“So What’s Next?”
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This past holiday break, there was an uninvited guest who kept butting its way into every conversation with my family and friends. Not a person, but a question — sharp and persistent, hovering like an expectant silence between bites of gingerbread cookies and nervous sips of wine. The question arrives with a certain choreography, sliding between exchanges of small talk and bits of forced laughter. “So what’s next?” Usually, the question is followed with “after you graduate” or “after college,” sometimes it goes unspokenly implied. The rawness of the inquiry feels almost brutal in its simplicity. Another set of eager eyes and genuine curiosity asking me a question that causes a lump in my throat and reawakens the unsettling feeling in my stomach I'd been trying to avoid. I give a vague response, a set of answers that align with my degree, carefully constructed like an architectural model — precise, but hollow.
Yet, as I reflect, I ask myself why. Why does this question stress me out so much? At 18, the idea of the future used to excite me, but at 21 it feels thick with fear. When I first arrived on campus, I thought I knew exactly who I would become, the confidence of someone who believed certainty was a destination. Four years later, the path has stretched out into a web, intricate and unexpected. Each semester introduced me to new worlds– perspectives I hadn’t considered, dreams I didn’t know existed. The people I met weren’t just teachers or peers but windows into different ways of being. Conversations and shared experiences all collectively adding depth to my understanding of self.
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I joined student-run publications where I explored creative ideas and honed my love of storytelling. At the same time, I took classes in politics and quickly realized that my initial fascination did not translate into passion. Through unexpected friendships, I saw my childhood love for making music come back to life. I also experimented with different styles, drawing inspiration from friends and strangers alike, fashion becoming another unexpected avenue of self-discovery. When I look at these experiences—writing, music, fashion—they aren’t random interests. They're different languages of the same conversation. The challenge isn’t that I don't know what I want to be. The challenge is that I want to be multiple things at once.
Society often imposes the idea that we must choose one path and stick to it. To compress our complex selves into a single career path, a safety in stability often boxing into a single definition of self. Those of us with varied interests are often labeled as “lost” or “indecisive,” words we give arbitrary meaning to and allow them to limit us. But perhaps the truth is that we’re unwilling to fit into a single mold. We mistake a diverse array of passions for a lack of direction, but what if our multiplicity is our greatest asset? I’m learning that identity isn't a fixed point. Some days, I’m a writer. Other days, a musician. Sometimes, just someone observing and collecting experiences. These aren’t contradictions — they’re different expressions of a full self.
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The question “What's next?” doesn’t need to feel so much like a threat, and should instead land more like an invitation. An invitation to embrace complexity, reject the pressure of singular definition, and be okay with letting the pieces fall into place over time. Graduation isn’t just an ending, if anything it’s a real beginning. Having been a student for the past 21 years, I haven’t needed to answer the question “What’s next?” because it has always been answered for me: be a student and finish whatever stage of schooling I am in. Now, I do not belong to any prerequisite state of being. I just am. And it is scary, but it’s also liberating. A chance to define my path, not by a checklist or a syllabus, but by my passions and choices. So what’s next? I’m not sure I know, but I’m ready to find out.
Strike Out,
Writer: Daniella Garcia-Novas
Editor: Grace Groover
Graphic Designer: Mica Cortez
Tallahassee