the first day of the rest of my life.

I graduated from a liberal arts undergraduate program in April and, unlike many of my peers, thought I was ready for what would come. I shrugged off suggestions that I too would succumb to the post-grad anxiety and feelings of been under-qualified that had already caught up to many of them. I knew exactly what I was going to do: “Get a job in communications at a non-profit.” People would look at me incredulously while asking if I planned to be poor for the rest of my life but it was a concrete answer. I could say it with confidence. I’d said it to so many people I didn’t even question it. It was definitely easier than explaining my untraditional degree but, when it came time to start applying for the jobs I’d dreamed of, I found myself unable to muster any passion at the thought of getting them.

For the first time in 19 years I didn’t have another year of school to plan my life according to and instead was forced to face my open future. What came next would be almost entirely of my choosing and it was hard not to feel like these choices were going to have a significant baring on my future. After all, they would supposedly shape the rest of my career. It was frightening but also liberating to realize I had no set path to follow or master plan fall back on.  I had recently taken an introductory course in existentialism so I had been acquainted with the idea of my own radical freedom yet I did not feel at all prepared to handle it. However, as I began to ask myself what it was I did want to do there was one thing I couldn’t deny: I still want to make my living with words, just not in the way I had thought. I want to develop a creative career built on communication and passion. I want to play with words all day; sculpting them to say exactly what I mean, arranging them on paper, trimming them down to create the picture I want. I want to be a writer.

It’s not like this realization came out of nowhere. It makes perfect sense. Since I was a little girl I have been furiously documenting my life, creating my own books and magazines, reading voraciously, and dreaming up fantastical situations in my head. But I hadn’t thought about it as a real, available-to-me possibility in a long time. How could I possibly make a living writing? What would that look like? Could I be successful in such a vulnerable and competitive industry? I’m still not sure but I’ve decided to try.

For the past year the phrase “This is the first day of the rest of your life” has really resonated with me. I’ve felt like I’m on the verge on entering a new stage of my life but didn’t think I could make the leap. I finally feel like I’m taking the first steps into this new part of my life. I’ve found a dream job, I’m moving into my first apartment next month (I’ve lived with roommates for the past 4 years) and I’m constantly being faced with reminders of the fact that my choices shape who I am. I can create the life I want. While I still feel mired by the uncertainty of the future and the weight of my existential responsibility I also feel empowered to take up these challenges; to take up my life and shape it in the image of my dreams.