Hi, I’m Sidney and I’m a liar. (Chorus: “Hiiiiiii, Sidney!”)

I don’t mean the regular kind of liar … you know the ones I’m talking about. What I mean is, I’ve lied to myself for 22 years about who and what I want to be. At this exact moment in time, I’ve been graduated from college nearly two months. My degree is in a field I love, but I question every day if I’m cut out for it. Interviews are scary. Pantsuits are uncomfortable. Is that a millennial thing? Am I being too self-entitled to achieve childhood dreams and ultimately find solace in being an unapologetic 20-something with a crappy New York apartment and my dream job? But I think I’m afraid of my own dreams.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” Here’s a list (people like lists, right?):

1. A veterinarian. I used to operate on my stuffed animals by putting a lampshade over them. I don’t remember what this contraption was called, but it cured my bunny Cuddles of her tummy ache. My core value index is “Merchant-Innovator,” so don’t say I haven’t always lived up to that.
2. A stand-up comedian. “What’s the deal with airline food?” and all that jazz. Cue the Seinfeld bassline.
3. An artist. I kicked so much ass at finger-painting in Kindergarten that I was basically the in-class Van Gogh. Those safety scissors couldn’t cut off my ear, though.
4. A model. All 4-foot-7-inches and 90-pounds of little ol’ 4th grade me.
5. A fashion designer. Ninety-nine percent of my wardrobe is from Target.
6. A country singer. I knew one chord on a guitar that hadn’t been tuned in 20 years. Eat your heart out, Carrie Underwood.
7. A figure skating coach. I just wanted to yell, to be honest.
8. A novelist. If you asked 16-year-old me if this was my career nirvana, I would have said yes. Except it smelled too much like Teen Angst with a fresh, heteronormative undertone. You can blame John Green for this one.
9. A writer at Saturday Night Live. I’ve been writing sketches since I first saw an episode of SNL live. Sometimes I still giggle to myself at the idea of Jimmy Fallon breaking one of my characters. I don’t think Lorne Michaels hires 8-year-olds, though.
10. A journalist. This is the path I’m on currently, but some days I fail at it abysmally.

I think I’m afraid of my own dreams. I’m pretty shit at math, science, and most basic tasks. But writing has cradled me since my first perfect score on a standardized writing exam. Far too often, I apologize for existing. Now thanks to the Internet, everyone’s a writer. I’ve never been one to “put myself out there”–a concept waaaay too many teen magazines have suggested to me. Fear of exiting the box I’ve carefully built for myself over the last 22 years plagues my everyday functions. Submit a resume? Hell nope, I don’t have enough experience. Interviewing? Bye, I got my Ph.D. in fumbling over words. Settling for a mediocre job I hate our of fear? Just call me Goldilocks.

However, I think it’s okay to be afraid of your own dreams. Something about our system here in the West has an unwritten bylaw requiring all 18-year-olds to know what they want to do upon entering college. I lied to myself about my dreams. Just get through college, and settle for an average paying job at a nine-to-five pace. I can play make-believe that I’m sitting behind the desk of Weekend Update or writing mindless BuzzFeed quizzes about which onion matches my personality (spoiler alert: mine’s red onion because I cry a lot and can come on a bit strong), but that doesn’t stop me from slamming on the metaphorical breaks of my future.

You know when you get real good at lying and you end up believing yourself? Story of my freakin’ life. This then leads to me adopt an “IDGAF” façade. I know, I’m a mess. But the truth is, I give many Fs about my future. I want employers to like me without competition. Everything I want requires me to stand out when I have a chronic case of blending in.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself!” I hear this phrase every day. Okay, maybe I rely too heavily on self-deprecating comedy to cope with the existential anxiety of post-grad. I want my future to be an Ikea-furnished studio in Manhattan with weekly brunches with my squad of single 20-somethings. However, I don’t know how realistic that is. My attempts at having all these things are fruitless. Hopefully that apple-a-day keeps the doctor away, since I can’t afford health insurance (thanks, Dad).

If you’re afraid of your dreams like me, it’s okay. Don’t build a pedestal so high up you can’t get down. “The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams” is an overused quote from Eleanor Roosevelt I want us all to mull over.