where do you see yourself in five years?

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I used to hate that question.

Still do, if I’m being honest.

I’ve hated it for as long as I can remember, which means it dates back at least to elementary school. Every single one of us has been asked it at least once in our lives, no matter how long or how short we’ve been on this floating rock. It’s one of those questions that gets asked so casually, like it’s simple. Like you’re supposed to just know.

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As a kid, I didn’t know.

As a teenager, I definitely didn’t know.

And as an adult, I learned how to fake an answer that sounded acceptable. Something safe. Something responsible. Something that made it seem like I had direction, even when I didn’t.

Because the truth is, that question never felt like curiosity. It felt like pressure. Like a test you were already failing if you hesitated too long before answering.

Five years always sounded so far away when I was younger. Like a lifetime. Like something abstract that didn’t really apply to me yet. But now? Five years feels uncomfortably close. Close enough to feel real. Close enough to matter. Close enough that I can’t brush it off anymore.

What I’ve realized recently — and this realization hit me while I was way too high and thinking way too deeply, which honestly feels on brand for me — is that the problem was never the question itself. It was the way I thought I was supposed to answer it.

We treat “Where do you see yourself in five years?” like it’s about certainty. Like it’s about knowing. About predicting the future. About having a detailed plan with milestones and backup plans and contingencies.

But five years isn’t really about knowing.

It’s about wanting.

Five years is a strange amount of time. It’s not that long, and yet it’s long enough for everything to change. A lot could happen in five years. Or nothing could. Lives can completely unravel or quietly rebuild in that span. People fall in love, burn out, move cities, lose themselves, find themselves, start over, or stay exactly where they are.

And that’s the part we don’t talk about enough.

It’s not about knowing where you’ll be in five years. It’s about knowing where you want to be.

Wanting is the beginning of everything. Wanting something — or wanting to be somewhere — sets an intention, whether you realize it or not. It creates a direction. Not a guarantee, but a trajectory.

Without that intention, you’re not choosing where you’re going. You’re just… staying. Letting time pass you by while you remain stationary.

And I say that without judgment, because I’ve lived it.

I look back at how many times I’ve been asked that question over the years. In classrooms. In interviews. In conversations where people expected ambition to be neatly packaged and easily explained. And most of the time, my answers weren’t rooted in desire. They were rooted in survival. In what felt realistic. In what felt acceptable. In what wouldn’t make people question me further. In what I thought people wanted to hear.

I didn’t ask myself what I wanted. I asked myself what sounded reasonable.

And now I’m 35, looking at my life with a lot more honesty than I used to. Not regret, exactly — more awareness. Awareness of how often I avoided wanting too much because wanting felt dangerous. Because wanting something deeply meant risking disappointment. Risking failure. Risking the possibility that I wouldn’t follow through.

It’s easier not to want than to want and fall short. But it’s also easier to stay exactly where you are that way.

I think that’s what finally clicked for me. Intentions aren’t about control. They’re about movement. Even slow movement. Even imperfect movement. Even movement that doesn’t look like progress to anyone else.

Without intention, there is no forward momentum. You’re just reacting. Drifting. Letting life happen to you instead of participating in it.

And for a long time, that’s what I did. Not because I didn’t care, but because I didn’t know how to want without feeling overwhelmed by the weight of it.

Now, at 35, I’m trying something different.

I’m not trying to map out every detail of my life five years from now. I don’t know where I’ll live. I don’t know what my days will look like. I don’t know what I’ll have figured out and what I’ll still be fumbling through. I don’t need to know all of that.

But I do know this: In five years, I want to see my first book published.

Not hypothetically. Not “someday.” Not “it would be nice if.” I want it enough to say it out loud. Enough to claim it as an intention instead of a vague dream I keep tucked away so it can’t hurt me.

Because at the end of the day, all it takes to begin is that intention.

That doesn’t mean it’ll be easy. It doesn’t mean it’ll happen exactly the way I imagine. It doesn’t mean there won’t be setbacks, pauses, rewrites, or moments where I question myself all over again.

But wanting it matters.

Wanting it means I’ll make choices that move me closer, even when they’re small. It means I’ll keep showing up to the page. It means I’ll take myself seriously enough to try. And trying is already more than I gave myself permission to do for a long time.

Five years from now might look different than what I picture today. That’s okay. Intentions are allowed to evolve. The point isn’t perfection. The point is direction.

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So when I think about that question now — where do you see yourself in five years — I don’t hear it as a demand for certainty anymore. I hear it as an invitation.

What do you want enough to set an intention for it?

What version of yourself are you quietly hoping for, even if you’re scared to admit it?

Because wanting isn’t naive. It’s not reckless. It’s the first step toward movement.

And without it, nothing really changes.

So this is me, at 35, finally answering the question honestly.

Not with a plan. Not with guarantees. But with intention.

And maybe that’s enough to start.

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i don’t know where i’ll be in five years, but i know i won’t be the same person writing this now… and maybe that’s the point.

talk soon, kas

☕✨