Throughout my high school years, a persistent question loomed over me: “Am I doing this right?” This contemplation often accompanied me as I meticulously revised emails or faced math exams with a blank mind. Being an overthinker, I found myself replaying that thought repeatedly. I often leaned on a favorite quote from Maya Angelou: “Do the best you can until you know better. Then, when you know better, do better.” To me, mistakes were always temporary. If an email felt too formal, I would lighten the next one with exclamation points. If I stumbled during a presentation, I would attempt to redeem myself in the question-and-answer session. I held on to the belief—perhaps naively—that knowledge would eventually align with experience, that second chances would present themselves naturally.
However, after reading All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr this summer before starting at Hopkins, my confidence began to waver. I questioned whether there truly is a “right thing” to pursue. I admired the father of the blind protagonist, who endeavored to measure cities by his steps to recreate them in miniature form—offering his daughter a world crafted from wood and dust. Yet, despite his dedication, he was haunted by a profound fear: “There has always been a sliver of panic in him, deeply buried, when it comes to his daughter: a fear that he is no good as a father, that he is doing everything wrong.” This final question lingers in my thoughts. I have come to acknowledge a nagging feeling within myself that everyone else possesses a manual for knowing the right words to say and the appropriate times to smile, while I remain clueless about its existence. For the first time, Angelou”s words felt devoid of meaning—what if we never truly learn better? What if we are perpetually left to guess?
Entering college, I was eager to reinvent myself, fully aware of the high stakes involved. When would I get another chance to start fresh? At the Student Involvement Fair, I roamed anxiously, gathering flyers and scanning GroupMe QR codes. Each table felt like a gamble: is this where I will discover “my people”? My hidden talents or new interests? Or will it turn out to be a futile endeavor? Am I doing this right?
Many evenings have concluded similarly—attending general body meetings in brightly lit classrooms, participating in icebreakers where I reveal my fondness for pineapple, only to depart without even learning anyone”s last name. I interviewed for various clubs, appearing polished and prepared on paper, yet feeling empty inside. Receiving a “Congratulations!” email often left a bitter taste rather than a sweet one as I filled another time slot in my Google Calendar. Am I doing this right?
At times, my answer is no. I withdraw from commitments, convinced that I cannot fully dedicate myself. The relief is fleeting, quickly overshadowed by regret: what if that was the moment I could have discovered a passion for dance, painting, or tutoring? What if that was the place where I was destined to meet someone who would change my life? Clearly, not the right choice.
Relationships have also transformed into guessing games. A friend spoke to me over FaceTime from a library miles away while I shouted from a cafeteria line, our exchanges drowned out by distance and background noise. “I miss you,” I typed later, but the phrase seemed flimsy, careless, and overly simplistic. Am I being the kind of friend I aspire to be?
So, what should one do? Agree to everything just to ensure no opportunity is missed? The idea is exhausting and unsustainable, yet the alternative—missing the “right thing”—is unbearable. I am now haunted by the fear that there may not be another opportunity to learn from my mistakes, that I must absorb every experience as quickly and thoroughly as possible.
This fear has guided my journey this semester, leading me to various meaningful places, including A Place to Talk. As I pay attention to the subtleties of my nods and smiles, I find myself contemplating once more: Am I doing this right? This time, the question propels me forward. I yearn for the unattainable goal of becoming the perfect listener. During training, I often feel compelled to fill silences too quickly, but my trainers encourage me to embrace the pause until it becomes uncomfortable—and then to extend it even further. Each week, I learn to rewire my instincts, resist my impulses, lean into discomfort, and improve my listening skills.
“Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.” For years, I viewed these words as a comforting assurance of future opportunities for improvement. However, college has heightened the stakes and dispelled the illusion of endless chances. The clean slate I hoped for may never come again. Now, Angelou”s gentle promise of eventual understanding has transformed into a demand: you must strive to know better now. Gaining knowledge is not a gift that arrives with hindsight but a pursuit that requires daily and intentional effort.
We must resist complacency in ignorance, continuously seek, question, and pursue what challenges us. The goal is not to wait for hindsight but to act with foresight. Instead of telling ourselves, “I will do better next time,” we must ask, “How can I do better right now?”
Vidhi Bansal is a freshman from Upper Saddle River, N.J., studying Neuroscience. In her column “Meanwhile,” Bansal finds significance in the unfinished and the unremarkable, illustrating how the in-between moments often represent the essence of life.
