A core component of my identity is being a writer. I’ve always loved expressing myself on paper, particularly in the forms of poetry and nonfiction. This has been a constant for me, an outlet that I’ve always been able to come back to. When all else fails, I have words to ground me. I use them to visualize my thoughts and feelings in a way that makes sense to me. I’ve been doing this for as long as I can remember. I was making my own magazines written in crayons at age eight. In high school, I took creative writing electives, submitted poetry to magazines, and invested in hundreds of dollars worth of journals. Right when I got to college, I declared an English major with a concentration in Creative Writing. Everything seemed perfect for a while. I was happy studying words and the many ways in which to put them together. I was confident in my choice of major…until about six months ago.
Around July of last year, my little sister was set to go to a special needs summer camp for the first time. My mom signed her up so she could have a sense of routine, while also making friends. She is very loving and social, so this seemed like a great idea. I took her on her first day because my mom had to work. I was a little worried that she would freak out on me because she doesn’t like change. And I was right. My sister cried and begged me not to leave. I stayed because I remember how it felt to be dropped off at school. I cried every day of kindergarten at drop-off. It felt terrifying at the time, even though I was OK twenty minutes after my mom left (sorry Mom). So at the summer camp, I asked the teacher for permission to stay. She said I could, as long as I didn’t intervene too much. I honestly did my best to stay on the couch in the back, leaving my sister to be independent. But, the other kids couldn’t stay away from me. They kept asking me to play, so I played some card games with them. This turned into me redirecting them when they became upset. A few breakdowns later, I was basically one of the teachers. By accident.Â
Ever since this experience, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that being a special needs therapist is what I’m meant to do. At the same time, I’ve been hesitant to change my major. A part of me feels that by doing this, I’m turning my back on the art that I’ve loved for so long. I’m taking an unfamiliar road, and I’m scared of not acing the challenges that will inevitably be thrown at me. I’ve never struggled with English, but I have struggled with science, and I’ll have to take these kinds of classes if I pursue being an ABA (applied behavior analysis) therapist. On the other hand, I know that if I don’t at least try to walk this new path, I will forever be wondering what could’ve been.
I know that no matter what, I’ll always be a writer. I love piecing words together. I love reading how others have done so. My life would not be complete without time to read and write. It’s taken me time to realize that I can have this while pursuing another career path. While it does feel overwhelming to reconstruct my identity, I try to remind myself that everyone is a work in progress. There is never a point in life at which we are “done.” So for now, I’m going to continue experimenting and doing the things that make me feel fulfilled. If I decide to change my major back, that’s okay. Life is not perfectly linear like we often want it to be.Â