A Post as Aimless as my Life Right Now

What does it mean to follow your dream?

That wasn't supposed to rhyme, and I feel like the question almost loses its credibility in doing so. But really, when people make the blanket statement, when parents, teachers, society tell you to reach for the stars because you can be anything you desire, what does that ACTUALLY mean?


Since my recent decision to postpone medical school (or perhaps not go entirely), I've become increasingly worried about the lack of a path I now have to follow. I had held onto medicine for so long, I think, because it was safe: all I had to do was get into medical school and I was basically guaranteed a job and a salary for the rest of my life. But was I really as committed to medicine as I had always thought? Did I really want to give up my entire life, 24 hours a day and 7 days a week, to my career? Don't get me wrong, I'm all for working hard, but I firmly believe that you have to enjoy whatever it is you're doing as you do it. Instead, I found myself waiting for the "ends"- the acceptance to medical school, residency, getting a job at a hospital of my choice- with the belief that once these were attained, I could "start living". Then one day when I was running, it hit me: I'd be at least 35 by the time I could "start living," and who's to say that I'd give up this mentality at that point? I'd work myself incessantly for something I wasn't sure was my passion. So I decided to put the idea on the backburner for a while and explore my options.

My options, as it turns out, are nonexistent.

This past Sunday I went downtown to speak to one of my mother's close friends about her life in journalism - something I've always thought was an interesting career but never something I've seriously considered. She pretty much told me, in the kindest of words, that I couldn't even get an internship (I'm not even uttering the idea of trying to get a paid position) with my credentials. A major in Classics with a concentration in Ancient Literature in Translation: it may be trendy, but it sure as hell won't pay. And it won't get me anywhere near an internship at a magazine.

So I left Starbucks with no greater sense of direction or idea of what I'd truly like to do with my life. To be honest, I feel a little duped. I wish I could warn my naive little high school self, "Stay away from the Liberal Arts!! Get a degree that means something!" But then who's to say that I wouldn't graduate with a degree in petroleum engineering (..sure) and decide that, unfortunately, crude oil isn't so much my passion. Then I'd really be up the creek. At least I have a general degree in, well, for lack of a better term, "college."

This whole idea of "soul searching" and "finding your passion" is a lot less ideal and a lot more stressful than people make it out to be. If anything, I'm learning that I am, in fact, NOT someone who enjoys knowing their job is ending in nine months with no prospects on the horizon. Or that, as much as I love my friends and the people who I'm spending my time with in Chicago now, it still feels like a transition six months after graduation. It's like I'm waiting for something to start but with nothing definite to look forward to.

I guess this post, in all its wanderings, reflects the state of mind I'm in: I'm constantly thinking about what would ideally make me the happiest - coming to no sort of solution - trying to think about entirely different fields that I might consider - and interspersed within these A.D.D. thoughts are snippets of calm, usually brought upon by sleep.

A few weeks ago I was at Borders, spotted an O Magazine on the shelf, and sat down to read it (obv). In it was an article about finding the career you were born to do - with examples of women who have quit high powered corporate jobs to open Vegan bakeries, become dog trainers, or travel the world. Of course! How could I think otherwise? Oprah would without a doubt have my answers. I flipped to the article and read the first question, which asked me to think about the last time I was doing something where I was truly happy and totally engrossed.

...Nothin'.

Uhh. Okay. Let's dig a little deeper, Chels. I like to run. But hell if I'd ever be any sort of a personal trainer. I like to watch entire series of TV shows on my computer in a single sitting. I like to buy shoes. So basically I left Borders finding that I'd grow up to be an out of shape personal trainer with a detailed knowledge of television trivia and seriously hot footwear. This was a mess.

A few days later I was driving home from work on 94 and chose the "Annie (Original Broadway Cast)" Pandora station on my iPhone. The first few songs were unrecognizable to me (isn't that annoying how Pandora does that? It's like, I want to listen to the Glee Cast NOT REBA MCENTIRE OKAY THANK YOU.) But when "Tomorrow" came on, and that little belty voice faded in, I couldn't help but sing along. Except the weirdest thing happened - there, stopped at the intersection of the Edens and Lake Cook, getting stares from cars on either side (I'm sure), I started to cry. And not just tears-in-my-eyes-but-you-still-look-presentable crying, I'm talking all out, raccoon-face, you're-a-mess crying. I had had my "Aha!" moment, without being 55 and post-menopausal. The last time I felt truly, ecstatically, blissfully happy was as an 11-year-old child cast as Annie in my community's production of the show. Letting that realization sink in, I spent the rest of the ride home belting out loud to the rest of the songs I knew.

Now let's be real, we can't all be Lea Michele. I get that - I'm not totally delus. But I do think my highway breakdown was significant, and I know that it was helpful. Even if it doesn't mean that I want to drop everything and pursue my deeply tucked away desire to be on Broadway - honestly, I don't think that's what it is at all. I think it was remembering the feeling of raw euphoria and letting myself unabashedly want that, as outrageous and impossible as it is, for a 20 minute ride home.

And isn't that the goal? To want something so much that it literally tears you apart at the thought of not being able to do that thing that you believe drives you, makes you who you are?

I don't think you'll see me on Broadway, but that little red-headed girl is back, just waiting to break out when I find her something to do. You bet your bottom dollar.