The Life I’m Good At, But Don’t Want

I need to write. Or I must say, I want to write. Something stuck in my mind right now. When I sleep, my dream was very shattered and everywhere. I couldn’t pinpoint what is what. As if I saw a preview of something that I feel familiar with — blue and white, and people, and sad, and sky, and frustration. I don’t know what’s that. And it’s moving. It’s rushing. It’s passing. And it gives me some kind of rush and anxiety for not catching it. For not trying hard enough taking the glimpse when in fact, my eyeballs were hurting for moving too fast, catching what the hell is it.

A few days ago I told my mom about the conversation I had with HR the other day. Where basically, my company loves me. Yada yada yada. I mean, I am glad. I am glad that I am in good hands in the office. I am glad that whatever I did in the office and towards management are not being seen little at all. But the moment I stepped out from the HR room, I sigh. I really sigh. This is just not what I wanted.

It’s not that I don’t want to be liked. No. Hell no. Not that. That’s a good thing right? Being trusted with the directors. It’s good. Actually so good. But what I’m sighing about is not that. It’s just… this is not what I want in my life. I don’t want to keep working in this corporate environment for years. It scares the shit out of me.

Well although I’m so good at this, this is just not my soul. Just because I’m good, does not mean I have to kill myself to excel in it, right? I’m just dyinggggg to quit and travel. Be out there. Live out there. Explore. Move. See. Breathe. Because right now, in my life, I don’t breathe at all. I am holding it. It’s tense. It’s so tense.

But people expectations. My mom said, ah good, now you climb more. Get that exclusive job position. Be that person. Become this woman. Grill that lifestyle. And when I hear it, I don’t feel happy. Sure, I can imagine my life like Donna. But that life is stuck. It’s permanent. It’s still. And I don’t want that.

Yes. I will be losing myself to be in that position although it seems a very easy path to get. But to trade my life? My own life for it? It’s killing me. It’s really killing me.

But at the same time, what if that lifestyle can sustain my life so very stable. Good house. Good car. Good money. I’m torn. I’m really torn. Because in my eyes, I see Thailand. I see Vietnam. I see culture. I see temples. I see breathing air. Breathing air.

And now it just makes me question. What is life? What defines life? What makes life? I really wonder. Hundreds of years ago, people that lived — how did they define their life? What makes life, life? Is it career? Are we born just to chase career? Or are we born to make our own path? Does life only have one path? And the other path is wrong? Or life is something here we decide each turn that we want? What makes life a life?

I’m just so scared. And it scares me more knowing we only have one life. One life to figure it out.

I only ever feel free when I travel. But even that freedom isn’t complete — maybe 90%, if I’m being honest. Because at the back of my mind, there’s always something pulling me back. Commitments. Responsibilities. A quiet reminder that I still belong to something back home.

Still, whenever I’m out there — breathing different air, watching strangers live lives I’ll never fully know — I catch a glimpse of her. The version of me I always imagine. The one who’s calm. Content. She walks slow, lives soft. She’s Buddhism in spirit. Carefree, undefined. She doesn’t need to explain herself. People look at her and somehow, she’s everything. She’s not a role. She’s not a title. She just is.

And my body knows her well — long before my mind ever catches up. It reacts without asking for permission. It rejects the weekday mornings, the alarm, the rush, the meetings. But it lights up on weekends. And it glows even more when I travel. Like it remembers something I’ve forgotten — the way I’m meant to feel.

Even when I think about staying where I am now, something in me tightens. My chest crunches. But at the same time, weirdly — it also dreams. It wants more, but it’s scared of the price.

If the world didn’t expect anything from me — if no one asked me to perform, to show up, to be “that woman” with the polished job title — I know how I’d live.

I wouldn’t go to work.

I’d wake up slow, turn on soft yoga music, take a warm shower, wash my laundry, make breakfast while the windows are open and the morning air moves through the house. I’d read.

By 10am, I’d be at the library — writing, editing my vlog, pouring into the things that make me feel alive. By noon, I’d walk to buy groceries, only what I need. Then back home. Cook something clean, something good. Netflix in the background. Iced tea in a glass. A quiet lunch.

In between, I’d plan out my travel business. Daydream a little more. Read again. Then yoga in the evening. Another shower. Maybe more reading. Maybe writing. Then sleep. Peaceful.

But then the fear creeps back in. Not always loud. Sometimes it just sits on top of everything like a thin layer — enough to keep me still. I know it’s fear that covers up my longing. I know it. Because underneath, that desire is strong. So strong that I scare myself. And maybe that’s the point — I’ve always been a bit crazy, growing up. Always chasing the feeling of being free instead of being secure. And I know myself well enough to say this: one day, I’ll take that leap without fully knowing what’s next. And it’ll be terrifying. But it’ll also be the most honest thing I’ve ever done.

When I think about what’s keeping me here, I try to name it. My future? But I’m already building it. My debt? Yes, but money can always be found. My mom? She knows I’m wired a little wild. Maybe it’s income. Stability. The idea that I need to have it all figured out before I move.

But if I’m honest… I don’t really know what I’m protecting anymore. And now that I’ve said it out loud, I’m not even sure what I’m so scared of.

Because when I quiet everything else, when I ask myself what I really want, I already know.

Go. Just go.

Do it.

You can.

And you will.

So go.

And maybe today, bravery doesn’t mean quitting everything in one breath. Maybe it’s just sleeping early. Going to bed. Not overthinking. And maybe — just maybe — the place I’ll finally exhale… is in an airport. Backpack on. Ticket in hand. Waiting to board.