(A Personal Rant About Living Someone Else’s Life)
I was twenty-three the first time someone told me I was “wasting my potential.” The accusation came wrapped in concern, like a sad little gift box from someone who just couldn’t believe I’d choose something as impractical as writing for a living. I remember the way their eyebrows crinkled, like they were physically pained by my decision to not go to grad school, not take the corporate job, not follow the plan. Their plan.
And honestly? For a hot minute, I believed them.
When the Blueprint Isn’t Yours
There’s something weirdly seductive about living by someone else’s script. Like, it comes pre-loaded with steps. Go here. Study that. Date someone respectable. Get a salary with benefits. Schedule joy for weekends and vacations, if there’s time. The world practically hands you this cookie-cutter life and dares you to color outside the lines.
But here’s the thing: sometimes those lines? They choke you.
When I first heard the Steve Jobs quote — “Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life” — I think I physically exhaled. Like I’d been holding my breath for years and suddenly realized I didn’t have to keep performing in someone else’s costume.
We all come into this world with clocks ticking quietly inside us. Not in a morbid way, just… true. Limited hours. And how many of those hours do we spend doing things because we think we should? Because we’re afraid of disappointing the people who mean well? Because risk is scary and validation is addicting?
The Great Identity Costume Party
For a long time, I lived like a shadow version of myself. I wore outfits I didn’t like. Laughed at jokes I didn’t find funny. Went to events where I felt like a cardboard cutout of a human. I even tried out a “business casual” phase — blazers, loafers, corporate jargon (Let’s circle back after we’ve aligned our priorities and touch base on the low-hanging fruit to ensure we’re leveraging our synergies moving forward.)
I kept trying to stuff myself into molds that weren’t shaped like me. Like putting on shoes two sizes too small and wondering why I couldn’t dance.
Living someone else’s life, even a polished, successful-looking one, is exhausting. And the weird part? You can get really good at it. Scarily good. Like Oscar-level performance good.
But eventually, something breaks. For me, it was a Tuesday night and a cheap bottle of red wine. I sat at my kitchen table, looking at a spreadsheet I had no interest in finishing, and just thought: What am I doing? This isn’t a life. This is a rental.
So I quit. I left the job, the apartment, the whole dang storyline. And yes, I panicked. I cried into my cereal. I googled “how to know if you’ve ruined your life.” (Spoiler: you haven’t.)
Making Peace with the Messy, Glorious Unknown
When I started freelancing and writing fiction full-time, and leaning into the weird, messy, artsy version of myself, I didn’t magically become a zillionaire. But I did start waking up not dreading the day ahead. I stopped editing myself in conversations. I wrote things that made me feel something.
So yeah…
I don’t think we talk enough about how terrifying it is to stop living someone else’s life. It means admitting you don’t know where the road goes. It means possibly looking ridiculous. It means doing the scary brave thing and saying: “This is who I am. This is how I want to spend my limited, irreplaceable time.”
And you know what? That’s worth it.
So if no one has said it to you yet today: you’re allowed to choose a different path. You’re allowed to rip up the script. And if your version of success looks wildly different than what your family or peers expected — that’s not failure. That’s freedom.
Now go dance in your own shoes. Even if they squeak (mine squeak like bloody hell).