TW: mentions of mental illness

I never knew what I would be when I grew up. In fact, I never thought I would grow up. My classmates described their aspirations with vivid imagery: How they would be firefighters, doctors, scientists, and journalists. Though I tried to imagine what I would be, I wondered how I could decide between so many options, each as diverse as they were essential.

Would I be a wildlife veterinarian, travelling the world—treating animals and photographing my adventures? Or the caring third-grade teacher? Or the practiced, accommodating doctor? The options appeared endless; I didn’t know how I could make a decision that felt so permanent.

As we grow up, we are often told we should either follow in someone’s footsteps, or be a trailblazer on a semi-trodden path. We ought to be what someone else, some mysterious nameless external force, wants for us, and these influences extend both within and without. Fortunately for me, my parents had but one ask: They wanted me to do what made me happy.

And though I cherished their support, what exactly would that “happiness” be? 

Throughout my childhood, I could always find solace in my hobbies, which included video commentary, photography, and games. Somewhere along the way, I found an interest in art, and then one in science, nurtured by nature and amazement at all forms of life. I cherished empathy and wanted to help others learn, think, heal, and feel. But although I felt these could give me purpose, I could not determine if they necessarily sparked joy. 

Even as a child, joy didn’t feel profitable—nor did I think it should have to be. I didn’t know how to combine my passions with a fruitful vision of my future. But I also couldn’t imagine devoting myself to a lifelong career that wasn’t driven by love and curiosity. On the other hand, when we link our livelihood, well-being, and future prospects to something that’s supposed to be enjoyable, we threaten the essence of our leisure. It creates a pressure to excel, profit, and surpass others with our hobbies, dimming their appeal. And if the price of maximizing our income is happiness, freedom, and enjoyment, then the ends fail to justify the means.

As I thought about what I could do with my hobbies when I grew up—such as commentary, music, and photography—something like a voice, simultaneously alien and familiar, overshadowed my exploration: “I don’t think you’re interesting enough to be listened to, or good enough for people to hear you play, and who would ever pay to own what you create?” 

I looked to other streamers and commentators, artists, musicians, and photographers, each with vast talent and inspiring dedication. But rather than catalyzing my own journey, I could only worry about how I’d never compare. And as I aged, these thoughts grew louder, unmuffled, and dominating—why bother to pick up a pencil if your work never seems to improve? To play a note, when others are playing better ones? Or to share your thoughts, when those more educated and well-spoken have verbalized already what you could never express?

Doubt has followed me throughout my life’s journey, evolving and disguising itself; it’s loudest when I think about what I’ll do after graduation, and it seems my friends and classmates hear it too.

Compulsive thoughts were voiceless when I was young, but still there, manifesting in obsessiveness and repetition. Eventually, the voice asserted itself as Doubt. It tightened its grasp, tearing at the delicate fabric of my relationships, my life, my senses, and my self-perception.  Counting, sensations, and tics were just a few of the symptoms of an obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) that manifested early and has carried on ever since. But as I grew, I realized life is not as bleak as it seemed. Every day, I try to defy that voice of self-doubt and instead remind myself of my strengths. Today, the voice is quieter in nature, a meaningful conversation, a motivated drawing session, or a late-night study effort. 

Once I had discovered a makeshift defence against these thoughts, I decided to refocus on my hobbies and school, which brought a number of struggles of their own. In high school, every test felt like it would change the course of my life; in university, every midterm has felt like life-or-death. I’ve had to learn to put things in perspective, how to study effectively, and how to find joy in a moment of monotony rather than worry about what comes next.

Living with OCD as a university student and a first-time participant in Life, I’m learning my personal limits one day at a time. And for me, this determine-your-entire-life-path-by-the-end-of-the-Fall-semester idea is not ideal.

Throughout the summer and beginning of fall, I watched my friends apply to medical schools—years of dedication, sleepless nights, and tireless efforts summarized in a 100-character limit box. They wrote extensive tests and sought recommendation after recommendation: All things I thought I would also do at this age, until I realized that practicing medicine was not my true passion. But I wanted to believe that I was the kind of person who would. Now, graduate school applications are due within a couple of months: The stress keeps building, and the voice is telling me I’m running out of time, and that I’ll enter the “real world” soon, as if previous years on our own didn’t count. 

But time for what, exactly? Why //do// we feel like the rest of our life is just around the corner called graduation, and only one oversight away from being irredeemable? What makes life after graduation feel so stressful?

Let’s chat: //What’s the rush?//

//School and society//

In our Western capitalist society, any moment spent resting is a moment not working. External factors such as corporations and companies condition us from a young age to be as productive, impressive, and dedicated as we can, despite the consequences on our health or lifestyle. Additionally, we spend any spare time working on other tasks or consuming any media available to distract ourselves from our situations, rather than resting and recovering. This effort to preserve the momentum we’ve spent years building extends to many facets of our lives as university students, whether it be our work, school, social responsibilities, or personal lives. And our school perpetuates these strenuous values as well. Notably, McGill University’s mascot, the legendary martlet, embodies what it wants from its students: A grueling, continuous effort from birth to death. The martlet is supposedly born without legs, condemning it to a life of perpetual flight, for the second it stops flapping marks its end.

