Please Don’t Ask Me What I’m Doing.
When you come across as confident, able and “accomplished” it’s actually the hardest for you to admit that you don’t know what you’re doing but, here I am. 28, filled with anxiety and uncertainty of what to do next.
At 28 I should know this by now right… I should have it all laid out. Like, I should be on a path to somewhere. I should be here - if ‘here’ was an x on a hand drawn map of my life so far, or on those two to five year plans I used to always doodle on the back of napkins, inside book sleeves and the numerous notebooks I found when I was cleaning out my childhood bedroom. Pages and pages of ideas joined with arrows of people to connect with, or a path that I was going on, of the skills I have or needed to acquire, of things I wanted to do — a combination of great logic, ambition, fearlessness and hope.
I grew up with the expectation of talent and “got to do good” positioned on my back. “You have to work twice as hard, for half as much” my Mum still tells me. “You weren’t meant to be here” my Dad told me when I graduated — twice. You had to do more always because there were walls and ceilings that you had to breakthrough and there were people that didn’t expect you to succeed who became your fuel. Their negative assumption of you was what you overtly and subconsciously aimed to undo. When I achieved things people were proud. Without sounding egotistical I became the role-model for my family below — a younger sister in tow was instructed to follow me as an example of how to do it “right.” This is where I think the first mistake is made — a weight of expectation placed on your shoulders and your path told as a shining light or success story for others to follow. But, it’s hard having that target on your back. The only way is up for you, stagnation is not an option. You have to keep rising and rising and rising and rising.
But I’m not. I’m stagnant. I’ve stopped. I’ve hit a point where I’m not sure what I’m doing anymore or, what to do next. I’ve hit a wall of uncertainty — one which makes me dodge seemingly innocent questions about what I’m currently doing or what’s next for me. One which makes me cancel plans with friends and recoil when people ask to “pick my brain” because, honestly mate, let’s be serious there’s nothing to feast on here. I shouldn’t be fake smiling when people tell me I’ve got this and that I’ll be ok. I should feel more confident in myself and my abilities, more so, of the skills I have supposedly gained through education and working thus far but, truth is I don’t, because at 28 I have no idea what I’m doing and I’m not ok with that.
That not knowing gives me anxiety. Last week I went to the retirement party for an old school teacher. I was surrounded in a crowd of people who’ve known me since I was twelve, when lesson plans not life plans were to be followed. I gave answers to questions I’d rehearsed in my head 30 minutes before, when I was too nervous to leave the house — just ask my Mum. The next day, I forced myself onto a train carriage, halfway down the platform from where I could easily have got on and hid behind a wall at London Bridge station because, I thought I saw an ex-colleague. I waited for what I thought was long enough for her to get up the escalator, leave the station before I followed in tow. I stopped in my tracks when her doppleganger walked past me — an uncanny resemblance but a shell of the person I thought it was. I side-eyed the sky as a response, wondering if forces were trying to teach me a lesson about having irrational fears and placing the wrong assumptions on other peoples bodies but, even admitting all of this is making my chest tight.
Your job isn’t everything about you. I know that. I’m anti conversations which start with “so what do you do” as being an accurate way to engage someone but, your job does give you status (in whatever way you want to own it.) It gives you a structure, routine, it gives you something to claim in a culture of introductions, connections, of social media bios somehow being accurate representations of people, of stunting and also of innocent people genuinely interested in what you do. All manner of people wanting to know something about you and nothing about you at the same time. However, I’ve always felt like I couldn’t claim my job title. Questions around what I do or have done, are quickly dismissed by me with great skill. Friends always ask me “fam, what is it you actually do?” — as I’ve probably managed to dissuade them with a combination of fast words, jokes in an uplifting tone and one word answer that deflect the attention off me and back to them, not knowing that I don’t really know what I’m doing nor have I always felt proud doing it.
A mate of mine wrote this, ‘I am multifaceted. Bitch, I do a ton of shit.’ I revisited it after we caught up one evening and she asked me how my day was. I told her it was shit. Today was a bad day. The only time I had left the house this week was to see her, that not working and not knowing what I should be doing was taking its toll on me mentally. In her piece she makes a positive case for the inability to package what she does into something tangible and memorable to say and the benefits of being a jack of all trades — trust, she really is. I did her exercise and sat in front of an A4 piece of paper and wrote a long scrambled blurb and some bullet points of things I’ve done and know I can do. It wasn’t a succinct industry title or job description, three words kept repeating themselves over and over — things I felt comfortable, confident and competent doing. The page contained emotion and no logic but, it was me. I then tried to look for a job where all of this A4 me would fit — disaster, back to square one. It did however make me feel good, proud even of the stuff I have done if not a little confused about where the direction of that could take me now.

Lately, when I’m too disheartened to make jokes, or embellish the truth. I’ve started to say I do nothing. A huge mistake my girlfriend tells me — one that ignores the little things you’re planning. A mistake that drives deep and inward towards the perpetuation that everything is bleak and dark, that everything is nothingness. By saying nothing, you feed into what clouds you. You’re weighed down into believing you are nothing too. Rather than the fact that, you’re not doing nothing currently but, are still someone valuable, with talent and abilities. However, without being able to give yourself a title or assemble the most disparate bits of what you are good at into something — nothing honestly feels like what I’m doing.
