It’s a question that tends to follow you around, especially when you’re in your twenties and everyone seems to be interested in what you’re planning to do with your life.

“So, where do you see yourself in five years?”

I don’t know about you, but I’ve never really known how to answer that question. Mostly because the answer keeps changing.

Hi, I’m Khushi, and five years ago, I had a very different idea of where I would be today.

At eighteen, I was quite convinced that I would graduate from NIFT, work for a high fashion magazine and probably have a life that looked something like The Devil Wears Prada. I had it all planned out. And I almost got there, too. I came pretty close to NIFT, but things didn’t work out quite the way I’d imagined.

Cut to five years later, and I’m pretty much the nightmare version of Rory Gilmore. My academic life has been a bit of a mess, I’ve questioned my decision to go to college more times than I can count, and I’ve come close to dropping out. Not exactly what my eighteen year old self had in mind.

There were a lot of things that happened in between, and some of them really changed the way I looked at life. My health, for one. I’ve spent so much time in and out of hospitals over the past year that I don’t think I even remember what a normal month looks like anymore. The plans I had made for myself suddenly didn’t seem all that important.

I turned 22 a few days ago, and someone asked me the same question again.

Where do you see yourself in five years?

And strangely enough, I had an answer this time.

I want to be happy. I want to be loved, I want to be healthy, and I want to be doing well. That’s honestly it.

I know it sounds like a very underwhelming answer, especially coming from someone who was once quite the overachieving academic weapon. That girl has rusted somewhere along the way, and I don’t particularly feel like bringing her back. I don’t want to spend the next five years being miserable just so I can prove that I’m doing something with my life.

I still want to work, I still want to do well, and I have things I’d like to achieve. I’m not saying I’ve suddenly given up on having a career or doing something worthwhile. But I don’t want those things at the cost of everything else. I want to have good people around me. I want to be able to enjoy a meal without worrying about my health, make plans without wondering if I’ll be well enough to go, and have a life outside of whatever it is I’m working towards.

Maybe that’s what happens when you grow up a little. Or maybe I’ve just had enough of trying to have everything figured out.

I think we get so caught up in what we’re supposed to be doing at a certain age that we don’t really stop to consider if that’s what we want anymore.

And it’s quite easy to forget that the person who made all those plans at eighteen is not necessarily the person you are at twenty two.

You change. Things happen. Sometimes you get what you wanted and sometimes you don’t, and sometimes you realise you don’t even want it anymore.

I don’t think my eighteen year old self would be particularly impressed with where I am today. But I also don’t think she knew half the things I would have to deal with to get here.

So, if someone asks me where I see myself in five years, I don’t have a university, a job title, a city or a salary to give them. I just hope I’m happy. I hope the people I love are around, I hope I’m healthy, and I hope I’m not constantly worrying about what comes next.

Maybe that’s not a very ambitious answer. But for once, I’m quite happy with it.

So, where do you see yourself in five years? I think I’m finally learning that it’s okay if the answer isn’t quite what you imagined it would be. What matters is that you get to live a life you’re happy coming home to.

Not everyone knows this but over the last few months I’ve somehow developed health anxiety and dude… if you had met me a year ago and told me that one day I’d be lying in bed convinced I have cancer because I felt one weird sensation in my stomach, I would’ve laughed in your face and probably told you to stop Googling symptoms because that’s exactly what causes anxiety. The irony is honestly embarrassing.

Now I am that person.

Every single day my brain wakes up and chooses a new medical emergency for me. Cancer is usually the main character because apparently my anxiety likes to go big or go home, but honestly it doesn’t even matter what disease it picks because the ending is always the same. Me spiralling, opening Google even though I know I shouldn’t, reading Reddit posts from 2014 written by someone with a username like ConcernedHuman98, convincing myself we are somehow living the exact same life and then spending the next three hours mentally preparing for the worst while my actual work quietly waits for me.

Which, by the way, never gets done.

The funniest part is that I know what’s happening.

Like… I actually know.

I know this is anxiety.

I know Google is not a doctor.

I know reading twenty different medical forums isn’t exactly helping the situation.

I know my therapist is going to roll her eyes when I tell her about the newest disease I’ve diagnosed myself with.

And somehow my brain listens to absolutely none of that because once anxiety enters the room, logic quietly packs its bags and leaves.

I never knew anxiety could look like this.

I always thought anxiety meant worrying about exams, interviews, awkward conversations or whether people secretly hate you.

Nobody told me it could make you question your own body every single day.

Nowadays if I get a headache, my brain doesn’t think maybe I haven’t had enough water or maybe I’ve been staring at my laptop for six hours. No. It immediately opens a PowerPoint presentation titled Reasons Why You’re Definitely Dying and starts presenting evidence like it’s trying to win Employee of the Month.

A stomach ache?

Interesting.

Let’s ignore the fact that I had spicy food yesterday.

