Lately, one recurring thought has been circling my mind:
I want to give up.
I’m not entirely sure what I mean by that.
I’m a 35-year-old single woman who has already given up so much—a home, belongings, a job, friends, and family. I packed a suitcase and left everything behind, hoping to find myself. I thought that by detaching from everyone and everything, I’d discover a cooler, better, more successful version of myself. Someone unburdened by the restrictions of my old life.
But here I am, a person with nothing, a blank canvas waiting to be redesigned. And yet, the thought that keeps echoing in my mind is:
I want to give up.
Give up on what?
At the beginning of the year, I felt a wave of courage. I decided to stop working, spend the money I’d saved, and travel the world. I left my problems behind in cold Germany, seeking comfort in places where the sun embraces you every day.
And so, I left.
I traveled a lot in my twenties, back when I was a student and my parents supported my adventures. They hoped I’d find myself and be ready to settle down by 30—at the latest.
At first, I was excited to leave again, longing for that carefree feeling of simply enjoying life. But then it hit me: my parents aren’t supporting me anymore. The money I’ve saved has a limit, and I have no idea how long this journey of self-discovery will take.
When I left, I was uncharacteristically nervous. And when I arrived at my destination, alone with my thoughts, an emotion I usually try to avoid crept in:
Anxiety.
I’m trying to find a better version of myself, but what if there isn’t one?
Like everyone, I have my issues, and I’ve always blamed many of them on my upbringing and my family. But what if I’m actually the best version of myself when I’m around them? What if I’m nothing without the very things I complain about—the things I thought were holding me back?
What if I just have nothing to offer?
So, what do I want to give up on?
Life?
No. That’s not me.
I’m the type of person who can reach a point where I have no motivation to get out of bed, where I feel like the biggest loser, where I shut myself off from the world and cry while staring at the ceiling.
But even then, I’d still choose to be alive.
No one said life was easy, right?
Life is annoyingly hard.
Finding your place in the world sometimes feels like climbing Mount Everest. A lot of people try. Some reach the top. Others turn around somewhere along the way. But you either take the risk and start climbing, or stay at the bottom wondering what the view from the summit might have looked like.
Maybe that is what I need to remember when the thought I want to give up returns. Maybe I don’t actually want to give up. Maybe I’m just tired of climbing without knowing whether I’m heading in the right direction. Tired of searching for a version of myself I’m not even sure exists. I still don’t know where I’m going, and I have no guarantee that the life I’m hoping for is waiting for me somewhere ahead. But I’m curious enough to keep climbing. Because as frightening as it is not to know what comes next, I think I’d rather find out than spend the rest of my life wondering what the view could have been.