Okay, so picture this: you’re in my high school. But, for the sake of this visualization, you’re way cooler than I was in high school. You have yeezys, or something.

You’re a few months away from your graduation, and the school has brought in some speakers to inspire your class to take on this next chapter in your lives. A man in his late twenties, wearing a blazer that’s older than him, takes the stage. After a brief introduction about his career as a “promoter of social entrepreneurship”, which is somehow simultaneously too specific and too vague, he encourages your class to find your calling.  “Get out there!Don’t get caught up in the 9-to-5 routine! Make work that is meaningful to you! Chase your dreams! Don’t ever settle!”

He leaves the stage, and you leave school that day feeling inspired. “I’m never going to do a job I hate,” you think to yourself. “I’m going to follow my dreams and find my calling”.

And that’s great! But what happens when your calling, for one reason or another, doesn’t work out?

Before I go any further, let me make it indisputably clear that I think my generation is really lucky. I was born in 99, so I don’t technically know if that qualifies me as a young millennial or an old gen Z-er (both generations seem incredibly offended when I identify myself with them, and it’s like, calm down just a little? Alexa, play 1999 by Prince).

Anyways, it’s true, I think my generation is really lucky. Only a few decades ago, the norm was to find a job after finishing school – if you got to finish school at all, that is – and to continue working there until retirement. Work was based around what an individual was good at, and it was just that: work. You never hear your grandpa talking about how he was really confused trying to choose a major because he wasn’t sure what he liked. No, he became a carpenter, or a mechanic, or a farmer, because it was what he knew how to do, it was what his father had taught him, and he needed to put bread on the table. (This is, of course, without even touching on the grandmas who never got to work at all because they were married and having babies before they were eighteen, or the immigrant families who’re forced into whatever work they could find).

For my family, at least, it was my parents’ generation who were the first to get any post-secondary education, who were awarded some choice in the career they pursued. Fast forward to now, and the mindset towards choosing a career has done a complete 180. Instead of doing what has to be done just to make money, young people are urged to find Higher Meaning in their work. Switching majors, or schools, or careers in this day and age is pretty much the norm. And why? Because jobs aren’t jobs anymore; they’re vocations.

 I think a lot of this mentality has to do with the way this generation was raised, because like I mentioned, the generations before us didn’t really have a chance to choose what they wanted to do, and so now they want their descendants to have that option. Which, again, there’s nothing wrong with. It just isn’t the only way, and I wish it hadn’t taken me so long to figure that out.

I chose to pursue performing because it was my calling. It was what I loved to do, it made me happy, and so of course I was going to pursue it as a career. It was what I had been taught my whole life: you love something, you make it your job. And so, I dove in head first without considering any of the logistics of that industry. Though I’m artistic, I’m a textbook type-A personality. I like order, structure, and planning (maybe to a fault, but that’s a topic for my therapist). Anyways, being in the arts goes against just about every one of these qualities. Sure, there are performers who settle down and have families, but that’s usually not before “paying their dos” by spending a few decades touring and living out of a suitcase. And even after establishing themselves, a lot of work for artists is contractual, meaning income can often be inconsistent and staggered.

Now, that’s fine, and it works for some people. Unfortunately though, it doesn’t work for me, and it doesn’t take a ton of sleuthing to figure out why. I’m someone who gets an anxiety stomach ache at the thought of plans changing. So does it really make sense for me to pursue a career where I’ll often have no idea what city I’ll be living in in 6 months?

The point is, I didn’t think about any of that before signing my life away to a performing arts college, because I was conditioned to believe that if you love something enough, then nothing else matters, and life will be easy.

Because of the “career-calling” mindset, most people, upon hearing my situation, would be inclined to say something like, “Well, performing’s not your calling, but maybe [x-career] or [y-career] is!” And, full disclosure, this is what I thought at first, too.

