There’s this quiet noise in my brain that never really leaves me. It’s not loud or aggressive, but it lingers, telling me to do something. Not in a productive way. More like a continuous tap on the shoulder reminding me that whatever I’m doing is probably not enough.
When I’m busy — studying for exams, doing research, working — I feel guilty. Not because I did something wrong, but because I’m not relaxing. Because apparently, I’m “too busy.” Because someone, somewhere, once told me that a fulfilling life involves carving out time for fun. For self-care. For going out and “making memories.” So if I’m not laughing in a photo booth at a party or having spontaneous adventures with friends, I must be doing life wrong, right?
But the irony is, when I do relax, when I curl up on my dorm bed to watch a random Chinese variety show or call a high school friend to talk about literally nothing, I still feel guilty. Because then the voice changes: Shouldn’t you be using your time more meaningfully? Shouldn’t you be exploring internships, joining clubs, going to office hours? There’s always something more I could be doing or should be doing.
Between those two messages — do more and relax more — I feel like I’m constantly failing both.
Even fun has started to feel performative. There is an unspoken expectation that “self-care” must look a certain way: sipping matcha lattes in a sunlit café, journaling with pastel highlighters, going on spontaneous weekend trips to New York with friends. It’s not enough to rest — I’m supposed to broadcast my rest. There is pressure to curate even my downtime into something aesthetically pleasing, something that would fit seamlessly into an Instagram story or a TikTok montage. Fun becomes another checkbox: Go to that social event. Take the candid photos. Get your hair done, dress up, put on makeup and head out for a girls night. Dress like you didn’t try but also tried just enough. Join a dance club — because everyone says it’s fun, so it must be, right?
But what if my version of joy isn’t something you can post? What if my happiest moments are simple and unremarkable to anyone but me? Like quietly catching up with someone who knows me beyond surface-level details. Or taking a walk without feeling the need to document it. Or choosing to stay in and just breathe for a little while. There is a tension between wanting to live a life that’s full and meaningful — and not wanting to live up to the expectations of others. The expectations come from everywhere. Professors expect growth. Friends expect presence. Social media expects proof. And I’m somewhere in the middle, trying to make sense of who I am beneath all those layers.
Lately, I have been thinking about what it means to find inner harmony and define fulfillment on my terms. It’s hard, especially when comparison is so easy and so constant. You open Instagram or LinkedIn and see someone else getting an internship at a top lab, or someone else in New York with a perfect outfit and a perfect group of friends and a perfect caption. It feels like everyone else has figured out how to live aesthetically and meaningfully. But I have come to realize that no one’s life is as polished as it looks. That influencer living in the heart of NYC, sipping overpriced matcha, taking photos zoomed in 2x and zoomed back out with cinematic videos of her morning routine — she might feel just as unsure as I do. People aren’t paying as much attention to my choices as I imagine. It’s not that deep!
So I’m giving myself permission to slow down. Some days that means being productive. Some days it means doing absolutely nothing. Some days it’s a mix of both, and that’s okay. Your life doesn’t have to be aesthetic. It just has to be yours.
Linda Huang is a freshman from Rockville, Md. majoring in Biomedical Engineering. Her column celebrates growth and emotions that define young adulthood, inviting readers to live authentically.
