The Identity Crisis, Part 2

Last year, I wrote The Identity Crisis, and wondered if passion could ever be profession.

I’m still wondering.

But not even a year later, my focus has shifted.

“And here lies the identity crisis,” I wrote. There are two things I want more than anything in this world, more than I want to be a leader or a manager. To write, and to be a mama.”

I’m no longer worried about choosing between the corporate ladder and my creative calling. Instead, I’m reaching out into the dark, hoping to grasp something that I was meant to do.

I can feel in my soul that I’m supposed to be a writer, and even deeper than that, I know I’m meant to be a mama.

But sometimes it feels like I won’t ever accomplish either of these things, and it is daunting.

The literary agent rejections and the negative pregnancy tests are beating me down, like boulders tumbling uncontrollably down a mountain. I am drowning in failure as I sink deeper and deeper into dark waters that I don’t know how to navigate. This is not the map I illustrated for myself.

This is something else entirely.

I can’t write. My novel has seen no success, and there’s no room in my headspace to create something new. I simply can’t wrap my mind around building a new world. I can’t dedicate the energy, because I am facing my worst nightmare: infertility.

And it’s draining.

It’s all I think about.

Sometimes, I feel so lost.

I have steps to take. Things to do. There is nowhere to go but forward, and forward I shall go. One day, one hour, one word at a time.

But who am I, if not a writer?

Who am I, if not a mama?

Who?

And here lies the identity crisis, part 2.

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The Guilty Writer

Sometimes I feel guilty about not writing for a while. And if I don’t feel guilty about that, I feel guilty for not feeling guilty about not writing. It can be hard to come back when you’ve stepped away. Breaks are important, and life is messy, but sitting down to tap keys after several weeks of silence can sometimes feel a little overwhelming. Not quite right, even. Like I almost have to settle back into the creative shell of myself that I left.  

Time for writing is thinning. Responsibilities thicken, layers I barely notice tossed one by one on my back. Work rages, my diet intensifies, projects in the house and yard take priority.

This isn’t new… We all experience the struggle of balancing the things we must do and want to do. I’ve been here before, yet it seems different this time.

Maybe it’s because I tucked the novel in a drawer a couple weeks ago.

I didn’t give up, but I did intentionally step away.

Seven agents have asked to see the complete manuscript. Six returned it, some without a word, others with contradicting feedback. I became tangled in this terrible web of editing for the next agent, adjusting the story for the next set of eyes whose feedback will contradict the last.

When one said it started too slow, I adjusted, then the next said it was too much.

I’m spinning, long strings of opinions and subjectivity strangling me.

To be free of that frustration, I tucked it all away.

At first, I felt like I was betraying my characters… but to constantly change the story just to meet the desires of literary agents would be a far greater disservice. I know I have something here, but perhaps now is not the time. I’m stepping away to process, to wait, to breathe, to start something new.

One day the time will come, and I’ll dust off those pages to try again. But for now, I need to try something different and keep the words coming. The time for these phrases is minimal, but if I can write even just a few sentences a day, keep the creativity flowing with my blood, that will be enough.

A Magnificent Journey to Shore

I watch the salty foam rise slowly onto the white sand, lose its grip, then slide despairingly back down. The sea is restless, churning, always changing. In the distance, each billow rises with grandeur, and then powerfully smacks into itself. What a peculiar fate… continuously rising and falling, an unbreakable and uncontrollable cycle.

Some are born to make waves. Others are meant to break them. A few are destined to ride the waves, while others prefer to watch them crash.

I don’t believe my purpose entwines with any of these.

I think maybe I exist to provide an escape from the waves.

I am a creative soul with a tendency to avoid conflict. Perhaps that’s a personality flaw. An adult weakness. There’s a lot of things whirling around us now. There are clashing sides and writhing politics and whiplashing events. It’s a maelstrom in the ocean. We’re seeing the worst of some and the best of others, and many of us are caught in the dizzying center of it all wondering who and what to believe.

Some of us are drowning.

