all over the place

As far back as I can remember, people have blamed me for being “all over the place.” And honestly? They’re not wrong. I’ve always had a million projects going on, the kind I throw myself into the second the mood hits.

Sports. Music. Entrepreneurship. Writing. Travel.

I dip my toes into everything, rarely committing fully to one thing.
Not because any of it bores me. It's that the moment I give my heart to one project, the others start flirting with me from across the room, whispering,
“So… you’re really going to ignore me now?”

So like a polygamous woman trying to keep 10 love stories alive at once,
I split my time “fairly” between all my projects.

And when the people closest to me tell me I should focus on just one,
I nod as though I understand, with absolutely zero intention of applying it.
Because the truth is, none of my projects makes me want to give it 100%.
Not forever. Not in a monogamous way.

For a long time, I was ashamed of that. I also had this habit of announcing every new idea to the people around me, as if I were pitching a Netflix series at dinner. Except no one ever looked excited. Not even mildly curious. And that hurt.
It made me feel unserious. Like I was becoming that person whose words slowly start losing their weight.

So I did what every modern anxious woman does. I googled.

Free tests to “find my purpose.”
Quizzes to “discover my mission.”
Frameworks to identify the one project that would finally deserve all my attention.

No luck.

Then one day, it hit me.
The problem wasn’t my focus.
It was my identity.

A childhood split between two countries, two cultures, two social classes. It turned me into some kind of paradox-filled mutant. I felt at home both everywhere and nowhere, so nothing ever felt obvious. I kept collecting pieces of beauty and meaning along the way, then stitching them into the patchwork of who I am.

By 30, I’d accumulated more than a dozen passions, interests, and projects. None of them fully “finished.” And yet, I was deeply happy. I bounced between freelance job, entrepreneurship, writing, composing, boxing, bass lessons.

I'm never bored.
But I'm deeply anxious.

Because every night, right before falling asleep, the same inner voice would show up like an uninvited guest and whisper: you’re too scattered.
None of this will ever work out if you don’t pick one thing.
PICK ONE THING.

So I started comparing myself. Of course I did.

I compared myself to that writer posting essays on Instagram.
To that bassist composing her own riffs.
To that singer who had already released an album.
To that entrepreneur living off her business.
To that athlete with the body of my dreams.
To that boxer who’d already done 10 fights.

And I felt like shit.
Because I'm just average in everything that I do.

Then one night, I decided to stop arguing with that voice and actually talk to it.
“Why are you scared to keep living this life that makes you so happy?”

And it answered, bluntly: “Because I’ll never succeed if I don’t focus.”

“Okay. But what does ‘succeed’ even mean to you?”

It hesitated. Then it stuttered, as though it were reading someone else’s definition off a piece of paper.

“I don’t know. I guess succeeding is reaching an ambitious goal. Being recognized for my talent in one area. Being better than others. Winning, basically. Winning at the game of life. Recognition, a community, money. But honestly, I’m not even sure.”

“You’re not sure because that definition of success isn’t yours, right?”

Silence.

Then, reluctantly: “Yeah. But it seems like the best one. Wouldn’t you like to be seen as someone who made it in something?”

I paused.

Recognition, money, fame. Sure, it’s nice. But it can’t be the only motivation. Because I know myself: the moment I reach one goal, I’ll want another.
And another. And another, until I die.

Humans are built to be perpetually unsatisfied. Even with a million followers, I’d still look at the person with ten million and feel like shit.

So fine. Let’s take the logic all the way.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s focus on one project. Which one speaks to you the most?”

No answer.

Of course. When it’s time to choose, suddenly no one’s home.

And that’s when it clicked.

That voice wasn’t mine.

It was my relatives’. It was the voice of everyone who, at some point, subtly or not, accused me of being too much. Too scattered. Too inconsistent.

Too “all over the place.”

But the truth is, I’m happy like this.
And that’s literally all that matters.

Because at the end of my life, the goals I achieved will blur.
The titles, the milestones, the recognition, the “wins.”
All of it will fade.

What won’t fade are the moments. The mornings. The sweat. The music.
The pages. The flights. The conversations. The thrill of learning.
The joy of doing what I love.

At the end of my life, I’m pretty sure I won’t be asking myself whether I was famous or impressive.

I’ll be asking myself whether I was happy.