Who Am I? Figuring Out Life at 18

The Never-Ending Question

“Who am I?” If I had a rupee for every time I asked myself this question, I’d probably be rich enough to never need a career plan. I’m eighteen. That awkward stage where kids younger than me already seem to have their lives figured out—career goals, startup ideas, even backup dreams in case their first dreams fail. Meanwhile, I’m standing here debating between becoming a singer or a potato. Honestly? Potato sounds peaceful. Potatoes don’t need LinkedIn profiles.

Life in Bangalore (Or, How I Only Know One Route)

When people hear the word “wanderer,” they imagine sunsets, airports, and Instagram-worthy captions. Not me. My version of wandering is standing in my balcony, watching autos speed by. I’ve lived in Bangalore my entire life, yet I only know the route from school to home. That’s it. If you asked me to navigate beyond that, I’d probably panic and call my mom for directions.

And yet, the same people who’ve seen me faint in malls now expect me to move across the planet for college. Me. Alone. In a country where I can’t even order food without double-checking reviews? Unrealistic expectations, Exhibit A.

Expectations, Expectations Everywhere

Speaking of expectations, let’s address the elephant in every Indian household: grades. If I had a rupee for every time an aunty asked me my 12th-grade percentage, I’d be richer than Ambani by now. “Beta, how much did you score?” they ask, like I’m reporting to the stock exchange. The irony? Half of these people don’t even know my full name.

Take this one aunty. The last time we met, I was two months old and apparently she changed my diaper. That was our bonding moment. Now suddenly she feels entitled to know my marks. Ma’am, if you helped me pee in a Pampers once, please consider our relationship complete.

Love With a Checklist

Don’t get me wrong—I know I’m lucky. Being unconditionally loved by your parents is a privilege, and I don’t take that lightly. But in my case, “unconditional” comes with conditions. My parents love me, yes, but that love sometimes feels like a checklist of expectations I never signed up for.

Become a doctor? Crossed out. Engineer? Attempted. IAS officer? Not happening. Singer? Too unstable. Dancer? Too impractical. I’m not trying to sound ungrateful; I just sometimes wish love came with fewer bullet points. Still, I’m trying. I stumble, I fail, I cry, but I get back up. Because somewhere deep down, I know I’m still figuring things out.

Murder Mysteries: My Comfort Food

Now let’s talk about what actually makes me feel alive: murder mysteries. Agatha Christie is my comfort zone, and Hercule Poirot is basically my emotional support Belgian. Give me a cup of chai, a thunderstorm outside, and a Christie novel, and suddenly life doesn’t feel so overwhelming.

If I had to pick a literary alter ego, it would be Philip Lombard from And Then There Were None. Charming. Unbothered. Morally grey. While Vera is standing on the cliff staring dramatically at the sea, I imagine myself speedboating away with a smirk and a packet of chips. That’s the kind of escape energy I aspire to bring into real life.

Chasing the Thrill: Why Skydiving Calls Me

But reading about murder mysteries isn’t enough. I crave that same thrill in real life. Not the killing-people-on-an-island kind, calm down. I mean the kind of unpredictability that makes your heart race.

That’s why I often daydream about skydiving. Picture it: 10,000 feet in the air, my stomach flipping, adrenaline drowning out my thoughts. My brain is reciting Agatha Christie, my heart is yelling, “This is a bad idea!”—and yet, I leap. For those few seconds, I’m not someone’s daughter, not someone’s grade sheet, not someone’s problem to solve. I’m just me. Flying. Falling. Alive.

The Beauty of Being a Mess

Here’s the thing: I procrastinate. I overthink. Sometimes, I want to try everything at once—doctorengineerdancersingerastronaut (yes, all one word). And maybe I’ll never settle on just one dream. Maybe that’s okay. Life doesn’t always have to be a neatly packaged five-year plan.

If I’m a mess, at least I’m my mess. Somewhere between Poirot and parachutes, sarcasm and survival, I’m writing my own story. And I have a feeling the twist ending is going to surprise everyone—including me.

The One Dream That’s Crystal Clear

But if there’s one dream I am absolutely certain about, it’s this: I want a home filled with dogs. Big ones, tiny ones, loud barkers, quiet cuddlers. A German Shepherd guarding the door, a Beagle stealing socks, a Golden Retriever demanding belly rubs. I want to be the center of their universe.

Humans? Too many red flags. Dogs? Unconditional love, zero judgment. They don’t care about my marks, my career choices, or my inability to drive beyond my street. They just care that I exist—and maybe that I share my snacks.

Why I’m Sharing This

So why am I even writing this down? Partly because I want to stop bottling it all up. But also because I know I’m not the only eighteen-year-old who feels this way. Somewhere out there, another kid is Googling “how to figure out life at 18” and spiraling because the internet told them to pick one dream and stick with it forever.

To that kid: it’s okay. You don’t have to have it all figured out. You can be messy. You can change your mind. You can want to be a singer today and a potato tomorrow. Life isn’t a checklist—it’s a plot twist.

 My Story’s Still Unfolding

At the end of the day, I don’t have all the answers. I’m still a work-in-progress. Some days, I feel lost. Other days, I feel unstoppable. But every day, I remind myself of one thing: I’m still writing my story.

And when the twist comes? Oh, it’s going to be a good one.