Social media can sometimes amplify the splashing chaos. I’ve been avoiding Facebook. Mine still exists, and I still update my writer’s page, but I deleted the app. (My Instagram feed is almost entirely puppy dogs and infinitely more joyous…@kaitlinstaniulis  @chevy_the_doberman)

I’m not stuffing my head in the sand… I’m getting my news outside of social media and I’m separating myself from misinformation and unkind conversation.

I am focusing on creating pieces of happy so that others may have an escape when they too are stuck, overwhelmed, or discouraged.

Because I was never meant to make the waves. I don’t know how to break them. I’m too queasy to ride them, and I do not want to watch them.

Instead, I want to toss you a raft and build you a world that brings you bliss. I want to offer you words that transport you elsewhere, craft you sentences that help you know you’re not alone, and design a story to give you hope.

I want to take your hand and bring you on a magnificent journey to shore where we will find adventure and love and kindness between words.

I am meant to provide an escape from the waves.

Reasons Why I Drink (Today Edition)

As the clock displays 5:00, I shuffle down the stairs and into the kitchen. (I may or may not be wearing pants, and it’s fine, because, ‘Rona.) I scratch my Doberman Pinscher’s head, then rummage through the wine fridge.

Today, I am uncorking this bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon because I am waiting.

I am waiting for a closing date on my refinance.

I am waiting for someone to come hook up my fiber internet.

I am waiting for two agents to get back to me about my manuscript.

I am waiting for someone to finish building my pole barn.

I am waiting for my insurance company to call me back.

I am waiting for the credit union to mail me my stupid debit card.

I am waiting for quarantine to end.

I am waiting for that damn Amazon package.

I am waiting for warmer weather.

I am waiting for Susan at work to finally respond to my email.

I am waiting for Netflix to load, because I still have shitty internet.

I am waiting for my friend in Vietnam to wake up and see the hilarious meme I left on her Messenger.

I am waiting for this damn zit on my face to go away.

I am waiting for 10,000 followers to fly out my ass.

And my mind is exploding, because I am an adult who uses words like “refinance,” “fiber,” “building,” “agents,” “insurance,” “debit,” and “Quarantine” in complete, exasperated sentences while I drain an entire bottle of wine.

Sometimes it feels like all we do is wait. We are constantly anticipating the following moment, the coming week, the next greatest thing. We are waiting for this to end, for that to start, for this to come, for that to leave.

I think I’m waiting to stop waiting.

I am waiting for the day there is no longer anything to wait for.

Does that exist?

Wait and see.

And for My Next Trick: 10,000 Followers Will Fly Out My Ass

Maybe it’s time I join the circus.

At this point, I’m damn good at juggling. Even as I type, I have about seven things floating above my head that I’m going to need to catch and toss again in a few seconds. I’ll use my feet if I must. It’s fine. I’ve done it before. I’ll be a clown in the circus, juggling my day job, my writing career, my family, my friends, my finances, my marketing, my diet, a facemask, and whatever else the universe decides to throw into the mix. Maybe it will just tell me to dance as I juggle. Move to the beat, swallow a sword, and tie your hands behind your back.

It’s fine.

Everything is fine.

I’ve written before about how adulting can be a lot. But I think the burden gets a little heavier when the thing you want most is about two inches beyond the reach of your fingertips. And within the space of two inches is about 10,000 sets of eyes.

“So how long have you been writing?” The agent asked me as I relaxed a little in my seat. I had just pitched my speculative fiction novel, Aftershock, over a Zoom meeting, and he asked me to email him the entire manuscript.

Talk about thunderstruck.

We still had 4 minutes left, and my tongue couldn’t pluck a single coherent sentence from my brain. Perhaps he could tell I was internally sputtering like an engine starved for gas, so he took the lead, and we both accepted our fate would be four minutes of small talk.

“I’ve been writing my whole life,” I told him. “I have a blog, #adulting. Light-hearted humor and relatable stories.”

The agent lit up. “What’s the URL?” He asked.

I gave it to him and explained the premise.

“How many followers do you have?”

I stumbled. I spent hours last night reciting a pitch for Aftershock. I wasn’t anywhere close to pitching a #adulting project.

“Only a handful,” I admitted. Twenty-five, to be exact. Whoopie. (Also, love you guys.)

