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Maria has many hobbies and interests and especially is into Tae Kwon Do. We were guest bloggers in a “Tough Girl” series about martial arts together for one of our blog friends. And she has something I aspire to have: a black belt! Read on for Maria’s take on career and identity. I couldn’t relate more!.
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I couldn’t agree more with Floreta that growing up and finding a job is just being who we are, not what we want to be.
When I was a kid I used to play with my best friend Danny on his swing set. We’d sit side by side on the swings and while we pumped our legs to get our momentum going, we would laugh and scream out all the things we would be when we grew up.
“Cop”
“Veterinarian”
“Teacher”
“Writer”
“Movie Star”
“Singer”
“Paramedic” (though I think we called it ambulance person)
The truth is I really did want to be all those things. I thought I’d love working and I could do multiple jobs in a day. It was idealistic, but looking back I realize that I am meant to be a jack of all trades, master of none.
My attention span is limited. I want my job to be exciting and be constantly learning. It’s hard to find a job that lets me do this. I think I’ll spend most of my life discovering new things. If this means never getting to be CEO or Director, I’m ok with that.
I’m not ambitious in the sense I need to make 6 figures a year. Of course it would be nice, but it’s not a necessity. I truly believe in working to live, not living to work.
I don’t have just one passion. I have a million passions that surface at one time or another. Sometimes it’s multiple things at once, other times it’s one thing until it fades into another.
I’ll never be a professional anything. I’ll be an amateur until that job bores me and I will move onto the next thing. I’m still calling out things I can still possibly be.
And I take no shame in that.
This post is part of a series on personal development, career and identity. It’s not about who you want to be when you grow up, but being who you ARE. The key is to find out your true calling and passions and then figuring out how to live it. We all have stories to share, and I want to hear yours. If you’d like to guest blog for the Panda, please submit to floreta@solitarypanda.com.
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Emily has a really inspiring story and I’m glad that she can share it here with you all. She is one of those people you can genuinely say turned her life around and is living proof that you can take control of your life and change it. She has a loyal following and amazing community on her blog, emily-jane.net.
First of all, before I begin, I’d love to say how happy I am to be guest posting for the lovely Floreta. We’ve only been blog-friends for a little while, but she’s got such big dreams, and such determination, and I’m incredibly excited to hear all about the amazing adventures she’ll have on her travels throughout the year!
When I read the topic of this little series, I was intrigued. Growing up: “it’s not about who you want to be when you grow up, but being who you ARE.” This immediately hit home because throughout 2009, for the first time in all my 24 years I began to question my sense of identity. Who I was didn’t line up with the person I wanted to be. There was a huge discrepancy – I’d, up until then, lived my life according to what I’d been told while growing up. I was told I had to be a professional teacher, or doctor, or something that involved at least five years of schooling and made a minimum of $50k a year. I remember my parents asking me at age 16 what I wanted to be, and I answered: “in advertising or design.” I had a huge passion for creativity, loved to write, draw and make things, and the idea seemed so exciting to me. But it was shot down, and I felt like if I attempted anything other than my parents’ ideas of what I should be doing, it wasn’t going to be good enough.
So I put my love of reading and writing into English literary studies instead, with the hopes of becoming a teacher, only to drop out in my second year due to lack of funds, relationship drama in my first year of moving out, and my growing fear of being in front of people. I was petrified every time I had to get up in front of my classes and do a presentation, a fear that was only exacerbated by my thoughts of becoming a teacher. I took some “time off” to really figure out what it was I wanted to do – time off which ended up being slightly more permanent, during which time I found employment at a print and design studio, and developed my skills in graphics, and – you got it – advertising. It was a dream – I got to do something new every day, learn new skills without paying thousands of dollars, and really satisfy my craving for creativity. It was a great job, and ultimately led me to where I am now – in charge of advertising, design and marketing for an amazing workplace.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. My early twenties were rife with a series of very unfortunate events. My parents split up, I entered into a couple of long-term, serious relationships only to be dumped by one from halfway around the world, and taken for a fool by another who promised me the world initially, only to progress into pathological lies, drug use, and abuse. By the end of it, I was a wreck – I’d been so naïve and insecure in myself that I’d hung on to the people I thought were the only ones that thought I was worth anything, and when it all went wrong, I was a mess. My self-confidence had been destroyed, and I’d grown to believe I was no good for anybody, doomed to relationship failure, and not worth anything to the world. My social anxiety grew along with my self-doubts, and I ended up living a shell of an existence, too afraid to venture out into the world and plagued by detrimental thoughts.
Then came along my now-fiancé, who I must’ve put through hell in the first few months of our dating; I didn’t believe anyone could actually think I was beautiful, talented, or worth anything – I certainly didn’t believe it myself, and for the longest time I was the product of my past. I believed everything everyone had ever told me about what I “should” be, and what I “couldn’t” do. After a while, it became too much – and I declared, in a fit of tears, that I was done with it. I wanted to take everything I didn’t like about myself or the way I thought, or lived my life – and change it.
I wanted to be happy, and believe I deserved to be so. I wanted to get past my fear of being in front of people for fear of judgment, and become comfortable in the spotlight – maybe I could end up teaching after all, and make some sort of positive contribution to the world. I wanted to feel comfortable in my own skin, and not see a million things I wish were different every time I looked in the mirror. I wanted to be successful on my own terms – learn what I wanted to learn, and find the jobs I wanted to do. They may not be the greatest paying jobs in the world, but I wanted to do what made me happy.
