I am grateful that I can change.
I have flexed the muscle of changing opinions for many years. My mind is rippling and oiled-up like biceps on the Venice boardwalk—it’s well exercised in new directions.
During 2017’s crisis of self, I texted old friends as I tried to reconnect to who I’ve been, asking “what did I want to be when I grew up?” They knew me as a seedling, but apparently I wasn’t an outwardly ambitious one. I gleaned no helpful information.
I thought about the things that I drew when I was small—barns and horses, suns, flowers, Crayola landscapes. The one specific vision I remember deeply was that I wanted to be a teacher by trade, and a farmer and self-taught veterinarian by hobby.
Once I gained self-awareness and some spicy reading material in my teens, I envisioned myself as a glamorous magazine editor in New York City. I underwent a shrinking in college and embraced the calling of owning a coffee shop in a rural town. I started a blog about it, picked out Alice in Wonderland-inspired furniture for it, picked a name (Tuesday’s Coffee), researched the cost of espresso machines, got a minor in Small Business & Entrepreneurship because of it. I held onto that idea for the better part of a decade.
In the past fifteen years, I’ve wanted to be a composer, a career-track search engine optimizer, a handmade paper company owner, a poet. A programmer. A data analyst. A librarian. A fashion designer (an interior designer and a graphic designer, too). A composer (again). A professional crafter. A photographer. A lifestyle blogger. At 22, I turned down the call to be a teacher in Columbus, Ohio. Instead, I accepted a role as a Social Media Coordinator for an indoor garden company where I learned about propagation and guano.
I’ve been all of these things, and I’ve been none of these things. For every ounce of nimbleness, there’s a gallon of chaos. It reminds me there are no arrivals. A title is not an arrival, a major is not an arrival, an expression of interest is not an arrival. I don’t have to materialize goals laid out by my younger self. If they don’t fit, I can tailor them. Or donate them to someone else.
Anyone need an extra career idea? I have plenty.
Next Steps: Drink a glass of water, subscribe to a print magazine (because you still love them), and open up that Elle Decor that was mistakenly delivered to you.
To all the careers I've loved before