“I just spoke to an editor yesterday about wanting to do a project similar to this,” the agent enlightened.

I think my left lung sprang a leak. It blew around my ribcage like a flying balloon, and for once in my life, I did not have words.

“I love the idea. But for something like that to work, you’d need about 10,000 followers. Then we could talk.”

Oh, is that all? Dude, I don’t even have enough friends for each finger on my hand!

I can’t remember what I said next, but I must have said something, and I hope to sweet baby Jesus it wasn’t dumb.

“I’ve seen it done in a month,” he continued. “If you really go for it and you do it right, you can get 10,000 followers in a month.”

Who, me?

I am a fumbling fool trying to figure out what I am supposed to be doing with my life, and here I am, literally 9,975 people away from getting something I’ve wanted since the 4^th grade.

Let me just place this red nose on my face and hop on a unicycle as I juggle.

And for my next trick? 10,000 followers will fly out my ass!

I’m about to start cranking some serious content, ya’ll. Because I want this more than anything in the world. Drop me a like and a follow. Share with your friends. Let’s turn this circus act into a dream and pull a book deal out of my hat.

Follow me on Facebook

Follow me on Instagram

Follow me on WordPress

Let’s do this.

The Universe I Create

Between the hemispheres of my brain, within the confines of my skull, a million words are flying. They’re soaring across an intricate web of thought. They build a world, letter by letter, a place only I can see when I close my eyes.

I am sane.

I am an adult.

I know it is all in my head.

But it’s real to me.

In my head, there’s a place only I can hide. In my brain, there’s a world I constructed from dust. In my mind lives a man with a villain to fight. It is all fantasy that only I can experience, places only I can know, people only I can love.

It’s just me and the universe I create with letters and words and precise punctuation that alters meaning and shatters perception.

Just me.

Until the day I pick up a pen, scrape it across paper. Until that moment I tenderly tap keys. Until the world I’ve built writhes and churns and the words overflow. They cascade from my ears and trickle to my palms. I hold them, just for a second, just until they start to drip from the spaces between my fingers. Then I release them, uncup my hands and splash them into the world.

I write them. I write them all, so that this place might become real…so that these people might be loved. They aren’t just characters, concrete and simple. They carry a message and tell a story and mean something more than just what they are. They’re a product of my passion and the fruit of my talent and the result of emotion firing and misfiring in my cortex.

“Stop playing pretend and be an adult.”

These characters are apart of me, imprints behind my eyes. I will be 108 before I put down a pen and give up my passion.

“Characters aren’t real. Don’t waste your time developing them.”

They’re real to me, and they carry a message of love and resilience and acceptance and hope that so many of us in this world need. Character development is vital to the success of a story. They don’t deserve to be blurry.

“You’ll never get published, save yourself the time and disappointment.”

57 rejections. 4 manuscript requests. Two writer’s conferences. Three agent cards, two almost-had-its, a new writer’s laptop, a custom logo, a website, and another four cold queries. Not a single instant have I felt like I’ve wasted even a nanosecond of my time. I look wonderful failure in the face and analyze how I can use that to get better. If that isn’t #adulting, I am not sure what is. Failure is not disappointment. Failure is glorious opportunity.

Someday, the world will read these words and feel these emotions and meet these characters. They will live forever, permanently stamped on paper to outlive my body and change the world long after I’m gone.

And I will smile every step of the way, because I’m killing it.

We’re killing it.

I’ve Been “Adulting” Since I was Two.

At what moment do we enter adulthood? Is it the day we turn 18, that moment we blow out the candles and can legally vote and get into night clubs? Or is it when we suddenly realize we are, in fact, too old to go to said night clubs?  An 18-year-old may be a “legal” adult, but isn’t 18 technically still a teenager? I felt like more of an adult when I turned 20 than when I turned 18… but age is just a number. They say, “you’re only as old as you feel.”

Well, sometimes I feel six, so…

“You’ve been adulting since you were two,” my mother informs me as she washes the dishes, her eyes fixated on the plate in her soapy hands.

“What do you mean?” I ask. I reach for a towel to dry.

