that's exactly what I'm setting myself up for.

It's hard to talk about. Especially when you're a relatively high-performing student or the “easy child,” you're expected to have it all figured out. Everything is supposed to make sense for you. I was once described as “seeming put together,” and I remember laughing internally. Yet, there was a sense of pride in knowing I'm good enough at hiding my own emotions to come off as organized.

I was proud of knowing I hadn't caused my parents any major upsets. I'm not the child who ran off to another country. I am not the child who made my parents cry. I stayed. And yet, I think about the cost of that decision. Of taking every “right” turn and never giving myself the chance to discover what's on the left. And when I look back on my short 22 years, that may be my biggest regret.

But it’s hard to describe the fear of disappointment. It’s the fear of destroying the carefully crafted expectations I’ve set for myself, and the fear of showing even a crack in the persona I present so expertly most of the time. I know how to smile. I know how to laugh. I know how to walk into a public space without hinting at anything beneath the surface. I’m incredibly strategic about when and how I show emotion.

I learned how to dry my tears and stop crying almost instantly at the age of seven. I remember staring in the mirror and repeating the words “crying makes you weak” until I stopped, and it worked. But now I’ve subconsciously trained myself not to show anything at all.

If emotions are what make us human, I’m afraid I don’t know what I am anymore. It feels like I’ve spent so long holding everything in that I no longer know how to let anything out. And anytime I think about doing something, about pursuing something even slightly outside my norm, I immediately think, “What would everyone think?” “How would I even begin to talk about this? Think of all the difficult conversations I would have to have.” And just like that, I stop.

I think for a long time, as grim as it may sound, a part of me has always believed that I've already messed up enough to never actually be able to do something for myself. I set myself on a path toward winning a competition I don't even remember signing up for. A competition where someone else wrote my name on the sign-up sheet.

But today, as I worked at the daycare surrounded by two- and three-year-olds, there was a brief moment when I was almost moved to tears. I was internally panicking over some bad news I had received, and yet as I looked out at the sea of children, I found myself thinking, “Funny enough, I think they’re the only ones who actually have it all figured out.”

They aren’t worried. Their short lives haven’t yet been shaped by the complexities of the world. I felt almost envious. I even caught myself thinking, “If I could go back and do it all over again, I would probably be a far more problematic child.”

Maybe then I wouldn’t have flown under the radar. I wouldn’t have been the “easy” child anymore, but maybe what I needed was the attention that “problem” children always seem to receive. Their needs are met because they are vocal. They don’t worry about competing in races that aren’t their own because they are often the ones creating the race in the first place.

I was never quite that brave. I have always been someone who follows the ebb and flow of the sea. But somehow, I seem to have drifted into open water. Now I feel like I am in too deep. Too far into the race to start a new one, and yet with so much of it left that I have no idea where it ends.