So I set about doing it immediately. Every time I was asked out with friends, I’d go despite my fears of what others might think. In meetings, I voluntarily contributed opinions, without worrying they might sound stupid. I asked my boss if I could start teaching – the thought terrified me, but my request was granted, and with practice, being in front of people is becoming easier. And instead of feeling nobody cares, as a result of the last X amount of years’ worth of negative reinforcement, I started putting time and effort into reforming friendships – and I now feel valued, and respected.
It’s so easy in a world that’s so quick to judge, to succumb to it and believe everything negative we’re ever told. But in my experience, you don’t have to become a product of your past. If your heart leads you in another direction, or if you want to be a stronger, better person – the power lies within you to go ahead and defy everything. Finding my identity took a lot of soul-searching and a lot of pushing myself out of my comfort zone, but with the support of my friends, my boy, and especially bloggers – I think I’m closer than I ever have been to being exactly where I want to be. Your past doesn’t hold any power over your future if you decide not to let it.
Dream big – and then do everything you can to get there. It’ll be the best decision you may ever make.
Find me over at http://emily-jane.net or @fuchsiag – I’d love to hear your stories!
This post is part of a series on personal development, career and identity. It’s not about who you want to be when you grow up, but being who you ARE. The key is to find out your true calling and passions and then figuring out how to live it. We all have stories to share, and I want to hear yours. If you’d like to guest blog for the Panda, please submit to floreta@solitarypanda.com.
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Christina is an entrepreneur and blogs at thesavvygrad.com. When she answered my call to response I was honored to have her and felt her website content fit very well with the theme of this series. If you’re interested in any helpful tips or tricks and like what you read here, read her at The Savvy Grad!
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As a child I was business minded, always seeking out the next opportunity to make some money and start something on my own. Instead of having a lemonade stand like the other kids on the block I was mixing it up with root beer float stands. You could find me on weekends at the park down the street selling peanuts and soda to the fans of the baseball games, and if you lived in my neighborhood you probably had a subscription to the Corona Weekly, our weekly newspaper of events and stories. Today I am a serial entrepreneur with two businesses under my belt, and more to come in the future. From my experience I agree that it is not who you want to be when you grow up but more about being who you are.
Many of you may struggle to accept this theory as relates back to the philosophical question of fate vs determinism. On one hand it is comforting to know that we will be who we are ment to be no matter what we do, but on the other hand it is scary to know that we are out of control when it comes to deciding who we are. But before you let your fear take over and you start to panic, let me suggest that both fate and self determinism exist simultaneously. Fate takes you where you are supposed to be, the fork in the road persay, and then you must take it from there and determine which path you are going to take. Now that you are beginning to get on board with this theory it is time to learn how to harness its power and use it to your advantage.
Step 1: Discovering who you are
This is the hardest and most challenging part of the entire process as it asks you to answer the question some people spend their whole lives trying to answer. This step cannot be accomplished in one action but it can be started with a simple personality test. Strengtshfinder 2.0 is a unique personality test that yields your top 5 inherent strengths. It is based on the theory that you are born with a specific set of strengths that do not evolve that much as you grow older. It helps you discover your inherent strengths and teaches you how to leverage those strengths to be the most successful you.
Step 2: Identify your passions
By answering a few simple questions you will have a better idea of what you are truly passionate about.
- What puts a smile on your face?
- What do you find easy?
- What sparks your creativity?
- What would you do for free?
- What do you like to talk about?
- What makes you unafraid of failure?
- What would you regret not having tried?
Step 3: Put it to work
Now comes the part you need to spend some time thinking and reflecting on. How can you combine your strengths with your true passions to make your dream career? Here are a few more questions to help spark the ideas in your mind.
- How does your passion impact the lives of others?
- Is there a need that could be filled by your passion?
- How could your passion help to simplify a process?
- What organization’s or companies share your passion?
This post is part of a series on personal development, career and identity. It’s not about who you want to be when you grow up, but being who you ARE. The key is to find out your true calling and passions and then figuring out how to live it. We all have stories to share, and I want to hear yours. If you’d like to guest blog for the Panda, please submit to floreta@solitarypanda.com.
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Ashley blogs at Germato.com and she answered my call to response in a 20sb group about the quarter-life crisis. I love Ashley’s positive outlook on life (live as if you were dying; AKA: live life to the fullest!) and I’m glad I could find her and her blog and look forward to getting to know her through the blogging community!
10 Year Olds Know A Lot More Than I’d Like to Think
When I was younger, I knew two things. I was going to be a veterinarian when I grew up and my best friend at the time was going to be my best friend forever. Little did I know, forever meant until she moved to Alaska. And watching animals die? Not something I handled with a lot of class. As I grew older, it was less about what I thought I knew and more about what I was being told to know.
Careers like lawyers and doctors were pushed while I doodled and wrote poetry. Math was encouraged and art was ignored. High school became the breeding ground for what my parents thought I was supposed to become. Not what I wanted to become. I didn’t know what that was at that point, but I did know it wasn’t what they wanted. I was just following their footsteps and I saw how unhappy they were at times. So I jumped ship.
After high school I didn’t go to college right away. I spent time working and traveling a bit instead. I finally decided to go back, over a year after, only to last two semesters at a technical school. It was too time consuming while I was working a full-time job. That full-time job was less-than-satisfactory, but it paid the bills. It had become my life. School was not an option. Becoming more than a replaceable office worker was not an option. Until I realized I wasn’t happy.