“You were holding the ladder for your dad before you could even walk straight,” she chuckles.

Indeed, I was. In reflection of this revelation, adulting = responsibility?  If this is the case, I have been adulting since I was two. From holding the ladder steady for my dad as he changed light bulbs, to guiding my aunt through Home Depot at age 3, to hording food behind the couch, just in case.

Because an adult is always prepared for the apocalypse.

One of my first words was “decoration.”

If this does not put my family into perspective for you, I’m not sure how else I can put this. There I was, barely two, yelling at my Granny as she touched a statue on the mantle.

“Granny! No touch. Decoration.”

At two-and-a-half, my sister arrived. This is my earliest memory…and I think that’s because it had such a profound impact upon my life. Everything shifted, and even at age two, I knew I was just given the most important job in the universe.

I remember my father coming through the front door one afternoon. I remember him asking if I wanted to go see her.

I said yeah.

I do not recall the car ride to the hospital. I can’t picture arriving nor walking through the antiseptic halls. But I do recollect stepping into that room. It was dim and quiet, and I could feel the air change as I waddled in. I don’t remember saying hi.

“Can I hold her?” I asked. I was set into the rocking chair and my tiny sister was placed into my toddler arms.

Sarah.

She had a mess of dark brown hair, and her ears were abnormally large. I think I remember this moment, toddler me, staring into my sister’s brown eyes for the first time, because that was the moment I was forever changed. Something altered inside me…clicked, maybe…

It wasn’t just “me” anymore.

It would forever be Sarah and me, and that made me an adult.

Until I got bored of her and decided I was adult enough for a pet.

The sun peeked out from behind the over-protective clouds, shining its smiling face upon Ohio. The wind blew gently, ruffling my curls as I stood impatiently in my driveway, waiting anxiously for a green car to turn my way. I sighed.

Where are they?

Soon my legs grew tired and I plopped upon the concrete, my arms stubbornly crossed over my chest. The wind whipped across the earth again, pushing my brown locks into my eyes. I agitatedly flicked them back; my view could not be obstructed.

The sound of singing grasshoppers echoed in my ears and the sweet smell of flowers and grass filled my nostrils. I began to fidget, and checked my imaginary watch, making noises of disgust at the time of day. My thoughts lingered from the driveway into my room, and I stood abruptly, hurrying through the garage door and into the house. I tore spastically up the stairs and burst into my pink room, bustling over to my dresser. A small wooden jewelry box sat dead center. I caught my breath, my cheeks rosy, and peaked inside. I smiled, content, and carefully resealed the box, double checking that nothing could escape.

The sound of my purple light-up sneakers hitting the driveway echoed off the garage door as I returned to my post outside in the warm summer air. I sat again and groaned. I flopped back, lying flat, and stared at the sky. It fascinated me; it seemed to go on forever. I smiled at the thought and wondered what would happen if God just peaked his head out of the white fluffy cloud that lazily floated by, careful not to cross the path of the sun. I imagined it happening, and absently waved above me.

I heard the rumble of a car’s engine and my large brown eyes widened in excitement and realization. I heard tires against pavement as the vehicle grew closer. I smelled gasoline and knew there was no mistaking.

They were finally here!

“There’s my princess!”

“Grandpa!” I cascaded into his arms and he gave me a big kiss on my cheek; it was prickly, and I giggled. His graying mustache had sat above his lips as long as I could remember.

“Hi Honey-Girl!”

“Hi Granny!” I leapt from Grandpa’s arms and ran to embrace Granny. I hugged her tightly and thought how wonderful and lucky it was to have both a Grandma and a Granny. I stared up at Granny’s face; pale but beautiful, and her make-up perfectly placed. Granny characteristically had a light brown, bouffant hair-do.

“How are you, Little Girl?” my grandparents asked as the rest of the family came to greet our visitors. Mom kissed them both, holding baby sister tightly in her arms, while Dad shook hands.

Conversation took off in the driveway, and I found impatience creeping into my skin once more. I tapped my foot and caught myself glancing at that imaginary watch again. I bit her lower lip. I tried to be patient and let the grown-ups talk, but anxiety filled me to the brim. I tugged on Granny’s rose-pink shirt.

