Who am I? A question I’ve asked myself since I was thirteen. This is what I know: I am the daughter. I am the oldest of 3. I am 29 years old. I am Black. I am 5’2. I am single. I am lost, indefinitely it would seem.
When I was 18, I knew that when I turned 27, that everything would somehow work out. I knew by 27 I would be engaged, I would have figured out my life, found a job that I loved, owned my own place, heck, moved out at least. None of these things have occurred. At this moment in time, I’m 29, still looking for my calling, currently living with my mom, oh and my car broke down…I literally have nothing.
(Yes, I know I have a lot more than others, so please save me the speech)
I can’t seem to find who Ivana is. Last year, I thought I came very close to knowing who she was. I quit a job of 9 years, left and went to an unknown country by myself. I knew I was on the verge of something, I just didn’t know what. You see, I had wanted to go to London, all my life it would seem. I knew that maybe once I got there, things would make sense. Everything would click into place…I was finally figuring out who I was. I was going to school online, I was in London on my own, I had goals…………….
The only thing I learned while abroad is that I could do anything I set my mind to, I could go to a place I had never been, and I knew I would be ok. But I still didn’t know what made me, you know, ME. What my passion was, where my path went, what drove me (which actually, I figured out the only thing that drives me is me). Hmm, wow, I think I just had an epiphany there…
I guess when I went to London I was expecting for my world to suddenly explode with the great "ah ha moment", like, here it is, your destiny! Like, I would finally know what to do. But that didn’t happen. I had never felt more lost until then. I spent a month in London and then came back home. I actually had plans to travel the world, but something happened, I think it was fear, but it was also like, I didn’t see the point of it anymore. So the day after my birthday, I came home, and I gave myself 6 weeks to figure out what my next move was. That was in November 2016, and now it's November 2017, and at this moment, as I write this, my birthday was literally yesterday. And I’m still exactly as lost as I was back then.
I had friends and family who told me what I should do, and of course, I listened and followed suit. Because every decision I had ever made sucked. But their decision for my life sucked too, maybe even worse. Because it wasn't what I wanted. I didn’t regret quitting my job or going to London. What I regretted was still not knowing.
I just want to know where I belong, what is it I’m meant to do, and be content with all my decisions and be happy. That’s all. I guess we are all lost, I suppose.