Maybe I had covered it up. Maybe I wanted so desperately to be happy that I ignored when I wasn’t. Or maybe I just wasn’t ready to handle the truth. Whatever the case, I went back to the years I was convinced I was just too naïve. I went back to the things I’d given up. I went back to finding out who I was, not who everyone else wanted me to be.
So I began writing again. Drawing again. Doing all of the things that allowed me to express myself again. I got lost in books and fell asleep with a pen in hand more often than not. I still had a job that was ill-fitting. And there was still little time for college. But life had improved tremendously. My free time was spent doing the things that made me who I was. I was no longer pretending to be something, or someone, I was not.
That eventually led to my decision to reenroll in college. I opted for an online school for a degree in Environmental Management. I wanted to change the world. I remember telling everyone what I picked and the dumbfounded stares I received in response. I felt like I had to explain my decision, but never did. It was justified in my heart and I finally realized that was all that mattered.
Which brings me to today. I blog to feed my writing interest and doodle during meetings at a different, but still less-than-satisfactory job. Still pursuing that degree – hoping that I’ll graduate with a BA, or even an MBA, and somehow, change the world in some tiny form. Fulfilling the shoes of a lawyer or a doctor has never been further out of my mind.
This post is part of a series on personal development, career and identity. It’s not about who you want to be when you grow up, but being who you ARE. The key is to find out your true calling and passions and then figuring out how to live it. We all have stories to share, and I want to hear yours. If you’d like to guest blog for the Panda, please submit to floreta@solitarypanda.com.
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Brittney, from the fabulous La Midge is a new reader and blog friend I found. I just loved her blog and cute design and her conversational writing style. Her entries are always fun and she just seems like a spunky, nerdy gal! Any fellow nerd/geek is pretty much guaranteed to be a friend of mine (and Seb, right Seb?)!
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“Find a job you like and you add five days to every week.” – H. Jackson Browne
That’s a wise quote, is it not? That those who enjoy what they do, feel themselves while they do it, are far more content than the rest of us who somehow grew to end up doing the last thing we envisioned ourselves becoming when we played dress up as children. Here’s the quote that better matches my 9-5 routine:
“The number one sign you have nothing to do at work: The 4th Division of Paperclips has overrun the Pushpin Infantry and General White-Out has called for a new skirmish.” – Fred Barling
When I read Floreta’s theory — that for the most part we grow into careers we were meant to have — I wasn’t sure I agreed. If that were true, I’d currently be a mermaid and not a Pricing Coordinator. Or a tiger trainer. Or magic! OH, she meant it for the kids who had realistic dreams. I see, I see. 
As I sat brainstorming all the reasons I didn’t agree, I realized I may be looking at it with far too literal an eye. While those of us who played “rich” as children may not have grown up heirs to the Johnson & Johnson fortune (too soon?), I think she might be right: That even though we may not necessarily see a direct lineage from our yesteryear dreams to our current occupations, we find a way to work ourselves into what we do.
When I was younger, I was bossy a leader. I founded endless “I Love” whatever clubs, planned Thank-God-It-Summer parties and spent a good deal more time than most children putting together processes and budgets for things. I’d like to say this was because I was so awesome, but it was mostly because I was a nerd and loved me a little calculator and notepad free time. So I guess you could say I was a really good coordinator. COORDINATOR. Remembering what I currently do for a living from Paragraph 4, are we seeing what I’m going for here? Anyone? The kid in the second row’s got it – four for you, Glen Coco!
So it dawned on me, while I may not have been gunning for Pricing Coordinator and more for Mer-person as a kid, I’ve brought ME into my role. I am constantly managing projects, putting together “next steps”, hosting meeting (upon meeting, upon meeting… shoot me), designing presentations, etcetera etcetera. I felt a little fancy spelling that out, forgive me.
I think we hold the ability to tweak our roles to bring more of what our innate skills are to the table; and when we end up completely where we shouldn’t be, I think we know it. My husband is a perfect example of that.
Growing up, Sean was a whiz at math. I call him my human calculator. Not like Rain Man, thanks, but a normal regular Texas Instrument type human calculator. He likes numbers, he likes calculations. He likes the mystery of finding the root of whatever. Very opposite me, as the only roots I tend to deal with are the ones on my head I’m a natural blonde. He also is a very chill guy, with a never-ending amount of patience to explain something and then re-explain something in the clearest way possible. Case and point? He married me, didn’t he?
Unsure what to do in college, he nabbed a Finance degree. Math doesn’t change, there was good money in Financial Analysis, and businesses needed him, yada mcyada. He worked his way into the field and planned to do the stereotypical climbing the ladder toward Sr. FA. He liked his job alright, but it was the coworkers I think who made it so awesome for him.
When we relocated to Texas, however, he began to feel itchy in his career choice. We were walking through Wal-Mart one afternoon (nothing but high end for us, thank you very much) discussing this, when Sean paused to overanalyze a nutrition label. The toddler in the shopping cart next to him stared intently. Sean waved. Said toddler squealed with delight. I grinned. Though he’s never put effort into it, kids flock to Sean. FLOCK to him. It’s actually something I am mildly jealous over.
His nieces and nephews hold a parade anytime Sean is in town, I swear it. The planet stops spinning juuust for his arrival. I wrote this off as, duh, they’re family. Yet we cannot go anywhere without every child, baby to 10 year old, making an attempt to communicate with him. Whether it’s a wiggly newborn who notices him from their carrier and stretches out in smiles, or the random neighbor kid who hangs out near the lawn a little longer just to think of something to ask him when he gets the mail. Maybe he looks like a fun cartoon to them, I have no idea. It’s like he’s the Pied Piper of younglings and I’ve wondered if he walks around with cheese hanging out of his back pockets.
