Do you describe yourself as someone who “likes to learn,” but hasn’t had classes interest you recently? Do you sit around and wonder why, even though you care so much about school and are so practical and productive and smart, you can’t bring yourself to review your stats notes from last week?
Since January, I’ve been self-reflecting and sorting through the things that actually bring me joy instead of what I feel should bring me joy: the things worth my time and love — and, of course, the answer to the question of “what am I going to do with the rest of my life?” My realization is one a lot of people my age have been forced to confront: academia isn’t heavily featured in my newly shortened list of things that make my life feel the most rewarding.
For some, this is nothing new. Many people have known for some time that they aren’t meant to fit into traditional molds: to go into medicine, law, social sciences, or STEM. For me, however, this realization was a bit of a shock. I’ve always done well in school, and I’ve never had to worry the same way some people do about grades. Even in an academic setting, I’ve always enjoyed literature and writing, especially if the books fall under my favorite genre of pretentious British Gothic lit. Due to these oddly specific interests, becoming an English major always felt inevitable. I’m good at analyzing literature, so I thought that maybe that’s the best route for me. After all, people seemed to be expecting it. Even when I got strangely obsessed with true crime and decided I wanted to go into the FBI, it felt like they were waiting for me to return to my roots.
When I declared my major as sociology and convinced myself I was doing it to be practical with the skills I have, I had a feeling it wasn’t right: a suspicion that was soon confirmed. Although psychology and my “Crime in America” class intrigue me and build a foundation of knowledge I’m proud of, I realized that it isn’t what I want to spend my life doing. Neither, it seems, is English.
Perhaps, just because you’re good at or vaguely interested in something that appeals to you as a career doesn’t mean you owe it to your parents or society to pursue it. Nothing I find interesting in the world of academia fulfills me quite like the chorus of “There Is A Light That Never Goes Out” or the various verses of “American Pie.” Nothing soothes my soul quite like Harry Styles’ voice or moves me like David Bowie’s lyrical storytelling. Nothing makes me feel as understood as my favorite songs, or finding an artist that makes me feel like their music was made just for me. Nothing makes me as proud as writing something that causes me to almost shake with the effort and love I put into it, and nothing makes me as hopeful as people reading my writing, my “work,” and telling me they like it too. As much as I’ve tried to deny it, nothing makes me feel as alive as music and nothing makes me feel as purposeful as writing.
This has provoked an idea I haven’t indulged in since I was 10 years old and wanted, more than anything, to be an author. I’ve squashed down the most vibrant parts of myself in the hopes that I can change into someone different, someone more suited for the “real world.” Perhaps it’s time to acknowledge that my future lies outside of academia. Writing for Her Campus has made me prouder than most of my test scores, and it’s made me want to step outside the safety net of school and look into the scary world of writing and analyzing music as a primary job, and not just as a “hobby.”
In February, the month of love, I wanted to write a love letter to the things that make me most grateful to be here, the things I want to experience the most, and consider what I would feel most proud of devoting my life to. I want to encourage you to look within yourself, and ask not what route would make you feel accomplished through other people’s eyes, but what sets your soul on fire, and then give it a little love.
Everything you love, everything that brings you joy, is good enough.