“Ms. Third Ward, your first question: what is your aspiration in life?” “My aspiration in life would be to be happy.” — Beyoncé, “Pretty Hurts” (2014)
That lyric always stuck with me. Happiness—so simple, yet so complicated. Sitting in my dorm the other day, I found myself wondering: am I doing too much? I was chasing a future because I didn’t want to repeat the history of those before me, but to what extent? I run so fast my shadows disappear in the light of the present.
A conversation with a friend evoked these thoughts. He’s a talented graphic design student, but he hadn’t updated his portfolio in a long time. I asked why. He said he was waiting for his professor’s guidance. I was taken aback. I suggested he work on it himself and submit it for review. He quickly shut that down. He said he was fine waiting, insisting the department prides itself on helping students find jobs after graduation and there was no rush, especially since he is a junior.
I sat up in disbelief. I built my portfolio from scratch without waiting for anyone. I sought reviews from professional UX designers, taught myself to format case studies, and constantly pushed myself to learn every design skill to stay at the top of my game. Why wait? Why not just do it?
I asked if he was applying for internships. He said no and seemed content with his current job. I pressed further, hoping for a bigger goal.
“What are your aspirations?”
“To get a job, a dog, and a good partner.”
“Don’t you want more?”
“I’m content.”
Content. That word felt like kryptonite. All my life, I have been in constant motion, never settling. Comfort felt dangerous.
I grew up in a middle-class West African country. My parents had enough to meet our needs but never our wants. From a young age, I learned to fear the words “enough” and “content.” I had to always want more, to be big, to get out, no matter the obstacle. My parents always said in our language, “Ịje taa ga-emetụta echi,” meaning “the walk of today will matter tomorrow.” No matter the day, you cannot settle—you must always aim higher.
But sitting there with my friend, I had to ask: to what end? For myself or for them?
My friend doesn’t carry that weight. He can say he wants a job, a dog, and a good partner—and mean it without feeling guilty. For me, contentment feels like settling. It feels like failing, like wasting the sacrifices made for me.
Our definitions of success couldn’t be more different. His is rooted in peace, in having enough. Mine is rooted in survival, in proving those sacrifices weren’t in vain. Neither of us is wrong. But the contrast made me realize how much our aspirations are shaped by our experiences.
College is meant to help us figure out who we are and what we want. But for many, it’s also a place to face expectations laid upon us. Some students explore freely, while others dance to the rhythm of generational dreams on their backs. On campus, some double-major, network, work late hours, or build software to boost resumes. Others choose classes and activities they enjoy rather than those that seem “resume-worthy.” In the workforce, some chase six-figure salaries; others seek serenity and stability. Both are valid—but to the other, it feels strange.
I once thought contentment and enough meant giving up. Hearing my friend made me question that. Maybe knowing when enough is enough isn’t settling. Maybe it’s wisdom. I may never know how to stop running. The drive to never settle is woven into who I am. But this conversation made me ask: when I finally catch what I’m chasing, will I know how to stop? Or will I just keep running, shadows disappearing in the light of day, forever asking if I’ve done enough?
For my friend, enough is a place he’s found. For me, it’s still beyond reach. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe we’re both right. Maybe success isn’t one-size-fits-all. Maybe the real question isn’t whether we want more or less, but whether what we’re chasing is ours—or someone else’s.