Thinking of this, I blurted out, “You should’ve been a teacher. Kids just swarm to you.” Not expecting much reaction, I was met with, “You’re RIGHT.”
Fast forward to a year later, and Sean has completed his teaching credentials for middle school math. He feels a passion for what he’s going to do. A sense he won’t just have a job, but a career. A career that fits his inherent personality, the very niche that is my husband.
So though I started this with all the reasons the theory was wrong, the more I dove into it, I realized for the majority of us, it’s correct. It just depends on how you view it. Whether its people who follow the obvious path of things like enjoy and are good at (like Sean) or the rest of us who find a way to work ourselves into our positions (a la Me) – we all have the ability to, and commonly do, find a way to be who we are while we work.
So I’m a bit more optimistic now about my job now, a little more happy with what I spend 40+ hours a week doing. Perhaps this means General White-Out will finally call a cease-fire with the Legion of Stamps and my desk will live to see another day. We shall see.
This post is part of a series on personal development, career and identity. It’s not about who you want to be when you grow up, but being who you ARE. The key is to find out your true calling and passions and then figuring out how to live it. We all have stories to share, and I want to hear yours. If you’d like to guest blog for the Panda, please submit to floreta@solitarypanda.com.
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Deeptesh instantly dazzled me with his poetry blog. Reading them made me think he was much older than I, but as it turns out, he isn’t even 20 yet! Deeptesh has the unique perspective of being an English poet in Kolkata, India. Born and raised there, his command of the English language and literature is simply brilliant! He deserves all of the accolades and future accolades that he receives. Written in story form, here is Deeptesh’s romantic take on his identity:
Two Worlds in a Mirror
There was an extra-ordinary lull in Oxford Street as I walked forward with measured steps. The neon-lit shop windows and the traffic flickered past in a trance almost as if it were a dream sequence. Lila stood in the doorway softly reclining against the advertisement boards in the corner. Her short hair rustled against her blue dress and her face shaded from the gaslight was a perfect interplay of light and shadows. Our eyes met across the street and at once the peaceful composition of her facade changed into a smile. Her eyes were shinning as she held my hand….her touch was magic. She could see me shivering in the cold….”It always snows here in December” she said. Her sentence hung loosely in the silence like a quiet reflection. It had been a long time and through the derelict tunnel of memories the dusty door of which has been suddenly opened by her fragmented words, I found myself travelling back to those sultry evenings in Kolkata.
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The monster in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein had demanded a female for the gratification of his sexual desires. Victor, the scientist however aborted the female monster as he was scared of giving sexual freedom to a female in this male dominated society. The mad honking of cars outside forced me to put aside the book….the motorbus had been stuck in a traffic jam at Park Street for almost over half an hour. “Damn it!” I exclaimed, “I’ll be late for classes again!” Some political party which apparently didn’t have anything better to do early in the morning was in a procession demonstrating against hiked up prices of goods. The peddlers ferried their wares up to the windows of stagnant vehicles and were making easy money. A huge Bollywood poster of actress Kareena Kapoor was on the hoardings ~there was a big hole in the place of her left eye. I remembered seeing such a poster right next to my school gate. I would scowl at the picture everyday when I walked in…..that beautiful archway with a statue of the Christ above…all that seemed a long time now.
In the summer of 2008 when I had just entered high school after my board exams, I was a shy, hesitant teenager and was known by very few of my juniors even after twelve years of school life. In my academic circle, I wasn’t doing too well in the science stream. The forces that govern this Newtonian universe or the titrate value of NaCl were not my cup of tea. Ever since I had an open heart surgery when I was two and a half years old, my parents had loved me more than a normal child. My performance was also enviable as I was often among the prize winners for general proficiency. But all that had changed as I found myself plummeting to the bottom in high school….I was somewhere near the bottom in my form and considering my decision of having not gone for the Arts Stream a serious mistake. Of course I was still very much the topper when it came to English and Lila was still somewhat ‘more than just a friend’ to me.
It was back in the seventh standard~ when I was in middle school~ as rumor spread that I love Lila. The situation, needless to describe, became too embarrassing for words as the entire class started talking about it. What made things worse was that the so-called rumor wasn’t a rumor after all ~ it was the truth. It was the ultimate truth in my life from which I kept running away as I knew Lila would never love me and we’re so much better off being at least ‘friends’. Even Lila asked me the truth a few times but I blankly denied it.
But we were still “friends” in high school even though I secretly wept everyday when she would not talk to me. Those were the days….I would wait for everyone to leave the class to go to the lab for experiments and wait to be one on one with Lila to speak a little~ after the scandal we seldom talked in public as we were scared of further ramifications~ and she would walk out with her friends leaving me alone. I would cry my heart out in class and then run to the wash-basin to throw up. “Life sucks and I’m going fucking crazy. It’s total shit”, I thought. Ours wasn’t a normal friendship. We would avoid each other for days and then talk a lot again. We would often exchange words ‘friends’ didn’t talk about. And recently my love poems had led her to nag me about the ‘girl’ I wrote about. “Who is the girl? Tell me”..this soon became her obsession.
