“You will all develop your own unique voices,” my professor said while cooly sitting on the desk. One can’t help but wonder how many times she’s used this speech.

If I’m developing my voice from my professor’s class, aren’t I developing their voice rather than my own? As an English major, with every writing class I take, I think I’ve been developing more and more of my professors’ voices and I’ve eventually started hearing them in my head.

Of course, I know what she meant, but the pressure to find “your voice” while writing is the college equivalent to telling a 17-year-old to choose their future career. At 17 I was sure I wanted to teach AP U.S. History until I took a really depressing class on fascism. But I did read some really good books.

So, I’ve settled on an English major and journalism minor and I’m now planning on getting certified to teach yoga, so I don’t think my voice when I was 17, or 19, is the same one that it is now.

I guess I’m finding the voice of a 21-year-old Makenzie.

Now I have this frontal lobe business to worry about. I’m pretty concerned that when I turn 25, my frontal lobe will suddenly develop, everything will seem like an awful choice and I will impulsively dye my hair a different color.

Maybe I should rethink my scheduled nose piercing.

I’m required to keep a mini journal with me for my poetry writing class and write down little poems or random thoughts throughout the day. I think it’s good to have a reason to finally hold myself accountable for something I’ve enjoyed for the better half of my pre-frontal-lobe-developing life.

Once my frontal lobe is developed, I can look back at the notebook and think “Wow, I was such a sappy college girl just starting her 20s and worried about graduating. And here I am now; filthy rich, beautiful and successful!” Hopefully.

I thought I was an amazing writer at 12. I would literally fill notebooks, cardboard cover to cardboard cover, with stories and character charts. When I got my first laptop I started typing these stories. I recently needed a new laptop and in the process of transferring over my documents, I stumbled on these so called excellent, sprawling novels. Turns out they weren’t excellent, but maybe sprawling.

As of right now, I think that’s what your 20s are supposed to be like. Thinking you have it all figured out and that you found your voice, only to have a new professor – or in this case God, the universe, or whatever it may be – come and help you develop a new one.

I don’t think you ever stop doing that, though. And that’s what’s scary about life, but it’s also pretty invigorating. They say the hard times make the good times so much better, but I think some days it would be nice to have been born with a life schedule.

I know some people would say that’s very Orwellian, but it sounds nice to me. Then there wouldn’t be so much back and forth or a job market issue.

This is a joke, not a manifesto. Honest.

My mom wanted me to be a lawyer, or at least I think she did, but I think she’d be happy no matter what I do. She just wants me to do something. And that’s understandable but also the hardest part. I just want to frolic. Doesn’t everyone?

I mean, they give us three unexcused absences for a reason.

Law is also supposed to be the job with one of the highest depression rates, and that may interfere with the frolicking plans. But in all seriousness, it is awful that work can cause such a serious toll on one’s mental health.

Then you meet some people who say: “I love my job!” and you wonder, “Should I have gone into real estate?” As cliche as it sounds, I do think that the grass is always greener on the other side. And if that really is true, maybe other people just water theirs more.

I’ve made it a personal goal to soak up my senior year, but mainly my classes, because there will never be another time in my life (unless I pursue higher education) that I will be able to talk about art, books, why people are the way they are and tectonic plates all day long to then go home and see my friends.

Aren’t we lucky?