fake it until you make it (or break it)

We’re into the third week of the fall semester, when everything is starting to feel more permanent. At the beginning of the academic year, it’s all imaginary—a prank that goes on too long. But now the gauntlet has been thrown, and we’re slowly settling into our lives of expanding file folders, three-ring binders, and moldy critical theory.

When I was about 14, I got drafted into serving at a coffee shop. My friend worked there, and I wanted to help. I wanted to be useful. The problem, of course, was that I didn’t even drink coffee. It was a whole new language to me: cappuccin-who? I didn’t know how to ask about whole milk or almond or skim, and the idea of adding foam to just about anything was confusing on an existential level.

When I was 17, I went to Paris. I was stopped on the street by a woman whose scarf I still remember in vivid detail (green lace with silver tassels). She started asking me something—in French, of course—and she continued to ask more and more things as I shook my head or nodded at what seemed like appropriate moments, but probably weren’t.

At 20, I was in college. I somehow ended up running an online community for journalists, and then in an even more radical twist of fate, became responsible for planning a conference to bring them all to our sleepy little college town to meet with our sleepy little college students. I distinctly remember breaking down while I was on the phone line with the receptionist at the local hotel where we were putting up our attendees. She was pretty nice about it (#southerncharm).

All of that to say that when I walk into a college classroom at the beginning of every semester and somehow end up at the front teaching actual people, I feel like I’m continuing a long, personal tradition of pretending to be able to do things that, in all actuality, I can’t do. I can’t even almost do them. It honestly doesn’t seem that different from six-year-old me playing teacher in her bedroom, except I’m not rocking the same bangs as I did in the 90s.

I expect this trend to continue for quite some time—good thing I’ve had a lot of practice.





So, I quit my job.

As the patron saint of perpetual comings and goings, I started getting antsy in DC about six months after I arrived. But it was more than that—I’ve never been able to hold down a job that doesn’t fit into me as a person, as an extension of me instead of just a part of me, as a reflection of what I want to take from and put into the world. I don’t compartmentalize well. I get distracted easily. I’m claustrophobic.

This is kind of frustrating, because I’m also hyper-analytical. I have a strange, probably inbred need for security, and although that doesn’t necessarily include a 401K account, it does encompass a steady paycheck. Also, I’ve seen numbers related to  the millennial underemployment crisis. I read the NYT every morning and sprinkle in a little WSJ to keep me honest. I am very, very grateful for the job I had and the opportunities given to me.

But unfortunately, I just couldn’t continue to hack it—yawning in my dark cubicle at two in the afternoon while pouring over Excel spreadsheets. I mean, I could have kept waking up and getting on the metro every day—like clockwork, it required little to no effort once I got the gears in motion—but I did not see the woman that I’d like to be as I gazed further along that path. I don’t really have a lot of her form down yet . . . she’s vague, and sometimes seems too far away. Nonetheless, I don’t think she inhabits M St NW in DC.

Now let’s be clear. I deeply, profoundly admire friends, acquaintances, and complete strangers that  do those things, that are laboring intensively to build their credibility and their career as parts of all kinds of organizations. I’ll admit that sometimes I’m more than a little jealous of their  endeavours and I wonder why mine has to feel so different. Am I just undisciplined? Unwired? Occasionally, I’m tempted to chalk up my resignation to some moral failure. I do well at something just long enough to decide not to do it.

I don’t know. I think when you’re doing something that doesn’t fit right, the gnawing in your stomach makes it pretty difficult to think of anything else. I want to view myself as brave and self-assured and independent, maybe even defiant, but I’m not there yet. Right now, I’m just a little excited, a little curious, but mostly scared and unsure.

Faith is believing in what we cannot see.

I’ll be traveling for the next couple of months and then hitting that #gradschoollife again, so stay tuned.