crossroads

adventures in all forms

I’ve come to realise that freedom comes at a cost. A double-edge sword I didn’t anticipate. The best part of freedom is that you can do anything, the worst part is is that you can do anything.

Reaching a turning point in life is a rare and somewhat daunting experience. In most cases, it doesn’t feel like we’re making choices at all. Life often seems more like following a set of instructions: go to school, find a job, stay in your comfort zone, renew your lease. The options are already mapped out, and it doesn’t feel like a decision-making process; it feels like simply going through the motions because that’s what’s expected — and what everyone else is doing as well.

After I got made redundant, I realised how frightening freedom really is. It’s like falling through space, reaching out for anything to hold onto. I’ve always talked about being flexible, about adapting to whatever comes — but now, with nothing tying me down, I wonder if I’ve been lying to myself all along. I’m not flexible. I like having walls around me. I like safety. At my core, I’m a critic, a cautious thinker, someone who doesn’t allow — or maybe can’t afford — to be a risky person. I wonder if I’m really a fearful person, or if fear was planted in me early — a quiet lesson to stay in line, to trust the system, to play it safe.

The thing about crossroads is, there’s no map, no clear sign pointing the way. The path only appears once you start making decisions yourself. You have to trust the strange, unsteady feeling of stepping forward without knowing where your foot will land. And trust has never come easily to me. You have to make peace with the truth that some steps will lead to nowhere, that not every journey ends with a sweeping view — but sometimes, the act of moving is the view itself.

There’s no guarantee. Ever.

I’ve always been good at playing by the rules. I worked hard in college, stacked up a handful of professional jobs in marketing and communications, did everything you’re supposed to do to get a leg up — and none of it made much of a difference. My first job was at a PR agency for the construction industry — not exactly the stuff of dreams — but the sensible voice in my head said, be grateful, don’t get picky. So I stayed. Two and a half years, bored to the point of numbness, convincing myself that boredom was just part of being an adult. The second job dangled a bit more creativity, and for a while, it worked. But four years in, after more problems than I can even count, I’m left wondering why I didn’t just bet on myself earlier — if disappointment was always waiting for me anyway, why not at least make it on my own terms?

The romantic part of me — the one that still believes there’s something worth chasing — reminds me that there’s a strange kind of thrill in uncertainty. It’s in that space where you finally realise you’re the one who has to write the map. I get ask myself what I want to do with the rest of my life. It’s that first flicker of power— the moment you realise the story is yours to tell, even if you have no idea where it’s going yet. It’s also kind of forces me to take action. I have no safety net, no job to lean on. I have to look forward and make the decision for myself. Equal parts thrilling and terrifying. I read a quote last night that said:

“One day you’ll realise your dream died because you chose comfort over effort.”

I wonder if that’s what I’ve been doing to myself.

This, I think, is my crossroads moment. I finally have a chance to find something that actually makes me happy. I’m starting to realise I don’t want to keep sacrificing my happiness. That if I’m going to be working for the next thirty years, I might as well try to find something I like. It’s a small, quiet act of courage, that reminds me it’s not too late to start over — even at 28. It’s recognising that I still have the power to steer my life, even if it’s just by a few degrees.

It takes courage to sit with that raw uncertainty, to disappoint those who knew you as the safe bet. We’re conditioned to believe that staying on the well-marked path is the only sensible choice, but shouldn’t there be joy too? Internally, I battle not just for safety and security, but also with the feeling that I want to say I did something worthy with my life — that I took risks, good or bad. That when I’m old, when I’m recounting my life, I can say with certainty I’m happy with what I chose. Doesn’t that moment begin with the decision I make now?

Maybe the bravest thing I can do is be unsure and still move forward. Freedom isn’t about chasing the perfect dream — it’s about choosing differently, even if the way is unclear.

I don’t know what comes next. But for the first time in a long time, the story feels like mine.

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