One sultry afternoon when I was busy with my lab experiment, I received word that our school principal had sent for me. Terrified and not knowing what to expect, I walked into his office through the doors I had always dreaded as a child. In middle school, I often fantasized about that door and what lay beyond~ as if it were an entrance to some other hallucinatory world. It was the house of the jury that gave orders against high school miscreants. Walking in, I was relieved to find the bulky man in his cosy armchair beaming at me. On his table lay ‘The Teachers’ day lyrics’ I had written and he was all praise about it. The next day he took my notebook home and read all my recent poems. He was elated to read them but also added “You have some secret pain in your heart…psychic striptease for therapeutic purpose may be?” I only knew too well what that “secret pain” was but nevertheless I was happy to have entered the principal’s room and gotten his praise…it was to me like transcending the ultimate physical boundary within my narrow insular world of existence. The lyrics was composed by our school band and after the performance on Teachers’ Day, our principal congratulated me declaring me as a ‘poet’ in front of the entire school.
For the last couple of years of my school life, the spotlight never shifted for me as the school poet. That was a personal re-definition of myself and I was still beginning to tackle the escalating fame. For the next three inter-school fests that year I won prizes for creative writings competing against other schools in Kolkata and my script on a satirized version of modern eastern mythology won the Best Script Award in The Vibes organized by The Statesman (Indian paper). And my personal life was taking care of itself in its strange mysterious way. When Lila’s nagging got unbearable one day, I wrote down her name in a piece of paper saying “This is whom I love”. Strangely she seemed happy to read it but called me a ‘coward’ for having lied to her. A month later, I asked her at last, “Lila, do u consider me to be anything more than a friend?” It was anything but a proposal but her reply was simple. “I love you”. I froze in tears as she pleaded with me, “Oh Deeptesh, why didn’t you propose before? I always loved you since I first saw you in the fifth standard. Do you know how much I cried when u denied me? A girl will never tell…I waited for you to tell me all these years”. That was like a flash in a dream…those ephemeral moments of eternity we all hold onto as long as we live even when despair had sucked the heart dry.
In the last year of my school life I started my own poetry blog deepteshpoetry which has been a success and got a few of my poems published outside. Lila’s love was a huge turning point in my life and had re-shaped my identity. It was sad to leave school after fourteen years of school life and the expectations were high when we sat for our board exams. But my result was quite poor in science~ I had already decided to pursue a career in English literature~ but it was difficult to get admitted anywhere as all the colleges were demanding a colossal overall percentage. I knew Jadavpur University in Kolkata had the best English department in Asia but then again, I had to crack a difficult admission test to get in for a BA in English . There were 38 seats against 2500 candidates. Imagine my joy when I came 3rd in the test and got in!!
My cellphone beeped to interrupt my train of thoughts. I was dazed to find a text from our school interact club inviting me to be the judge of an extempore event in the inter-school fest. The bus meanwhile was taking the turn at Golpark beside RKM. What stretched in front of us was the long span of Dhakuria bridge. It was like the pathway to my career. Discussions on romantics like Wordsworth…..TS Eliot’s treatment of time in ‘The Wasteland’… guest lectures by Oxford professors… seminars on Renaissance…heated discussions on cold winter mornings……it was the world of words I had delved into. Our university had a great environment and I was not ‘studying’ anymore…I was living life, researching in the world of literature. “What do u wanna be when u grow up?” irks me at times. I’m an escapist….living in this tapestry of words, ideologies, and ‘isms’. I would smile, “ I want to do a Phd from Oxford”.
* * * *
Lila hugged me tightly…”It’s been a long time”..I felt her body softly against mine. The neon-lit boards screamed “Happy New Year 2019”. Cloistered in the walls of a kiss, I felt the those tiny snippets coming back to me in reverie~ the scandal in seventh standard, the day when our principal appreciated me, the day I proposed her….my getting into the University…idle evenings at the Victoria or a whispered confession at a coffee house…or are those reveries the real reality? How real is what we see….is there real meaning to be found somewhere out there in the frozen moment of a guitar string, a single poetic imagery, the orgasmic moment of sexual union or snow frozen on clock hands…..I didn’t know if the kiss was real or my snippets in this looking-glass world……but I knew this was my personal identity, this was my life, this was ME. Lila let go and softly said “No…not here my luv. Let’s go.” And hand in hand, (like in Milton’s “Paradise Lost”), we walked down Oxford Street.
(The girl’s name has been changed. The last part was futuristic but in reality she is now doing a BSc in Physics and I’m doing a BA in English. Thanks to Floreta for allowing me to guest blog for The Solitary Panda. I’ve always had a tremendous respect for her blog and writings and we remain great friends.)
Deeptesh Sen
BA English,
Under-graduate-I
Jadavpur University, Kolkata, India
deepteshpoetry.blogspot.com
This post is part of a series on personal development, career and identity. It’s not about who you want to be when you grow up, but being who you ARE. The key is to find out your true calling and passions and then figuring out how to live it. We all have stories to share, and I want to hear yours. If you’d like to guest blog for the Panda, please submit to floreta@solitarypanda.com.
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Photo by Jessica Caisse
By the time you read this entry, I will be in India volunteering at an orphanage in New Delhi. If you’re here through LiLu’s TMI Thursday, Hi, Hello. This story is a personal journey. It is a vulnerable one. And I will be back on February 8th to let you know how my journey to India went; blogging from a new place in Asia. The rest of 2010 will be spent in the Philippines. Hope you’ll stick around to read my accounts in different cultures.
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These scars measure me. Define me. Give me wings like I am reborn or stones to drown me.
I’d like to say they have some amazing story behind them, but not really. I was nine years old when I got the chicken pox, and I itched the itchy spots. I was compulsive. I was impulsive. Whatever. It just itched. And no one told me I shouldn’t scratch.
