Well… I’ve decided to continue my academic journey by taking on the next four classes that stand between me and university, while also trying to rebuild a sense of community around myself. 

Of course, to find and build community, I have to be a little more vulnerable than I’m currently comfortable with (which isn’t very vulnerable at all). That doesn’t mean I should share literally everything about myself. But, at the very least, I need to be honest with the people around me: I’m not just a 23-year-old woman going through a typical existential crisis. I’m a 23-year-old woman that, scientifically speaking, shouldn’t even be here. Yet… I am. 

I’ve had more than my fair share of brushes with death, and I grew up believing my parents (and perhaps, even my grandparents) would outlive me. I grew up watching my health progressively worsen at an increasingly rapid rate, while doctors poked and prodded at my body in hopes of keeping me around long enough for medical science to catch up. 

Instead of dreaming about the future and bragging to my peers about how I was gonna be president one day, I dreaded my future. I spent my middle and high school years making peace with my own early death, and hating God for everything that went wrong in my life. I’d often lie awake at night, grieving a life I never had, and worrying incessantly about how bad things would get from there. After all, I already felt terrible. Yet, I was quite healthy for someone my age with Cystic Fibrosis. And I was terrified of the prospect of dying a slow, excruciating death. 

Then, the moment I took my first dose of Trikafta with a fatty sirloin steak from Outback while my grandma Debbie and grandpa Shawn watched, my trajectory spun a full 180 degrees. In two weeks, I went from suffering all sorts of issues caused by Cystic Fibrosis, to being mucus-free and literally healthier than my peers. My life expectancy shot up from my thirties to my eighties; I was (and am) gonna live as long as everyone else. 

When my doctors told me I needed to start seriously thinking about going to college, pursing a career, and saving up for retirement, I went home and sobbed every night for a month straight; equally ecstatic for and terrified of my future. 

Up until that moment, I hardly thought about my future because I didn’t believe I had much of a future. I was too sick to finish high school like the rest of my peers, how the hell could I possibly go to and graduate college, pursue a career, and live a long, healthy life like the rest of them? Suddenly, thanks to three little daily pills, doctors were telling me I’d live to die of old age, and I needed to rethink and reformat my entire existence to deal with that!

Needless to say, I’ve spent the past five years trying to figure myself out, and I still don’t have any idea who I really am, or what I’m truly capable of. Yet, every time I encounter a new person, or run into a friend or family member after some time away, I’m always asked, “What are you majoring in?”

My answer to that, so far, has been, “Something in STEM, I guess…”, because STEM seems to be where the most stable and lucrative careers are these days. However, that’s not an answer most people want to hear and, frankly, that’s not the answer I like to give either. 

Why’s that?

Well, for one, I feel a little embarrassed by the fact that I have no idea what to do with myself, when I’m surrounded by people who, at least, think they know what they’re doing. I also exist in a culture and a society that (stupidly) expects people my age to have a solid plan for their future by the time they get outta high school. And here I am, at twenty-three years old, completely at a loss of what to do with my life.

Plus, my answer to the question doesn’t actually answer the question. It simply begs more questions from others; questions that oftentimes get a little too close to my heart for me to comfortably answer. 

I mean… I keep circling back to the sentiment that I simply shouldn’t be here, because for my entire childhood and into my adulthood, I was told by my doctors, biology teachers, and even my own family that my life would be significantly cut short by Cystic Fibrosis and Pulmonary Atresia. I was still expected to do every damn thing in my power to help myself stay as healthy as possible for as long as possible, but it was inevitable that I’d die young. 

Thanks to an intense series of miracles, most of which none of my doctors can explain, that’s no longer my prognosis. I’m now expected to live a very long time. However, old habits (especially the ones that kept me alive for the first eighteen years of my life) die hard, as do old mindsets and beliefs. 

Logically, I understand that I’ll live a long time, and I’ll be okay no matter what happens, or what I choose to do. Emotionally, however, I’m still convinced that the other shoe’s gonna drop any day now.