I recently met with a professor of mine who has been an incredibly force in my life, whose mentorship and guidance has solidified my long-term career goals. I wanted to speak with her about graduate school and the double-edged sword it presents, about the feasibility of getting into one of the elusive, “fully-funded” doctoral programs, about whether this was even something I could (and should try to) attain. She gave me one of the toughest, kindest and most eye-opening talks of my life, in which she said to me, “Take a year off. Take some time to figure out who you are outside of a student.”

This statement, as many close to me can attest, completely wrecked me. Right in front of me, the four-year-and-beyond plan that I had built into my brain – grad school and all – crumbled completely. And the only thing that resonated in my brain was not only that this was the only thing I believed I could do, but also that I now didn’t know what to do. The gulf at the end of my college career that I assumed I would fill with graduate school was suddenly empty again, leaving me confused and terrified.

Yet, after an emotional breakdown and several hours of deep contemplation, I realized how right she was. My entire life, I have allowed myself to become enveloped in this identity of a student, a person constantly looking to the next deadline, paper, event, leadership role. Her fear, something she witnessed so often in her own program, was that I would burn out along the way and not only lose sight of why I love literature, but also that I would lose the intellectual passion and fire that currently drives me.

High school is an environment that fosters this kind of behavior, condensing our lives easily into a four-year box, with college as the inevitable end goal. It was simple, concise and most importantly for me, causal. Accomplishing XYZ was a surefire way to the school of my dreams, to prepare me for college, to the future career that was supposed to blossom before my very eager eyes. But college doesn’t exactly work out that way. We’re still stuffed into that four-year window, but the stakes are dramatically higher, with harder classes, more bills to pay and less money to pay them with, the black hole of adulthood lurking at the horizon. There is no assumed final destination after you cross the stage at graduation. There is simply life – terrible job market and all.

And so now, although this is technically still considered a plan, I am embracing that abyss. I’m walking headfirst into the darkness – to explore myself and my options, the world around me, the vast ocean of things I can do and people I can meet.

That’s terrifying. But I am embracing this new opportunity with open arms, because sometimes my planner can’t help me figure out how I’m supposed to live on my own and learn how to become a “real” adult. Not having a plan might just be the best way to really discover what it is I truly want.