After some time, though, and some perspective, I’ve changed my mind. I’m not super spiritual or religious in any way, so the idea of everyone having a “calling” is already a little lost on me. But, assuming there is a higher purpose for everyone on this planet, how ridiculous is it to think that everyone’s calling would have to do with their career? Maybe there are some people whose callings involve other things, like making the people around them happy. Being a good friend, or sibling, or parent. Volunteering. Even performing, in community theatre or outside of work.

 People like the speaker at my high school paint those who do 9-to-5s as the losers, as the robots making the wheels of Big Business turn. But what if those people working desk jobs lead lives that are equally as or even more fulfilling than anyone else’s? The world needs people who do the inconsequential jobs. If everyone were chefs, or actors, or singers, there would be nobody to serve the food they make, or work at the box office for their shows, or drive the tour bus they live on.  (That being said, I don’t think it’s good to hate your job, either. If getting up every day makes you want to cannonball into a swimming pool filled with angry bees, then yeah, maybe it’s time to find something you like a little more.)

I guess what I’m saying is I think, for some people, myself included, the pursuit of a career-calling is fruitless, and often more trouble than it’s worth. And, to be honest, it’s been really hard coming to terms with the fact that the job I end up pursuing will likely not be synonymous with my purpose. Because if my career isn’t my purpose, then what is? Gonna have to do some serious soul-searching to figure that one out. I’ll get back to you on that, but for now I’m working on building a life I’m proud of, where work is only part of the equation.

If you’re like me, I hope you can find some comfort in knowing that it’s okay to feel like your calling can’t be your career, or maybe that you don’t have a calling at all. Know that It’s okay for your job to be something you like, but don’t love. It’s okay to have your work be work, and for your life to be about your friends, and your family, and the things you do after hours. It’s okay to pursue a calm life over one where all your energy is poured into your craft. It doesn’t make you a failure, nor does it make you any less worthy of fulfilment than the people who are lucky enough to turn their passions into professions.

So, get out there! Get caught up in the 9-to-5 routine! Do work that isn’t meaningful to you! Reassess your dreams! Settle!

 Or don’t.

Either way, you’re going to be fine.

My life is a mess.

Well, kind of. I feel like that’s what everyone says. When I say it’s a mess, I mean that nothing has gone according to plan. And, as someone who panics a little when the bus is running two minutes late, is kind of devastating. So I’m doing what every modern young woman does in a time of crisis – I’m starting a blog.

“Crisis” is a big word, but that’s precisely why I’m using it. At 20 years old, I’m a college dropout living 3000 miles away from home, with no friends in my city, selling lotion and slinging french fries to get by. It really feels like every aspect of my life has crumbled into a thousand tiny pieces over the past year, and now I’m stuck trying to make something of what I have left.

So, record scratch, freeze frame, how did I get here?

I thought for most of my life that I’d be a performer. I started to sing after a combination of severe Anorexia, anxiety, and depression nearly took my life at 13, and I never looked back. Performing gave me a sense of confidence that I’d never had before; it made me feel strong, and joyful, and like I really belonged. It was also one of the only things that gave me a taste of normalcy in my teenage years, because for the most part they were spent learning how to correct my unhealthy thought patterns and figuring out what combination of medications would give me a sufficient level of serotonin.

I began getting some real training and doing shows with my local theatre every year, and (if I do say so myself), I became pretty damn good at it. As I reached the end of high school, I knew without question that performing was the only career I wanted to pursue. I got accepted into one of my top choices for a musical theatre-focused post-secondary program at the age of 19, and it felt like my life was starting. I packed my bags and set off to The Big City™, completely and utterly ready to make my dreams a reality.

And then everything fell apart.

Away from my home and my support system, the mental illnesses that hijacked my brain before I’d even gotten my braces off came back stronger and more ruthless than ever. What set it off initially was the realization that a career as an artist was not all glamorous dressing rooms and constant bookings. I should have known this, considering I spent a year touring with a theatre company before I began attending school, but my naiveté had me believe that once I lived in an area more saturated with theatre and once I had the proper training, I’d be on Easy Street. But believe it or not, the people who land dream roles, who get to pick and choose what shows they participate in, who make enough money to live on their own while still having time for a night out with friends, are the exception and not the norm.

