When my brother and I were kids, we used to sit down by the river when dark was creeping in. The wind would move through the trees across the bank, making this dry, scraping sound. We’d freeze with our knees pulled up to our chests, convinced someone was standing in the shadows. We’d sit there for nearly an hour with our hearts pounding, completely terrified of noises we were making up in our own heads.
image from pexels 
I was thinking about those nights recently while sitting at my desk around two in the morning. In front of me was a thick stack of printed course modules and handwritten lecture notes. Everyone at school talks about getting this degree like it’s a guaranteed golden ticket, but looking ahead, it’s hard not to wonder if there’s actually any job waiting on the other side. You spend years working for a single piece of paper, terrified that the effort won't amount to anything.
Outside my window, I could see the faint blue glow from neighboring rooms—people lying in the dark, endlessly scrolling through videos on their phones just to distract themselves. I opened a notebook instead. Writing felt slow and frustrating at first, but it was the only way to clear my head.
That's when it hit me: I was doing the exact same thing with my future that my brother and I did by the riverbank.
I was listening to every piece of unhelpful advice, absorbing judgment from people who didn't even care, and letting imaginary fears paralyze me before I even tried. You can't fix a broken job market overnight, and you can't force life to give you answers right away. But sitting in the dark waiting for a sign doesn't move you forward either.
I put the pen back on the page and kept writing. The noise in my head finally quieted down, and for the first time in a long while, the path ahead just felt simple: stop listening to the shadows, do the work right in front of you, and keep moving.
Posted Using INLEO
