One of the major accomplishments people often talk about is how fulfilling it feels to reach their goals—how “leveling up” gives us a sense of growth and purpose. Whether in our careers, homes, or relationships, we’re always encouraged to be better than we were last year… especially when it comes to material things.

At 18, my situation was an interesting one. Let’s just say I could only go up from where I was. Having a roof over my head—no matter how terrible the place—was an accomplishment. Going to college, even if it was in my hometown, was an accomplishment. Driving to work in an old, beat-up car? Still an accomplishment.

Like most of us at 18, I had no real assets. I had little to show for myself, and my sense of identity was barely formed. But somehow, over the course of earning a degree, things began to build. I accumulated material things, formed meaningful relationships, strengthened my identity, and most importantly upgraded my roof. By 22, I saw a clear trajectory for my life. I looked around at what I had built and felt proud.

Then, of course, came the dramatic ka-boom—when it all came crashing down. The life I had so carefully constructed no longer felt right. I realized I had trapped myself in a bubble, convinced I knew what I wanted, but still deeply unsure. Slowly, everything began to fall away—some things by choice, others by consequence. The house I bought, the savings I built, the career I dreamed of, the relationships I clung to—they all slipped away.

This week, as I unpacked boxes in my new apartment, I couldn’t help but think about the life I tried to build a few years ago compared to where I am now. Four years ago, I owned a home with houseplants and cute entryway decor. My couch matched my kitchen table, and I made people take their shoes off before stepping on my new carpet. Today, I’m eating chicken and dumplings off a tapestry on the floor, trying to remember to water the one basil plant sitting on my unfurnished balcony.

My life looks nothing like I imagined it would at 25. I thought I’d own a big house, drive a pretty car, and maybe be married—or at least on my way there. I once worked hard to build a life that followed that timeline. But I couldn’t ignore the creeping feeling that I didn’t truly know if that’s what I wanted.

Identity is a tricky thing. Understanding who you are at your core isn’t a process you can rush. Sometimes, it requires walking backward—selling your furniture and sitting on the floor for a few months. Ending relationships and allowing yourself to feel the loneliness. Letting go of fully grown houseplants and replacing them with a single plant that needs attention, care, and most importantly time to grow.

By working backward, you can begin to sort out which parts of your life are authentically yours—and which were goals unknowingly planted by someone else. Working backward brings clarity when the walls you built no longer feel like home.