As the reality of a career in the arts became clearer to me, the instability and sporatic-ness of work that this career would entail sent my anxiety on a rampage. I spent most of my second semester of school with a dark cloud over my head. I was barely functioning. One minor inconvenience could set off a full-blown panic attack. I entered each and every day feeling like I was walking on eggshells, on top of stilts, on top of a unicycle, on top of a tightrope. (Sounds extreme, but those of you who have ever experienced an anxiety disorder will get it).

I felt the anxiety in my body, too – I had a permanent, piercing stomachache that prevented me from eating a lot of the time. I lost weight, noticeably, and even though I was (am) still at a healthy BMI, the change upset my parents because they worried my ED would take over again once I moved away. I didn’t know how to explain to them that, no, I wasn’t deliberately restricting my calories, it’s just that I was so nauseous and stressed all the time that the mere thought of food was enough to make me gag. Because that’s so much better than starving on purpose.

 I lost sight of why I wanted to pursue music in the first place. In a lot of ways, I felt just like I did when I was 13 – terrified, of everything, cripplingly insecure, and constantly trying to determine and control the way things would turn out, even though doing so is impossible and always makes the stress worse. Music, the thing that was once my escape from the incessant cycle of psychiatrist visits and therapy sessions, instead became the very source of my distress, all within a matter of months. I quickly came to the conclusion that, should I continue, a career in the arts could quite literally kill me.

So I dropped out. I dropped out, but I didn’t move home because part of me was too proud to let anyone back home see me fail at a career that many of them didn’t believe in in the first place. Coming home felt like a walk of shame, as if I was saying “You all were right, singing isn’t a ‘real’ job.” I couldn’t expect anyone to understand that the career was just the tip of the iceberg.

That, and I fell in love with the city. I loved its vibrancy and loved the independence that being here grants me. I knew whatever I decided to do, I would be able to find a way to do it here.

Which leads me to now. It’s important to note that overall, mentally, I’m doing okay. I’m certainly not where I want to be, but I’m better than I was a few months ago, I’m healing, and I’m okay. I’m not in school, but I’m starting back at a “real” college in the fall, to study something that will hopefully bring me some satisfaction without ruining my life in the process. I picked up a couple of part-time jobs to help cover rent during the summer. But honestly, that’s about it. I didn’t really make any close friends at school, because, funnily enough, channeling all of your energy into not breaking down every day can really impact your social life. I’ve been spending a lot of time self-reflecting, trying to be more invested in how I take care of myself, trying to learn how to cope with my (sometimes) dysfunctional brain when I don’t have my parents next to me or my therapist a 3-minute drive from my house. This has led me to ask myself some hard questions, and I tend to take to writing to sort it all out.

I also realized that something I’ve always wanted to do is share my experiences with other people, perhaps out of narcissism, but (at least I like to think) it’s more out of a desire to show other people that it’s okay to feel like you have no idea what the fuck is going on. I think it’s really important to see the ugly, messy side of other people’s lives, especially in an age where every little detail is Facetuned and wrapped up with a pretty little bow and a heart emoji before being broadcast out to the world.

I don’t know exactly what I want this blog to be yet, I just know I need a space to compile all the weird feelings I have about figuring out my place in the world. My growing pains, if you will. It could be in the form of a poem, a journal entry, or even just unorganized word vomit that I felt I needed to get off my chest. It’s gonna be weird, and messy, and candid, and complicated, just like the girl behind it.

So, whether you use this page as a source of inspiration for your own journaling, as a way to temporarily escape the bullshit in your own life by reading about the bullshit in mine, or if you’re from my high school and you want to make fun of the weird theatre kid who now thinks she’s important enough to share her life story online, I’m happy to have you here.