//External pressures//

Pressures not only originate from our schools and workplaces, but also from our families, friends, and communities. However, they’re not always ill-intended. Our loved ones want the best for us: To succeed, to afford to live comfortably, safely, and happily, and it seems the fastest route is continuous excellence and overworking oneself. Additionally, we’re all influenced by our heritage and cultures. Some cultures prioritize productivity, devotion and work ethic, regardless of the consequences on one’s health, which encompasses mental, physical, and well-being in every aspect of one’s life. But some youth are challenging this notion, such as the Chinese resistance movement 躺平 (//tang ping//, ‘to lie flat’) against the social culture of overworking at the expense of one’s health, and ultimately inspiring others to take time to heal—a halt in the rat race.

//Who gets rewarded?//

Graduation feels especially nerve-wracking since it seems like this section of our life’s rat race is ending. And while we don’t know for sure where we landed, it feels like others may have played it better than us. And maybe that’s true—but it’s okay. Comparison is an intrinsic human quality tied to an emotional response that can make us feel worse about ourselves. For people with mental illness, comparison can often exacerbate their symptoms; in my case, the endlessly comparing voice tends to be deafening. But just as life didn’t end after high school, neither will life end after university. We have the rest of our lives to determine what we want to do with it, and the only proxy that matters is ourselves.

So, we’ve figured out //partially// where this abstract sense of urgency originates from. But the bigger question now is: What do we actually //do// after graduating? Do we stick to one path? Can we change our minds? And most importantly, should we do what makes us happy at the risk of little to no profit, or do we find something we can tolerate 50 out of 52 weeks of the year?

Of course, making a living is important. But just because something doesn’t feel bad doesn’t necessarily mean it’s right.

The rush to figure out what to do with the rest of our lives draws near, and it feels like any wrong move could preemptively end our efforts. But I argue that life would improve if we took things day by day, and did more of what we enjoyed. If we spoke more spontaneously with others; meandered on a trail; appreciated our privilege of being able to study, meditate, or create art. As humans, one of the great advantages of our evolution is that our brains allow us to change our minds whenever we gain insight that is compelling enough—and what is ‘compelling’ is entirely our decision. We have the agency to choose.

We are made to believe there are two choices: A lucrative career we’re uninterested in and disconnected from, or a monetization of our passions. However, both these options share one ultimate goal: Maximizing our income.  But I suggest an alternative: That we put all this aside, if we can, and live in the moment. That we simply do things (even badly) because we can—because we enjoy them. To try to be more present in our daily lives, and live a little more deeply.

On my way to the lab, I walk down a road I’ve walked a hundred times before, wearing my headphones to dull my senses with music. I pass buildings that have become landmarks to orient myself, timing my turns with certain shapes and colours, and running when I feel the vibration of the metro arriving. I leave the station, walk mindlessly up the hill, and begin my work.

But the next day, I try something new.

I walk down the same road I’ve walked a hundred times before. I remove my headphones and hear how loud my water bottle clacks in my backpack, my hanging carabiners screeching an arrhythmic melody. My shoes squeak, the wind whistles, and I’m reminded of why I numbed the noise to begin with.

But as I continue, I look around. The trees have turned orange without any warning, depositing dead crunching leaves underfoot. Autumn decorations adorn the exteriors of buildings with crackling red paint atop brick, dying ivy spreading over their symphyses. Above me, the clouds form wisps, moving hurriedly towards some common destination amongst a dim blue sky. A crow flies crying to its murder; a lounging cat stares from its forest green porch. The smell of wet autumn leaves, rainfall, and construction dance and swirl. 

I’ve spent my life wondering when it would start, which has caused me to miss out on it all along. Maybe I won’t be able to afford a nice car, a mansion, lavish meals, and to travel every weekend. But without the hypotheticals and fears—anxious worries about what I’ll do for the rest of my life, and how little time I have to do it in—the more I see, the slower time seems to pass, and the previously mundane becomes entrancing. If I’m lucky, I’ll afford to walk a local trail, and have a good conversation in a home that feels warm and safe. 

And I think the most fantastical thought yet: What if I decide to choose myself, as I am right now. Not who I could be, or working towards some version of myself that I will never truly achieve as the bar keeps moving forward; but me as I exist in this moment—with all my insecurities, worries, dreams, and desperations. To choose my passions and interests outside of the lens of productivity and perfection—and enjoy them as they are right now. I think this is a goal worth working towards, and it might just be where I’ll find the happiness I seek.