“Granny!”

“What-y?” She looked down at me and smiled warmly.

My voice dropped to a whisper. “Come quick! There’s something I got to show you!” I stole a glance at my parents, hoping my secret was still safe. Once I was certain I was unheard, I hastily took Granny’s hand and pulled her inside. Then I broke into a gallop up the carpeted stairs.

“Hurry up, Granny! It’s important!” I made it into the room first and placed a hand protectively upon the wooden jewelry box. Granny soon joined me and stood next to me.

“It’s a secret, Granny. You can’t tell Mom and Dad. Promise?”

“I promise,” Granny replied, bending down to see my excited face. I slowly opened the jewelry box, glancing at the door to make sure we had not been followed. Then I stepped back so Granny could see my secret clearly. Inside, amongst the tangles of beads and stick-on earrings, sat a scarlet Ladybug. It was sweetly dotted with several black spots and did not move. Granny smiled to herself, and I now know that is because she realized the bug was dead. She gasped over-excitedly.

“Oooo,” she whispered, knowing this was a big deal for me.

“It’s my pet. But you can’t tell Mommy or Daddy, because they’ll make me get rid of it, okay?”

“I won’t tell,” Granny said, kissing my forehead. “This is an awfully big secret.”

Granny left the room, leaving me to carefully mind my pet. She rejoined the adults in the kitchen, where I heard her say in a hushed tone,

 “I think it’s time for a pet.”

First pets are a huge responsibility for a child, and it brings out a level of adult within them. Can a three-year-old with a ladybug or a six-year-old with a puppy adult? If you consider the super-complex equation adult = responsibility, then yes, I believe so.

When I turned six, my parents took me to the mall to get my ears pierced, and I’ve been the coolest thing since sliced bread from that moment on. I used to think the gold bulbs in my earlobes made me look so grown up, and I’d act the part. I was a six-year-old adult with pierced ears and a pet, strutting her stuff.

Fast forward twelve years and I’d be in a sketchy tattoo parlor in Grand Rapids getting my naval and tragus pierced simultaneously (the tragus hurt way more than my bellybutton). For some reason, so many of us feel as though tattoos and piercings are a rite of passage. Turning eighteen is the official entrance into legal adulthood, and if it’s not a voting year, the only other thing we can do as new adults is run and get something pierced!  The truth is, they didn’t make me feel like any more of an adult like I had hoped.

Just more of a badass.

Through the birth of a sibling, pets, and piercings, I think I turned out okay. My parents gave me a considerably solid idea of what an adult is, and now that I am officially in adulthood, I can take it and run (probably into a wall… and that wouldn’t be the first wall I’ve run into).

Does Adulting mean Becoming your Parents??

Does adulting mean becoming your parents?

Sometimes something flies out of my mouth and I have to race to the mirror to make sure I haven’t turned into my mother.

…or my father.

Does adulting mean I need a specific table cloth for every holiday? Do I need to buy fancy Christmas china and gold color silverware? Or is that just my parents?

Should I model after my dad and have every single appliance known to man, including the little buzzing spider that stirs your gravy for you? Am I supposed to play Enya on repeat every time I have guests?

Should I obsess over everyone else’s garbage and make dumpster suggestions like my mother?

Should I spend my weekends considering how to bring up the value of my home, or futzing with my stereo for the optimal sound experience?

Do I start using words like “futz” and talk with my hands like my Italian father?

Do I begin shopping at Costco and buying gross “Pub” snackies in bulk?

Am I supposed to deep-clean my house and pick up dog poop twice a week like my mom? (Probably. That would probably be a good life choice.)

What I’m getting at here is that I don’t think I have to approach adulting the same way my parents approach adulting. I’ve already covered that they’ve been really good at pretending they know what they’re doing. So, I guess, if they’re good at pretending, then that doesn’t mean I can’t be just as good at pretending. But I don’t have to do it the same way they are.

I’m me.

You’re you.

And that’s pretty badass.

