When I was very young, I wanted to grow up to be a baseball pitcher. I spent a portion of my days throwing things. I imagined I was Greg Maddux on the mound, sizing up my opponent before throwing the perfect sinker. I had a pretty decent throwing arm, but I couldn’t catch to save my life (I still can’t), so my parents suggested I try soccer. I played for a number of years, but I was never much better than a less-than-average midfielder and a rotten defender. My mind was too lost in the clouds to focus on the game and I gradually lost interest in sports entirely.
Over the years that followed, I was never sure what I wanted to be when I grew up. An astronaut, a firefighter, a detective, an actor, a director, a novelist, a journalist, a professor, a social media marketer. I could never settle on a direction. Whenever anyone told me to follow my passions, I responded with, “Which one?” Even the concept of being “grown up” proved to be a social construction. We don’t grow up, we just grow less enchanted with the world around us.
So, as I pour over graduate schools, it’s not surprising that I still don’t know what I want to be or where I want to be. I just hope that if I keep doing what I love, I’ll find a way to survive. Maybe one day, it will all make sense. Maybe it won’t. Maybe I’ll fail over and over. Maybe I’ll make a living as a writer or maybe it will forever be a supplement to another career. And maybe, if I’m very lucky, I’ll pitch that perfect game.
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