Surely this is something much, much worse.

A random pain that disappears before I even finish panicking?

Well clearly it disappeared because whatever terrible disease I have is simply playing hide and seek.

Trust me.

I know how ridiculous this sounds.

I know.

That’s the worst part.

Health anxiety is one of those things where you know your thoughts don’t make sense but they still feel real enough to ruin your entire day.

And lately, being unwell has quietly become my biggest personality trait.

Not because I want it to.

Because it somehow became the loudest thing in my life.

I think my brain has a valid villain origin story though.

March, I got admitted to the hospital.

April, my stomach decided all those medicines and antibiotics deserved an encore and gifted me gut issues that are still hanging around like an unwanted guest who has forgotten where the exit is.

May, I got chickenpox because apparently life looked at me and thought, “She’s handling things a little too well.”

Somewhere between all of that, my brain stopped trusting my body.

Every little sensation suddenly became suspicious.

Every symptom became an investigation.

Every doctor’s appointment became temporary reassurance until the next random ache showed up.

I don’t even think about work the way I used to anymore.

Or books.

Or movies.

Or random plans.

Half my brain is permanently occupied wondering whether this new symptom deserves another appointment or whether I’m just being dramatic.

And honestly?

I’m tired.

Not the “I need a nap” kind of tired.

The kind where your own mind refuses to give you a day off.

Therapy has helped.

Medication has helped.

A lot, actually.

I don’t want to pretend it hasn’t because it genuinely has.

The thoughts are quieter now.

They’re still there.

They just don’t scream as loudly as they used to.

And on some days, that’s enough.

Because healing, I’ve realised, is so annoyingly ordinary.

It’s not waking up one morning and suddenly feeling cured.

It’s checking your temperature once instead of twelve times.

It’s choosing not to Google one symptom.

It’s believing your doctor for five minutes longer than you did yesterday.

Progress is weird like that.

Tiny.

Almost invisible.

But it’s still progress.

If there’s one thing these last few months have taught me, it’s that good health is probably the most underrated blessing we have.

You never wake up thinking, “Wow, today my stomach didn’t hurt.”

Or, “What a privilege it is to breathe without overanalysing every sensation in my body.”

You just live.

Until one day you can’t.

And then suddenly that’s all you think about.

If you’re healthy today, treasure it.

Not in a “drink green juice and meditate” kind of way.

Just… appreciate how quiet your mind gets to be.

And if you’re reading this because your anxiety has also convinced you that every symptom means something catastrophic, I wish I could tell you there’s one magical sentence that makes it stop.

There isn’t.

But I will tell you this.

Your anxious brain is not trying to ruin your life.

It’s trying to protect you.

It’s just terrible at knowing the difference between danger and discomfort.

I’m still figuring it out.

Some days I win.

Some days my anxiety wins.

And then there are days where we simply agree to leave each other alone for a few hours.

Honestly, I’ll take those days too.

Because after everything I’ve learnt this year, I’ve realised something surprisingly simple.

The goal isn’t to stop being scared forever.

The goal is to stop letting fear become the loudest voice in the room.

I’m getting there.

Slowly.

One symptom.

One therapy session.

One normal blood report.

And one day at a time:)

The author is solely responsible for all images and media included in this article. By submitting to this publication, the author confirms ownership of the images or that they have obtained the necessary rights, permissions, or licenses in accordance with Medium’s publishing rules. The publication, operated by volunteer editors, accepts no liability for copyright or intellectual property claims.

I accidentally made being sick my entire personality was originally published in ILLUMINATION on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I have an exam tomorrow.

Which is unfortunate because I spent the last ten days behaving as if tomorrow was a government conspiracy and not an actual date that would eventually arrive.

I finally sat down to study today.

The universe saw that and laughed.

My LPG cylinder chose that exact moment to take its last breath.

Which is honestly a little selfish of it.

One minute I was making food.

The next minute I was googling gas refills instead of geographical thought.

And I know how ridiculous this sounds.

People refill gas cylinders every day.

This is not a crisis.

Nobody is writing history books about this.

But something about it bothered me more than it should have.

I think it’s because an empty gas cylinder is never really about the gas cylinder.

It’s about realizing that nobody is going to handle it for you.

I’m someone who likes to think she’s independent.

Actually no.

I’m aggressively independent.

I live almost 500 kilometres away from home. I moved cities. I pay rent. I deal with landlords. I survive Delhi summers.

Which should qualify me for some kind of bravery award if we’re being honest.

And most days I love it.

But fun fact.

Nobody tells you that life happens a little louder when you’re away from home.

At home I take my meals on time.

I use the air conditioner without conducting a full financial analysis.

I open the fridge seventeen times a day without wondering how much groceries cost.

My father, in my head, is basically a money plant.

A very hardworking money plant.

But a money plant nonetheless.