When I realized the three most sensitive spots became permanent I was mortified. One on my chest, one on my left shoulder, and the biggest one on my upper back. Countless times I recounted in my notebook journals. Me, age 11. No one will ever love me! I wrote. God, how can anyone love someone so ugly? God, if you’re there, why me!?
Such is the melodrama of prepubescent growing pains.
My parents encouraged me to get them removed. A particularly mortifying visit to the doctor told me otherwise. No way was I going to trust the doc. No way in hell. He took one look at me, one look at them, and said “yeah, they’re ugly”.
Fuck you.
11 year old impressionable psyche. My face burned a deep red. I had my back toward him and I could feel his eyes digging into my skin. My eyes filled to tears. I just cried and cried. You might as well have told a fat girl “yeah, you’re fat.” I mean, do you have to tell me the obvious?
Fuck you.
Watch your manners, Floreta, Mom would say. Don’t use those words.
I didn’t get them removed because frankly, I’m a big wuss. I knew they involved painful cortisone shots to the scar tissue itself and I hated needles. The things I learned about these scars-these foreign invaders on my body-were that there were no guarantees of removing them successfully. They could actually get worse with treatment. No way was I going to risk something like that. No way in hell.
Somewhere in the back of my head, I guess I felt that this was my body, and I should learn to live with it. I mean, they happened for a reason, right? Everything happens for a reason… As tough as I knew it would be, I was going to love myself. I had to. There’s no turning back what happened. I was going to love myself and someone will love me too. I had to believe that. 13 year old psyche. I had to believe I was still lovable. God, how could I go on if I wasn’t? How could I be so shallow; how could anyone? And if they are, they don’t deserve me.
My parents kept telling me to get them “taken care of”. Did they not love me? Did they not accept me? Did they deserve me?
I cried some more. Cried for the perfect skin I will never have. Cried for the demons of self-acceptance that I couldn’t quite grasp.
I went all through high-school without dating. It was very hard for me to be so vulnerable to anyone, let alone naked. I grew very self-conscious. Never wearing sleeveless shirts, bathing suits, or anything strapless. I still don’t really. But I’m the closest to accepting myself as I’ll ever be.
My first boyfriend dumped me the day after he saw me naked and I had given him my first blow job. Perfect timing. And by perfect, I mean fucking lousy.
I cried for months. We only dated for 6 months and it took me that long or longer to get over him. He didn’t deserve my tears.
Being naked in front of men was a struggle for me. I was never comfortable or confident. By the time I settled into a long-term relationship-the one I’d be in for five years-I felt more at ease but still, I would try hard never to face my back to him. I was always conscious of where I was in proximity to where he was in proximity to where they were; my scars. I began to slowly accept them as part of me, yet I still had that mentality.
See, I decided back in middle school that these scars would be a test. A test for myself and a test for my lovers. I knew that while I didn’t feel strong now, it would help me become stronger later. If I wasn’t comfortable, then they weren’t right for me, and I wasn’t “ready” to love another because I still had work to do. And if they didn’t accept me? Of course they weren’t right for me. These scars were a physical measure of what everyone goes through: acceptance, love, comfort, finding “the one”. I’m not sure if I believe in “the one”, but I’m sure I believe in settling down with one. I convinced myself it’d be a good thing, because I would be that much more aware of an incongruous situation, and of how far I have come to be comfortable in my own skin.
As I get older, I continue to grow more comfortable in my own skin. I don’t know what it is, or how I got here. I’m by no means perfect, and my scars tell me so. But all I know is that each new lover feels more and more comfortable. The last man to see me naked, a month ago, was the most comfortable I’ve ever felt. I don’t know if it’s me. Or him. Or me and him combined. But I felt beautiful. And comfortable with my back turned towards him on the bed, and my sleepy eyes drifting to sleep with a slight smile on my face. That doesn’t mean he’s “the one”, or even one (I’m not jumping to bold conclusions), but it means I’m closer to truly accepting myself and my imperfections.
Today, my scars do not sink me; they give me wings like I am reborn. I choose to fly. Everything I do is because I want to be better. I want to respect myself, believe in myself, and most importantly, love myself. My scars aren’t something separate from me, they are a part of me. They grow and change as I grow and change. They mold to who I am. They tell stories of learning to love, and travail. And I am stronger because of it.
Five years ago, I would never have posed topless to photograph my scars, but at the tail end of 2009, I did. I am proud of how far I’ve come. And I’m sharing it with you now.
Today, I am the closest to ever loving myself since, well, ever. And I continue to journey into self-acceptance. I am a work in progress, we all are, but I am closer to finding “the one”; and she’s not something outside of me, but within my own self.
* * *
What scars do you have? How do you measure love?
20:
Sean and I first got in touch through the Oregon bloggers group on 20sb. He is a talented writer and is working on writing his first book, which his blog, The Anarchist Project, is inspired by. I have no doubts that he can make this happen! Before I left for Asia, I had the pleasure of meeting up with Sean in Old Town. Good conversation, good exchange of ideas, and an all around sweet guy! I’m glad to present to you Sean’s story:
***
Somewhere along the line I realized that I was finished with college. I hadn’t quite graduated, I hadn’t been kicked out, but I decided enough was enough. Or rather, I’d had enough, and it was time to move on. So move on I did, off to the factory, off the work force, off to blue collar and the overnight shift and The Union. Maybe it’s the Irish in me, but I’ve always admired the blue collar worker. The men in the factories, the boys on the docks, the workers in the mill. Worker’s Songs, and Solidarity, and Labor Day picnics in Detroit. I always thought there was something noble, though perhaps somewhat desperate about the whole thing.
