As a kid, my imagination ran wild, and the question felt like a game. I wanted to be a voice actor one week, a professional gamer the next, and sometimes even an artist. I’d sit with a box of crayons and sketch castles one day, spaceships the next, convinced that both could be my future home. Back then, the future was a blank canvas, and I was happy to scribble anything across it. Those answers feel silly now, but I look back fondly on that stage when dreaming didn’t require a résumé.

When I was in middle school, my family’s business closed, and that’s when the question changed. I still remember standing in the restaurant on its final day, staring at shelves half-empty of sauces and spices. The smell of soy and fried oil clung to the air, even as the tables sat silent. My parents reassured us we’d be fine, and with savings, we were. But even at that age, I knew the business closing meant our safety net wasn’t unlimited. I started paying closer attention to how fragile stability could be. For the first time, I thought about what role I might play in protecting it. That’s when “What do you want to do in the future?” stopped being playful. It became personal.

I started trying things. I experimented with dropshipping on Amazon, researching suppliers and copywriting product description, and finally setting up a storefront. But when orders went missing and refunds piled up, I saw how quickly a side hustle could become stressful without the right systems in place. Night after night, I grew tired of drafting apologetic emails to disappointed customers. In the end, I shut the store down, not because I was unwilling to work hard, but because I realized that behind every sale was a person relying on me to deliver, and I wasn’t ready to run a business that way yet. I went in imagining a quick profit, but instead I learned how unforgiving even the smallest business can be when people are counting on you. It wasn’t a failure so much as a reminder that ambition is easy, but execution requires real discipline. That lesson stuck with me long after the storefront disappeared.

Still, the urge to experiment with new opportunities never went away. During COVID, I bought shares of  companies I recognized from daily life, like jeans I wore or cars I saw on the street, thinking familiarity was the same as knowledge. Watching those choices rise and fall taught me otherwise. I would refresh the Robinhood app constantly, my stomach sinking when the green line dipped red and easing only when prices bounced back. None of it made me rich, but I still remember how it felt to watch my account swing with the market. I realized how easily fear or excitement could cloud judgment, and how much patience mattered in a world where numbers changed by the second. And looking back, I realize I was fortunate to enter at one of the best possible times, right as the market was recovering, although at the time it felt anything but certain.

Those experiences taught me how unpredictable both business and markets could be, and they only made the question of the future feel more complicated once I got to college. When I was younger, my answers sounded whimsical. Now they sound like career fair buzzwords. The shift feels strange, but it also shows how much the question has grown up with me. Now, the question follows me everywhere. Professors and advisors ask in meetings, “What’s your career plan?” Classmates casually throw out, “What do you wanna do?” At career fairs, I pitch myself for roles even though I’m still figuring it out. Some days I say investment banking, other days consulting. Some days I just admit I don’t know yet. Every answer feels like it might close one door and open another, which makes the question heavier than it ever was before. What I’ve learned is that the answer does not have to be permanent. It shifts, just like it always has, only now the stakes feel higher. Last week, I sat in my dorm at midnight with my résumé open, cursor blinking over the “submit” button for a consulting club. Clicking it did not solve my future, but it was a step. The future still feels like a blank canvas. I may not know what the full picture will be, but at least I know I am not starting from scratch.