Home has this beautiful way of hiding effort.

The groceries appear.

The food gets cooked.

The gas gets refilled.

Things just… happen.

You don’t think about who is making them happen.

You just live in it.

And then one day you’re standing in a rented flat in Delhi with an exam tomorrow, boxes waiting to be packed and a gas cylinder that’s given up on life.

And suddenly there are no adults around.

Just you.

Which feels slightly unfair because I was very comfortable being the child.

That’s the thing about growing up.

It doesn’t happen when you turn eighteen.

Or twenty one.

Or whatever age people keep pretending is a milestone.

It sneaks up on you.

Through grocery bills.

Through landlords.

Through plumbing issues.

Through gas cylinders with terrible timing.

Through all the tiny things that nobody posts about because they’re too busy dealing with them.

And every single time life throws one of those things at me, I have the exact same reaction.

I stare at it for a bit.

Complain.

Call home.

Complain some more.

Then somehow figure it out.

Which is annoying because it means I am in fact becoming an adult.

Against my will.

The weird part is I know one day I’ll look back and laugh about this.

The exam panic.

The shifting chaos.

The dead gas cylinder.

All of it.

These are probably the stories I’ll tell years later when life is calmer.

If life ever decides to calm down.

Until then I guess this is what adulthood looks like.

Not having everything figured out.

Just figuring out the next thing.

And unfortunately for me, the next thing is both a gas refill and tomorrow’s exam.

Neither of which seem particularly interested in solving themselves.

Music loud enough to make my head hurt and somehow still not loud enough to shut my thoughts up.

That’s where I was.

And that’s when I realised this isn’t just overthinking anymore.

Anxiety doesn’t sit quietly in one corner. It spreads. It gets into everything. You try to function normally and suddenly even basic things feel heavy. Replying. Sitting. Sleeping. Existing.

It’s exhausting in a very quiet way.

And the worst part is I can’t always explain it. There isn’t always a reason. It just… happens.

I’m not an expert at this.

I’m just someone who has been dealing with it for a while now and still doesn’t fully understand it.

Some days I manage. Some days I don’t.

Some days it feels like I’m doing fine and then out of nowhere it just takes over again and I’m back to square one.

Dysfunctional is a strong word but some days that’s exactly what it feels like.

Like I know what I need to do but I just can’t get myself to do it.

Over time I’ve just found small things that help me get through moments. Not fix anything. Just get through.

• talking to people I actually feel safe with
  not everyone, just the ones who don’t try to “solve” me
• writing things down
  not proper journaling, just whatever is going on in my head at that moment
• trying to step out of my own head for a second
  like if this was someone else, what would I say to them
• distractions
  not ideal but sometimes necessary
• music
  really loud, like blocking everything else out for a bit
• and when nothing works
  just taking God’s name and leaving everything there

that one works more often than I expect

I’ve also reached a point where I needed more help.

Medication.

And I won’t lie, it helped. A lot.

It didn’t fix everything but it made things lighter. Manageable.

And I think that matters more than we admit.

Because this really does feel like a battle sometimes.

Not the kind people see. Not the kind you can easily explain. But still a battle.

And I think just staying in it counts as fighting.

Some days are okay.

Some days are not.

And some days are just about getting through the next hour.

And that’s enough.

This is not advice. This is just me trying to deal with it.

And maybe reminding myself that I’ve gotten through it before

and I will again

just not all at once.

Music at full volume and my head still louder was originally published in ILLUMINATION on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

21 years and I still can’t explain it properly.

Some days I think it’s the way I laugh with my friends until nothing makes sense.
Other days it’s something small, like stopping to pet a stray and feeling oddly calm after.
Sometimes it’s the flowers he brings me for no reason, like it’s not a big deal but it somehow is.

Every time I think I’ve figured it out, it changes shape.

And I’m not someone who will say I’m full of love. I don’t think I am.

Some days I don’t even feel like I have enough for myself.

But there is something I know I feel.

It stays. It does not go away easily.

I think it’s devotion. And I have a lot of it.

Not in a big dramatic way.

Just in small things. In staying. In caring even when I don’t say it out loud.

In choosing people quietly.

I’ve seen it in my friendships too.
In people who didn’t leave when it got inconvenient.
In the ones who showed up without making it feel like a favour.

And then there is him.

I think I got lucky there.

Because I met him at a time when I wasn’t at my best. And he didn’t ask me to be anything else.

That mattered more than I expected.

I don’t know if this is what love is supposed to be.

But I know this feels right.

Not overwhelming. Not confusing.

Steady.

And maybe that’s what the right person does.

They don’t fix you. They don’t complete you.

They just stand next to you while you figure things out.

And that changes more than you realise.

So no, I don’t think I understand love.

Not fully. Not in a way I can define.

But I know I believe in it.

And I know I feel it in my own way.

And for now, that’s enough.