For a long time, I thought something was wrong with me.

While others seemed to know exactly what they wanted to become — an economist, a lawyer, an engineer — I was pulled in too many directions. I was fascinated by geopolitics and international security, but also by business administration, entrepreneurship, and how organizations actually work. I loved studying, deeply and seriously — just not one thing.

And that made me uneasy.

I remember reading the words of an Italian economist who dedicated his entire life to the study of economics and finance. He once said that, early on, he understood he wanted “to begin a deep journey of knowledge in these subjects.”
He knew what he wanted. He knew he wanted to understand how markets function, the variables that shape them, and to dedicate his intellectual life to that exploration.

I wasn’t like him.

I admired that clarity — but I couldn’t replicate it. My curiosity didn’t move in a straight line. It branched. It connected. It wandered.

So I started asking myself the wrong question:
Why can’t I choose just one thing?

Slowly, that question turned into pressure. If I didn’t specialize early, wouldn’t I lack a clear identity in the market? Wouldn’t I end up as “a generalist who knows a bit of everything, but nothing deeply enough”? In a world obsessed with labels and expertise, this felt like a flaw.

That pressure intensified when it came time to choose my postgraduate degree. In Italy, we literally call it a specializzazione— the word itself implies narrowing, committing, choosing one field in which to build expertise.

I felt stuck. Not because I didn’t care — but because I cared about too many things.

Over time, I realized something uncomfortable but liberating: the problem was never my curiosity. The problem was the framework I was trying to force it into.

I was trying to compress my desire to learn into pre-defined categories. Categories defined by whom, exactly? Universities? Job markets? Other people’s career paths? I was trying to anticipate market expectations instead of understanding myself.

In short, I was trying to conform.

The turning point came when I understood that clarity doesn’t always come from narrowing down — sometimes it comes from going deeper across things. From understanding how different domains speak to each other. From embracing the fact that some people are not built to move in straight lines.

I became free the moment I stopped asking, “How should I fit into the market?”

And started asking, “Who am I, and how do I bring value — on my terms?”

Instead of letting the market position me into paths that didn’t resonate with my interests or personality, I began telling my own story. Not as someone confused, but as someone curious. Not as unfocused, but as someone capable of connecting dots across contexts, disciplines, and systems.

Here is the uncomfortable truth that no one tells you when you start an educational path:
you cannot know in advance whether it will lead to a “successful” career.

What you can know is this: if you don’t take the risk of believing in what you could become by studying what you genuinely love, you are buying a ticket for a much more predictable journey — one of dissatisfaction and quiet unhappiness.

Choosing what to study is not about predicting the future perfectly. It’s about giving yourself permission to become someone you can stand behind.

And sometimes, the most courageous choice is not narrowing yourself — but trusting that depth can take many forms.