So when a job opened up at the labs in the factory where I spent my summers loading trucks, I jumped on it. Finally a real blue collar job, and on the overnight no less. I’d learn a new perspective on life through misery, through struggle, honest pay for honest work; in retrospect, I was way too happy about it.
I found out that life on the overnight shift is not glamorous. It takes a certain twisted sort of mind to truly enjoy it. Outsiders, loners, those who-do-not-play-well-with-others are at home here. Which makes interaction with coworkers often strained if not outright hostile. It’s tough to sleep during the day, tough to stay awake at night, tough to interact with others as a normal human being. There are a lot of drugs floating around. It’s also tough to explain or understand except to those who’ve experienced it for themselves. There is a certain camaraderie amongst those who’s shared the overnight shift. A common understanding based on shared suffering. The shared bags under our eyes, the pale complexion, and the short tempers attributed to a horrible sleep schedule.
In the back of my head, I knew this wasn’t for me either. On breaks and free time, my coworkers slept or watched television or gambled, while I read and studied and wrote. They called me college boy, but looked out for me as well. And as much as I tried, I knew I didn’t fit in.
One night, two of the older, and more universally respected workers sat me down to talk. These were hard men, both with thirty years on the overnights as well as often working day jobs, old school; they didn’t seem to need sleep. They’d both raised families and bought houses, they’d used the overnight to get by, just as the overnight had used them up.
“What’s your plan kid?” They’d asked, “You’ve been on nights for three years now, its time for you to move on.”
I protested that I was one of them, but they’d have none of it. They’d taken the overnight shift in the factory out of desperation. Bills to pay with babies on the way, they needed the money and the benefits to support their families. They were not after misguided romantic gestures. The Union was dead, they told me. It’s no kind of life for a young kid these days, no matter how hard he works. It was time for me to move on.
And they were right. I had no wife. I had no kids. I had no major payments or debts. The only thing I was getting from the overnight in the factory was a chip on my shoulder and a growing disillusionment with life. The money was nice, but the life was not even remotely fulfilling. I was growing old in that factory, middle aged at 25.
So I split. Jumped on a westbound train at midnight to start a new life. To start over as a writer, in a new city, a new life. So far, it’s been a huge fantastic struggle. I live in a sketchy neighborhood complete with shady characters, and dreamers, and junkies. I’m much poorer than I’ve ever been before. I still don’t sleep much, though this time it’s because I’m writing, and working, and hustling. The factory showed me the value of hard work and perseverance, loyalty and respect. It also helped me to realize that while we can be anything we want, there are some better suited for different things. And I’m way too young to be that old. The fear of going back to that factory drives me.
This post is part of a series on personal development, career and identity. It’s not about who you want to be when you grow up, but being who you ARE. The key is to find out your true calling and passions and then figuring out how to live it. We all have stories to share, and I want to hear yours. If you’d like to guest blog for the Panda, please submit to floreta@solitarypanda.com.
18:
I first found Colin on an interview I read which was linked on Brazen Careerist. I found out that he owns a multidisciplinary design studio based in Los Angeles and is living the location independent lifestyle by keeping his business up while traveling to different foreign countries and blogging about it at exilelifestyle.com. I silently stalked read and admired his blog from afar, but it wasn’t until I posted my first comment that a prompt appeared to send him a personal message, reach out and say “Hi”, and I decided to formally introduce myself. What resulted was back and forth emails and his willingness to guest blog for me. I am deeply honored to have him here.
* * *
The Origin
Growing up, I had all kinds of super powers.
Some days I could travel through time. Other days I could start fires with my mind. There were some days when I could even climb up walls, shoot webs from my wrists and had the strength, speed and agility of a spider (okay, so I wasn’t always the most original or copyright-respecting tyke).
The point is that as a kid I was gaga for comic books.
I had a pile of the little tomes a mile high in my closet, each one telling the story of characters who, though luck, coincidence or the application of massive amounts of effort were able to achieve extraordinary things; beating the bad guy, saving the world, and inspiring others to do the same. These costumed heroes brought people together and made them think, even though they weren’t always popular.
For the longest time I intended to be a comic book illustrator for a living. I checked out schools (Minnesota, I believe, has a really good school for this particular occupational path) and did the math. It wasn’t super-expensive to go to school to learn how to make comic books, but it didn’t pay much once you got into the real world, either.
The Turning Point
By the time I was done with high school, my plans had changed somewhat and I prepared myself to attend the Art Institute in Chicago. Unfortunately, it costs a ridiculous amount of money to attend an AI school, so I decided to take my first year at a regional college, Southwest Missouri State, to save money while completing my core classes.
It was at this school that I discovered an entirely new set of super powers that I never knew existed when I was a kid.
I went to SMSU to be an art student. I had a vague notion that I would become a sketch artist and painter, drawing people on the streets of Paris for ramen money and living the life of a social underling, vying for scraps among the other vagabonds and art school graduates.
But then I found out about an entirely different field; one in which I could create art without being poor. Design, they called it, and I was just intrigued enough by the concept to switch departments and see what it was all about.
And it was at this moment that my life changed. I had a real flair for design from the beginning, and while learning the software and getting acquainted with the terminology and history of design, I felt like a concert pianist running his hands along the ivories of a grand piano after a lifetime of using a Casio keyboard. This was ME. How did I not know about this?
The Return
In a lot of ways, discovering design brought my life full-circle. When I was a child I had hoped to be like the comic book heroes I admired so much, and here was the means to do so.
As a designer, I built my studio through luck, coincidence and a lot of hard work. Communication is my business, and by conveying the right idea, one can change the world for the better, take down those who would oppress and inspire others to take up their own campaigns against injustice.
