Dear diary,

The last few days have been heavy in a quiet way. Not dramatic, not loud, just… weighty. Like my life slowed down long enough for me to actually hear my own thoughts for the first time in years. And once I heard them, I couldn’t ignore them anymore.

I dropped out of school. That sentence still feels strange to write. I keep waiting for the panic to fully hit, for the guilt to swallow me whole, for the part of me that’s always needed a plan to completely spiral. And don’t get me wrong—there is fear. There is grief. There is a part of me that wonders if I’ve just ruined everything.

But underneath all of that… there’s relief. And that’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.

I finally admitted something to myself that I’ve been quietly fighting for a long time: nursing wasn’t my path. It wasn’t my dream. It wasn’t even my decision to begin with, not fully. It was a choice rooted in safety, expectations, pride, proving something—to myself and to everyone else. And for a while, that was enough to keep me going. Until it wasn’t.

I don’t know what’s next. I don’t have a backup plan. I don’t have a five-year vision or a cute explanation ready for when people ask, “So what are you doing now?” And that terrifies me… because I’ve always been the girl who had an answer. The girl who looked like she had it together. The girl who did the “right” thing even when it didn’t feel right inside.

But I think that’s exactly why this feels so big.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t choose the option that made everyone else comfortable. I didn’t choose the path that looked good on paper. I didn’t choose the thing that made me seem strong, successful, or admirable from the outside. I chose the thing that made me breathe a little easier—even if it scared me.

My whole life, I’ve been living for other people. Their expectations. Their reactions. Their comfort. I’ve shaped myself into what I thought I needed to be so I wouldn’t disappoint anyone, so I wouldn’t cause stress, so I wouldn’t be “too much” or “not enough.” I learned early on to anticipate how my choices would affect others… without ever stopping to ask how they were affecting me.

I made decisions out of fear—fear of being judged, fear of failing, fear of changing my mind, fear of being seen as unstable or lost. I told myself that if I just pushed through, if I just stuck it out, if I just ignored the discomfort, eventually it would all make sense. Eventually I would feel fulfilled. Eventually I would feel like myself again.

But instead, I felt smaller. More disconnected. More exhausted. Like I was playing a role I never auditioned for, hoping one day it would finally fit.

And now here I am. Twenty-three years olf and standing in the middle of my life with no clear direction, no certainty, no label to hide behind—and somehow that feels more honest than anything I’ve done before.

I’m scared. Of course I am. I’m scared of the unknown. I’m scared of regret. I’m scared of disappointing people I love. I’m scared of being misunderstood. I’m scared of what happens if I don’t “figure it out” fast enough.

But I’m also excited. And that matters.

I’m excited to discover who I am when I’m not trying to live up to anyone else’s expectations. Who I am when I’m not chasing approval or validation or the illusion of having it all together. Who I am when I let myself change, even if it’s messy, even if it’s uncomfortable, even if it doesn’t make sense to anyone else.

This feels like a pause. Not an ending. Not a failure. A pause. A moment where life is asking me to sit with myself instead of sprinting toward the next milestone just to feel worthy.

I don’t know what this chapter will look like yet. But I know this: I’m done ignoring my intuition. I’m done silencing myself just to keep the peace. I’m done living a life that looks right but feels wrong.

This is the beginning of choosing me. Even when it’s scary. Especially when it’s scary.

And maybe that’s enough for now.

Stay tuned,

Nic