Many of us were fortunate enough to be raised in families where we were told that we could "be anything we wanted" when we grew up. We were encouraged to pursue a variety of interests and study a breadth of subjects in school. We were encouraged to learn for learning's sake. To work hard in college, but not to worry about deciding on a career. Maybe we took some time to "experience the world" -- travel, adventure, public service, personal growth. We were told that by taking this approach, we would end up better equipped to face the challenges that lay ahead. We were told that it is through flexibility and experimentation, rather than the rigid adherence to a plan, that we really set ourselves up for future success. That the more we exposed ourselves to and the more we experienced, the more attractive we would be to employers and the more prepared we would be to contribute to our world.
And despite having in our possession an impressive collection of "world experiences" and as much perspective as a 20-something can muster, we mourn the loss of dependent wealth, of learning for learning's sake, of the pursuit of fun as a legitimate modus operandi. We look forward, fortified by the promise that the time we devoted to developing our critical thinking, analytical, and interpersonal skills was time well spent. That these skills, however nebulous, are more important and more valuable than the wanton practicality of vocational training.
So we begin to explore the possibilities that the professional world has for us. We make lists of what we hope to find in a job: a challenging environment, dynamic co-workers, the opportunity to use what we have learned to somehow make a difference. We are open to a variety of fields, of pursuits, of lifestyles. We believe that the varied and temporal nature of our lives up to this point has made us flexible and able to adapt to virtually any environment. We are confident, the encouraging words of our families and teachers ringing in our ears, that we really could "be anything."
What we soon realize, however, is that being "anything" and being "nothing" are in dangerous proximity to one another. The feelings of empowerment and freedom that our refusal to commit to one path had once created, now turn into feelings of desperation, of an utter lack of direction, of paralysis. The world is no longer our oyster. It is now a terrifying labyrinth; a maze of blind corners and unmarked doors leading, with equal likelihood, to our wildest dreams and are deepest fears. For the first time, the decision to pursue an interest evokes the fear of what we are missing rather than the excitement of what lies ahead. We have lived, up to this point, with one foot out the door of every room we enter, always ready and encouraged to move on when something better comes along. Now it feels as though we are being asked to choose only one of a seemingly infinite number of rooms we have never been in before; to not only firmly plant both of our feet, but to close the door behind us, take our shoes off, and settle in for the long haul.
How are we supposed to make such a choice? We are confident that if we put our minds to it, we could be successful in any occupation. But rather than encouraging us to try anything, this confidence somehow manifests itself as the rejection of everything. We have been taught to find the beauty, the value, and the reward in whatever we do; to not expect any one interaction or experience to satisfy us completely, but rather to keep our options open and our hands in the mix of as many opportunities as possible. How can focusing on one task and committing ourselves to one industry possibly be as rewarding as the simultaneous participation in the wide breath of opportunities afforded to us by our previous lives? For the first time, it feels like we are settling -- something we have been explicitly instructed never to do.
Despite being unable to actually see ourselves in any profession, we feel no less confident in our potential for great success. And more than just having potential, we feel as though we are destined for greatness.
This is where the guilt kicks in. And we feel as though we are taking advantage of those people who encouraged us, supported us, and afforded us the opportunity to put our professional lives on hold while we developed that potential, experienced the world, and pursued our individual -- oftentimes recreational -- interests. We are openly thankful, but privately resentful. If only we had been told that the opportunities given to us had been contingent on our ability to find gainful employment at their end. If only we hadn't been encouraged to see the educational value of recreation, the importance of experience for experience's sake. We look with jealousy at the less fortunate, at those who do not bear the burden of knowing what they are missing. And we look with disgust at ourselves for internalizing our privilege so fully that we have come to feel entitled to opportunities and experiences that we did little or nothing to deserve.
Now, we feel pressure not only to choose a profession in the first place, but to choose one that appropriately reflects the privileged existence that has brought us to this point. The job we choose must declare publicly to all who have contributed to our lives up to this point that we acknowledge their sacrifices, we recognize how unique and undeserved our experiences have been, and that it has been worth it. That we really are better prepared, more qualified, and more highly skilled than those who did not have the opportunities we had. But what job can do all that? How can one job pay tribute to everything that we have been given? How can we accept positions that ignore our privilege, that render our experiences insignificant, or worse yet, wasteful? In turn, this fear and guilt that comes from the possibility of simultaneously establishing ourselves as both professionals and as prodigal sons and daughters further contributes to our paralysis.