I may not be able to start fires with my mind, but I can light sparks in the minds of others, opening up new worlds and spreading knowledge with a flick of my wrist or a click of my mouse.
THIS is what I wanted: to have the power to make change and inspire others to be remarkable.
Now all I need to do is find some spandex that matches my cape.
This post is part of a series on personal development, career and identity. It’s not about who you want to be when you grow up, but being who you ARE. The key is to find out your true calling and passions and then figuring out how to live it. We all have stories to share, and I want to hear yours. If you’d like to guest blog for the Panda, please submit to floreta@solitarypanda.com.
16:
I didn’t have time to write a proper “goodbye” but I am not a proper girl. I don’t like going away parties or hoorah. I like to leave quietly. I am leaving on a jet plane to India, so I have kindly invited an awesome line of guest bloggers to occupy my space until I arrive to the Philippines on February 7th, at which time I shall conclude on my own take of the prompt.
Today’s guest is Justin. He’s an excellent writer with an artistic and creative spark and a self-proclaimed “mad scientist”. I first found him on the popular social network, 20sb. Being one of a few active male members got my attention and I was impressed with his writing style. I’d suggest reading his prose at The Freshest Oat; you won’t be disappointed.
* * *
REDEFINING THE VOLATILE ME
Where did it all begin? In my eclectic collection of early memories, one could never forget the nickname my dad had given me: Justin Combustion. It may have been my explosive personality as a child, or maybe he just so happened to work in an HVAC design facility and the first thing to come to mind that rhymed with Justin was combustion. I would later in life take this name again, only flipped to Combustion Justin while working with children for Mad Science as a mad scientist! I loved when the kids would ask what combustion meant, and then watching as their eyes lit up, some of the boys usually saying “coool”.
A polaroid was taken. Me standing there bashful with my math hair wearing a lab coat behind test-tubes filled with green water. As a fourth grader, my career of choice was to be a nuclear physicist. I already knew about subatomic particles, fission and fusion. I knew what a reactor was and I also knew that nuclear warfare looked cool. Most of the people around me couldn’t even pronounce nuclear, mistaking it with the atrocious nucular.
I was never pushed into law or medicine or music. But one year I decided I was tired of not being able to play the piano like the other kids, so I got a Yamaha 24-key and started taking piano lessons. A few weeks later my teacher had to have “the talk” with my parents about purchasing a real piano. It is a Kimball upright. Out of tune because I tried to tune it after many years of neglect and the strings keep readjusting.
By the end of high school I was in AP physics, president of National Honors Society, president of Band, I ran cross country, performed in the school musical, and volunteered over 100 logged hours. It was time to make a choice though. Would I pursue a career in music, or would I pursue a career in science.
I flipped a coin.
I graduated from Illinois Wesleyan University in 2003 with a special interdisciplinary major in Biology and Physics. I took trumpet lessons, played in the jazz band, and took piano lessons on the side. It was time to move on through to my aspirations I decided upon in high school – to become a biomedical engineer. I applied to all the top schools in Biomed including Berkeley, Georgia Tech, MIT, Washington University… My first choice was by far Georgia Tech, and when I went to visit I wanted to go there even more. It was March and it was beautiful outside. And the program sounded awesome with a dual degree from Emory University.
So I went on to grad school in a top 5 ranking program, excelling in advanced differential equations, fluid mechanics, physiological systems, etc. But through my coursework and research, the stress, the hours late at night in the lab… During my fourth year I went in for help and within six months wound up in a mental institution. Needless to say, after that my grad school career came to an end. I wrote my thesis back in Illinois and defended for my Master’s the next spring.
I re-identified as Combustion Justin in an odd-job I picked up while job-hunting called Mad Science where I paraded around as a mad scientist and did demonstrations including one that lit the floor of a gymnasium on fire. I did this for a year before I got a job offer as a research technician at Rosalind Franklin University – better known as the Chicago Medical School.
But what’s funny, is that now I’m questioning all the decisions I have made. Am I doing what I really want to be doing, or am I following a silly childhood dream? What is my purpose?
I’ve gone across many floors clad in a lab coat; the person with answers. The smart guy. The guy who will read just to read, experiment with household things, reconstruct home appliances. It’s obvious that that is who I am, so why do I feel so detached?
I look back at my life and can see the bipolar smeared all over it; volatile moods, mania-driven battle-force problem-solving late-night, hell, multiple all-nighters from high school through grad school. I’m just tired. I feel like I have lost the drive within me.
So I journey now forward into the unknown trying to figure out what it is that I am good at. Trying to find the me in me. I have a great list of dislikes but nothing on my list of possibilities. I am completely lost. I am the amnesiac trying to find his car (without a fob). I know it’s out there, I just have to keep looking. It’s just so frustrating to look back at 15 years of preparation for one giant let-down.
But then again, this is who I’ve always been. Justin Combustion, the mad scientist. Destined for greatness… destined for something.
In the polaroid, what radiates the most is the smile. The desire to learn more than anyone else will ever know ever. I walk back with my lab coat dragging on the floor to my seat thinking this will be me in 20 years. And here I am sitting in said lab coat wondering where I’ll be in 20 years.
This post is part of a series on personal development, career and identity. It’s not about who you want to be when you grow up, but being who you ARE. The key is to find out your true calling and passions and then figuring out how to live it. We all have stories to share, and I want to hear yours. If you’d like to guest blog for the Panda, please submit to floreta@solitarypanda.com.