What #adulting Doesn’t Mean

I have blogged earlier this week about the #adulting phenomenon in which millennials find themselves. You can read those posts here and here.

But right now, I want to talk about what #adulting doesn’t mean.

It doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy some candy on Halloween (or steal your kids’).

It doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to cry over spilled milk.

It doesn’t mean you can’t make mistakes. It just means you must

learn from them.

It certainly doesn’t mean you can’t be silly. Be you.

It doesn’t mean you can’t ask for help.

It doesn’t mean your favorite movies can’t be Disney Pixar.

It doesn’t mean your feelings can’t be hurt.

It doesn’t mean you can’t

Sing in the shower

Dance in the rain

Go on an adventure

Get lost

Take selfies.

Adulting doesn’t mean giving up on your dreams.

If you want to write a novel and be on Ellen,

  Do it.

That dream isn’t just for “kid” you.

It’s for “you” you.

It doesn’t mean you have to be a realist or a pessimist.

It does not mean you can’t

feel.

It doesn’t mean you have to like black coffee and the History Channel.

It doesn’t mean starting every story with “back in my day…”

It doesn’t mean you have to get married and have children.

It doesn’t mean you stop obsessing over things like Harry Potter and Wicked the Musical.

It doesn’t mean you have to find God.

It doesn’t mean you have to lose God.

It doesn’t mean you have to like politics.

It doesn’t mean being on your own.

It doesn’t mean you can’t find love at first sight.

It doesn’t mean you change what you stand for.

It just means becoming conscious of your being and how you fit into the universe.

It means learning how to be kind and empathetic to all people.

It means finding yourself in new and foreign situations, and somehow surviving.

It means becoming fiscally responsible and building credit.

It means supporting others.

A spouse.

Children.

Friends.

Siblings.

Your aging parents.

You.

It means losing the people you love while finding new love along the way.

It means becoming a professional.

Not a stereotypical professional…but a professional “you”.

It means recognizing your strengths and being willing to develop your weaknesses.

It means keeping it together when you’re ready to

f

a

l

l

a p a r t

…and then realizing it’s still okay to fall apart. You just have to be able to glue yourself back together again.

It means placing your trust in others, and recognizing when it is time to pull that trust away.

It means hard work…

It

Means

Living

Life.

Without my Mommy

You know what doesn’t make sense?

Choosing a major at 18.

We all think we are big, bad adults when we turn 18, but the truth is I didn’t know shit when I was 18.

How can a

hormonally unstable

18-year-old individual declare what she is going to do for the rest of her life? As a recent high school graduate, you will be working in your chosen career much longer than you’ve even been alive thus far.

Tell

me

how

that

makes

sense.

But it happens. We graduate high school and immediately have to adult. Decide what you’re doing with your life, or else you’re a bum.

Has anyone else noticed that?

The kids who start college with an “undeclared” major, or announce to friends and family they are “undecided” are stereotyped as bums or slackers or as indecisive.

Maybe they are the ones who are #adulting better.

Maybe they are more calculating about this life thing.

I didn’t want to be that guy. That “undeclared” or “undecided” guy. So, I decided. Because I thought that was the “adult” thing to do.

Decide.

Now.

At eighteen.

Because,

#adulting.

I wanted to write.

I didn’t know what, but I wanted to.

Maybe children books, or romance stories. Maybe even news articles or magazine editorials.             Something.

For me, part of #adulting must mean listening to your parents when they ask, “But what kind of job are you going to get with a Creative Writing degree?”

At first, I chose Grand Valley State University. Because my grandmother was sick, and that inspired me to become a Radiation Therapist.

But then, I changed my mind.

Go figure.

I moved to Education.                                 Which also didn’t pan out in the end.

Had I initially decided upon education, I would have ended up attending a completely different school. Aquinas. But there I was, at GVSU.

Again, how different would I be now?

Not that there’s anything wrong with GVSU. I didn’t mind it at all. I commuted.

In fact, after the mess of what was my Freshmen year, I was hardly on campus at all.

Yes. Freshmen year was a mess. Let’s ponder scheduling a moment.

I was 18, attending my first college orientation, and shoved into a large computer lab with other confused adolescents… without my mommy.