People have always told me my ambition and just do it-ness will go far and it has. Growing up with little and nothing — you’re already aware of what the worst could be, therefore anything you gain after that fact is a bonus. Mix that with a lot of London wit and West Indian grit and I’ve found myself in company of some cool people, in some really cool places, and some cool things ticked off, which all look pretty good on my cv and Instagram. I don’t discredit it all entirely. I value it for the moment of opportunity it provided but, I resent it for always falling short of an achievement barrier I had in mind and in turn I resent myself for failing to see it all earlier. I hold another strand of resentment to certain places I’ve worked being breeding grounds of micro-aggression, of being obsessed with a culture fit (a practice often done in bad faith) of being made to feel like the one with the problem for calling out misgivings and, of not being further along this path I had laid out.
We laud experience. It’s the old adage — “need experience to get a job, need a job to get experience.” So much to be learnt by simply trying — “just do it” they tell you however, what is of equal importance and running side by side to this is another saying — “fake it till you make it” and herein lies the second mistake — the trick or task of faking it till you make it because, at some point that has to transition into credibility and action. Eventually you have to follow up with real results and it can be quite hard and stressful to fake yourself out of low confidence, anxiety and a lack of support. More over, mediocrity may come easier to some than others. I don’t dispute that a belief in yourself will get you far — trust as someone who battles with imposter syndrome and found myself at times repeating Amy Cuddy’s body language exercises in the office bathroom mirror — sometimes all you got is a belief in yourself to get you through the day but, that ideal falters in an environment and creative culture set up to hinder you, rather than help you achieve the next step. Fake it till you make it for me meant making it through the day without: dropping a mask of disappointment, without clapping back at it all to the ignorant comments, without a lack of managerial support and guidance and all this achieved to a soundtrack of deafening silence from a group of people whose only relief was a one hour lunch break to complain viscously about it all.
People laud your gut-so as “the dream” and here in lies the third mistake. I hate the onus people place on your life as the dream a ‘cherished, aspiration, ambition or ideal’. It’s a two way street sure — the projection you give out through certain social channels, feeds into that and under a filtered image we double tap in approval of an aesthetic called ‘everything’s good over here fam — what are you doing?’ I’m not immune to that charge of guilty, trust me and without delving into a debate about it all — algorithmic media, shorter degrees of social separation, the value of a like, filtered facades, social platforms as places for depth and analysis — we’ve managed to miss showing people how hard shit really is and telling people how we really feel but, I have immense pride for my friends that do it so so well.
When I lived in New York there were select moments when I got ‘city-struck’ by my surroundings. Living in a city forever captured by popular culture is extremely surreal — a cheap and quick indulgence was to just look up and relish in the moment that I was here. But, it was also a period marked by stark reality — this wasn’t a holiday, this was life — a new one at that which I had left home to try and create. Living in this “dream” — an ideal of ambition which others aspired to was at times a less glamorous picture for me. I learnt that at times you could be an option in a city full of things to do. I clung on to the people, the places and instances that made me happy and made me feel at home. I felt energised, competent and praised in some things and small, stupid and unsupported in others. I questioned myself and every thing I had made myself to be — looking carefully to find where I’ve slipped up or where I created the lie.
I’m not writing this at a complete loss. I originally started writing this a couple months ago, there’s sentences I’ve since deleted because they were too bleak and I’ve felt myself transition through those feelings. There’s things I’ve made baby steps to try and accomplish. There’s things I realise I need to ask for help on (anyone know how to write a business plan, holla.) There’s things happening which will engage me with the things that I can do (volunteer research position at the Black Cultural Archives starting soon.) There’s things so simple such as leaving the house and taking my laptop somewhere to write, which help change my mood (Yumchaa, Camden thank you.) There’s things like spending time with friends who require nothing from you, and provide a safe place to talk about how you really feel and who accept you in flux (You all should know who you are.)
On Monday, I said yes to a new job I’m sure my parents think isn’t suitable for me (the me being the child that spent six years at a university, got a masters degree, a few big girl jobs later and untold hours input from them which don’t add up to this.) Sometimes results is all West Indian parents know, I wish they understood I was looking dumbfounded at the equation the same way. They see my new job as a “good thing but,” and after the but comes a list of suggestions of how to engineer me back to where I should be given my achievements and in their eyes. Generational shift evident. Different societal pressures and patterns recognised. They live in part through a little of the creative and cultured things you do but, their worry is grounded in a reality of what their parents faced and pressures passed down of how the world regard merit, will judge you and also accept you for who you are, as much as what you do.
Another good friend of mine throughly believes in trusting the process and I admit I used to love the ambiguity this sentiment brought. That I would eventually unravel to a place which felt good — that grabbing every opportunity with both hands and that trying was the hardest thing to do but, still something valuable. And, I do somewhat however, trust is something earned — it shows itself to be worthy with results and lately, I don’t like the trust that the process demands. In writing this, I hold my hands up to the choices I’ve made, looking back at every decision with a fine tooth comb — finding merit and malice in it all. Too hard on myself maybe, but I prefer the word honest, as that’s the bench mark I want to set myself going forward.
Honest in how I communicate my feelings, understand my abilities, what I want to do and what I am currently doing but, understand that’s not always a given. Simple questions can trigger an avalanche of self doubt in a person. So, please don’t ask me what I’m doing, before you ask me how I’m doing.
