Irony has a way of catching up with you when you least expect it. For years, I used to say I’d never be the type to sign my life away to the military. I pictured those who served as hardened, uniformed figures—people who followed orders without question, shaped by a system I never saw myself fitting into. It wasn’t rebellion—it was certainty. I simply believed I was destined for something different.
Yet here I am, enlisted in the Navy. To be clear, I didn’t join because I had some sudden change of heart about military life. It wasn’t a childhood dream realized, nor was it ever part of my plan. In fact, it was Plan C—an option I had never seriously considered until life gently, then not-so-gently, nudged me in that direction. And oddly enough, I’ve come to learn that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.
If I’m being honest, I never had much of a plan to begin with. As a child, I imagined myself exploring space, chasing stars, maybe even becoming an astronaut. The idea of venturing into the unknown was thrilling—beautiful, even. It was a dream wrapped in curiosity and wonder. But as I got older, I slowly came to a quiet realization: I was never meant to be the one piloting a spacecraft. My strength lies in something more grounded—words.
Writing came naturally to me. Whether it was an essay, a short story or a simple reflection, I never struggled to express myself. While others stared at blank pages in frustration, I filled mine quickly, almost instinctively. It felt less like a skill and more like a rhythm I had always been in sync with—one I didn’t recognize as special until much later.
The first time I thought that maybe I had something unique was back in fifth grade. A staff member pulled me out of class to talk about the school’s Gifted and Talented program. I hadn’t thought of myself as particularly gifted. I did well in school, sure, but I didn’t stand out in the way I assumed gifted kids were supposed to. That night, I told my mom. She raised an eyebrow and asked, genuinely, “What about you is gifted?”
I knew it wasn’t meant to hurt. She wasn’t putting me down—it was genuine curiosity. But it still stung. And as much as I tried to brush it off, that question stuck with me. It followed me through middle school and high school, echoing louder every time I questioned my worth. Even when I started to form an answer, I struggled to say it aloud. I couldn’t tell if I was genuinely talented or simply above average. The fear of being mediocre took root, and the longer I carried that question, the deeper it grew.
As I got older, I began to grasp how massive the world really is—and that terrified me. I felt like a small fish tossed into an ocean far too vast for me to navigate. That realization shook my confidence. I stopped challenging myself as a writer and, little by little, gave up on Plan A.
That left me with Plan B. I was a smart kid, but aimless. It was a middle school teacher who first noticed this and pulled me aside. She asked a simple question: “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
To most, it’s a normal question. But for me—someone who had just begun to question their future—it felt impossible to answer. I mumbled something about being interested in space. Not traveling to it, but helping humanity take steps toward it. That’s when she mentioned aerospace engineering. It sounded cool, prestigious even. Without much thought or research, I made it my new goal—Plan B.
I committed to it. In middle school, I took advanced classes, started earning high school credits early, and kept pushing myself academically. Once I moved on to Wagner High School, I joined the Aerospace Engineering program. I really wanted it to work. I put my heart into it. But life, as it tends to do, had other plans.
After two years at Wagner, I wasn’t allowed to return for reasons I won’t share. I transferred to Judson High School. I wasn’t bitter—just hopeful I could keep pursuing Plan B. But my junior year at Judson would quietly dismantle the dream I’d built.
The first blow was realizing Judson didn’t have an aerospace engineering program. But that alone didn’t destroy me. What really broke my confidence was AP Pre-Calculus. No matter how hard I tried, the concepts slipped through my fingers. I felt like I was drowning in numbers. My teacher believed in me—but I didn’t. And that made all the difference. I gave up on myself before anyone else could, and after earning credit for the course, I dropped it (without taking the AP test).
Back to square one. I didn’t know what I was going to do after graduation. That uncertainty hung over me like a fog. Then, almost out of nowhere, I discovered that the school had a journalism class. I had no idea it even existed. The thought of returning to writing—something I had buried under doubt—excited me. I signed up for the class without hesitation.
Senior year arrived, and I still didn’t have a real plan. All I knew was that I didn’t want to go to college—at least not right away. Graduation felt far away, and I told myself I still had time to figure everything out. So, I drifted. I nurtured my interest in journalism and waited. I didn’t know what I was waiting for—just that I was.
Then, one of my closest friends told me about the Navy. He had already enlisted and kept talking about the benefits, the structure, the opportunities. At first, I hated the idea. The same old resistance I’d always had to the military bubbled up. But every day, he chipped away at that resistance. And slowly, I began to see the logic in it. The stability. The direction. The chance to start over and grow.
Eventually, I realized that Plan C wasn’t a failure—it was an answer. A different path, but a valid one. Looking back, every twist and turn taught me something. Plan A showed me my passion. Plan B taught me discipline and ambition. And Plan C? Plan C reminded me that it’s okay to take the road you never planned for. Sometimes, the backup plan is the one that leads you exactly where you need to be.