Not.

Cool.

#adulting.

I was just happy to figure out how to register for classes. No one told me there was a strategy behind choosing which classes to take when and where. And so, I ended up commuting to campus daily. And working almost every evening back home at KFC.

#busy.

Freshmen 15? You mean Freshmen -15.

Anyway.

I settled on an English major.

All it took was 3 weeks of a horrid English class dissecting “classic” texts and reading poems while asking questions like, “Why do you think the author describes this rocking chair as blue?”

“BECAUSE THE CHAIR WAS FUCKING BLUE!”

I dropped my English major and picked up the complete opposite.

Spanish.

I didn’t stick with Spanish Education (with a minor in psych solely because it was the teachable minor with the least amount of credits) because I had at long last discovered what I was meant to do for the rest of my life. I stuck it out because #adulting. That’s just what you do.

I wasted a lot of tears on my education and put in a lot of sweat studying and striving to do well.

Most college kids have one desire: just get it done.

Or party.

I just wanted to be done already.

Make money.

Get married.

Make babies.

Preferably in that order.

But what about getting more than ¾ through your degree and deciding you hate it? Like, really hate it.

What is #adulting? Do you suck it up buttercup and finish, get your big girl job, then go back to school later to try something different?

Or do you walk, call it quits, and search for your real passion?

One of those I call adulting. The other I call brave. (I might also call it stupid. But that doesn’t make it any less brave).

Me? I would finish. Get a real career then maybe explore other options later.  But perhaps listening to your gut is more #adulting than I give it credit for. Like I said, matter of opinion.

I’ve been there. My undergraduate degree is in education. And I hated it. I knew I hated it when I started my student teaching. “Child” me wanted to walk. “Adult” me knew I had to push through and start a real career.

So I did. I couldn’t waste it all.

I told myself the hatred toward my student teaching experience was situational. Breaking down the barriers my students at that inner city high school had built proved difficult, especially with a host teacher who didn’t even present me with so much as a hammer for a teaching tool. (Give me an Amen if you student taught for a dude who only hosted student teachers to get out of doing any work.)

My student crowds of over thirty were less than enthused to be taking Spanish, or, in many cases, already spoke Spanish and were bored out of their minds. And on top of that, many were uninterested in forming a relationship with the instructor. With me.

I quickly learned teachers must be a puzzle master… and I historically struggle bus with puzzles. Seeing those students was a secret mission in itself… How could I possibly capture the attention of those students with whom I share little in common? How can I earn their respect and in turn build a relationship with them and help them succeed? Skill. That’s how. Practice and skill.

But I was made to feel I had no such skill. The teacher I worked with (…for…) was horrid. He continuously signed up to host student teachers specifically so that he did not have to do work. There was no noble passing down of knowledge happening there. Nothing.

So I lied to myself. I lied and told myself I would really shine in a different scholarly environment. I lied big and I lied loud, and I lied hard.

This lie to myself got me through, got me my degree, got me a subbing job, and eventually got me my first teaching job. It got me places. But it was an adult lie.

It took me about 4 months of teaching high school assholes to realize how much I had lied to myself.

I wasn’t prepared to be a teacher, despite my education. A 23-year-old woman fresh out of college simply cannot successfully control a room of hormonal Gen Z high school students who have no real desire to learn a foreign language.

And if you can, you’re my hero.

It just wasn’t

for me.

Back then, I felt like a large part of being an adult meant being respected, not just by those younger than you, but by your colleagues and superiors. Teaching gave me no feeling of respect. I didn’t feel appreciated.

I didn’t feel anything.

Not to discourage anyone from the profession of teaching. Like I said, it just wasn’t

Me

Like I had hoped it would be.

I didn’t quit. I adulted, stuck it out, and I started my master’s degree.

Master’s in Strategic Communication Management.

Best. Decision. Of. My. Life.

Going back to school after you’ve started your big girl job because you want more for yourself and are prepared to put in all the time and effort? #adulting.

Shout out to all you hardworking ladies and fellas who are working, learning, and supporting all at once. You’re my heroes. Keep showing ’em how it’s done.