No. 008: A Life's Question, A Writer's Answer

Issue 8 is about embracing the stories within and finding our true selves in the process

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No. 008
Friday, April 28, 2023

“What do you want to do with your life?”

It’s a question I’ve been asked many times in my life, and a question I struggled to answer.

Some people have “a thing” — you know, that thing that springs to mind when you think of them, their life’s pursuit, the thing they are passionate about and dedicate most of their time to.

I spent a lot of my life not feeling like I had that kind of calling. Rather, I had a multitude of interests which I would obsessively pursue for a while, then predictably lose interest and move on. I always wondered if I was broken, lacking discipline or contentedness, or just lazy.

It took nearly a lifetime to finally realize the answer to the question — my thing — had been there all along. I’d just done a damn good job of hiding it.

I grew up in a small rural town with two elementary schools (on each side of the railroad tracks), one middle and high school, and zero excitement. Our biggest claim to fame was the state prison and the annual Strawberry Festival. There wasn’t a lot of room to stretch yourself, especially for a quiet girl like me who tended to both pigs and prose, danced as she fed the chickens, and read dogeared “cancer books” late into the night. To say I treasured Tuesdays would be an understatement.

Why Tuesdays? Tuesdays were special. Tuesdays were my day — they were CATS day.

CATS, the Class for Academically Talented Students, was a school district program for children with exceptional abilities. My kindergarten teacher recommended early in the year that I take the gifted test. I have no idea what I scored on it or the following IQ tests (small girls can't have big heads, you know), but what mattered was the result — I was invited to CATS.

CATS started out with just me and another kindergarten child. In a couple years time, we had a small group wearing light blue shirts with bright pink screen printing declaring us CATS. Other kids noticed our shirts as we left our regular classrooms on Tuesday mornings to take an empty bus across the tracks to the other elementary school where our gifted teacher held class.

Wearing that blue shirt on Tuesdays, I wasn't a meek, meandering mouse. Instead, I was whimsical and wild, whisked away by my vivid imagination to whatever world I wanted. It felt like maybe there was more to my future than following a predictable path. Maybe I could be an astronaut, or a fearless heroine taking a leap of faith like Sonora Webster (I’d watched Wild Hearts Can’t Be Broken so many times I could recite the entire movie).

In that blue shirt, on Tuesdays, I was special.

Our CATS teacher, Mrs. G, always had something interesting up her sleeve on Tuesdays. By the time we were eight or nine, we’d been biologists dissecting squids, engineers building circuits, and artists creating sculptures. I loved them all, but no one stood out among the others.

Until one day  — on that Tuesday, we were to be bookbinders, illustrators, and authors.

I don’t have a lot of childhood memories, but I can vividly remember what it felt like to make that book. 

I can still hear the scratch of pencils as our cramping hands carefully printed our words on the thick, heavyweight paper, different from the usual. These were special papers, and they made our stories special too. We carefully drew the illustrations with colored pencils before pasting the backs together, stacking the signatures neatly so we could stitch them. The cover was the best part. It had the excerpt inside the front flap and the summary on the back like the books in the library, and we got to use the laminating machine. 

It all felt too legit (I wanted hammer pants so badly, but that’s a story for another time). 

When I close my eyes, I can still see the brown faux-wood laminate of the desktop, feel my ankle digging into the hard, unyielding surface of the blue plastic chair where I sat, one leg tucked under me, my favorite twisty LA Gear shoe poking out.

I remember feeling like it was very important that my main character had a unique detail, something quirky that made her different. My instincts told me it was crucial for a protagonist, but for some reason, it was also important for me.

Once my book was finished, I couldn't wait to take it home. The pages felt crisp and smooth under my fingers as I flipped through them, the faint scent of permanent markers and glue hanging in the air. I hugged the book to my chest and felt a rush of warmth and pride.

This feeling was magical. This was it. 

I can't recall how my family reacted when I brought that magic home, but I do remember how quickly I gave it up.

At that age, if it wasn’t Tuesday, my options were limited. I wasn't allowed dance or gymnastics lessons, I could only ride my uncle's horses occasionally, and we rarely traveled. Our little farm was too far out of town to have people over much, and my cousins preferred singing Disney songs and running around over laying in the grass making up stories about the shapes in the clouds. 

Instead, I found solace in the worlds I created. My imagination was fueled by the encyclopedias in the bookcase and the outdoors. A little pink ballerina diary with a gold lock was the best friend who kept all of my secrets. My stuffed animals listened as I philosophized about life, teaching them from one of those encyclopedias, my name penciled on the inside cover to pretend I’d written it myself. 

Looking back, it's obvious that storytelling and exploring characters were my passions. But then, it wasn’t so clear.

Everyone knew my sister was the real writer. Six years my superior, she excelled at everything. My mom loved telling the story of how my sister read from encyclopedias at age three. I could see admiration and pride in her eyes every time she mentioned that my sister would be the first in the family to attend college.

I looked up to her, and writing was her thing. By the time I’d scribbled my little “book,” she had filled dozens of composition books with short stories (I’d snuck a look — she sure liked vampires). I was already the annoying little sister, and I didn't want to also be the copycat chasing her literary tail. She was better at it anyway, and everyone would know it.

Back then, I always felt like I was competing with her, even though she was never my opponent, just my teammate in a game I couldn't understand.

So, instead of finding camaraderie in her, being vulnerable and asking her to teach me and bonding over a shared interest, I emulated what I’d been taught. I kept quiet, stepped back, played it safe. My book went in a box. This couldn’t be “my thing,” so I’d have to find something else.

I spent the next several decades searching for that magical feeling.

As a teen, I joined anything I could find at school or the library — chorus, academic team, cheerleading, weightlifting, pageants. By senior year I was on nearly every page of the yearbook, had sang in New York, and graduated 3rd in my class with a full-ride scholarship and a shiny Miss BHS crown. I was also thoroughly burned out and no closer to knowing what I wanted.

At 19, I married my best friend. Over six years, we lived in Japan, we adventured, we grew up, we started a family. Then one morning, in a green house in South Dakota chilled by the remnants of the overnight storm, a uniformed knock on the door brought it all to an end, leaving me a war widow alone with an infant and more lost than ever.

At first, I stumbled trying to find my footing while juggling grief and new motherhood. Each wave knocked me down, leaving me struggling to regain my balance.

But then, in those quiet moments of desperation when words failed me, writing came to my rescue. I poured my heart into my LiveJournal, then a blog, writing letters to my late husband and exploring the depths of my emotions.

Writing became a healing process, allowing me to connect with myself and with others who shared my experience. As I wrote, new insights and perspectives emerged, bringing a sense of inspiration and hope for the future.

The flood I unleashed carried me through my own adventure. Therapy, international travel, photography, an almost-documentary, skydiving — nothing was off limits, and I learned from it all.

Discovering my ADHD helped me see that my struggles with boredom and ever-changing interests were manifestations of a restless mind, always seeking novelty and stimulation.

Loss, adversity, and constant changes taught me that resilience isn't just about bouncing back from hardships — it's also about finding the strength to reinvent ourselves and nurture our passions.

Moving back home and rekindling relationships with my mother and sister taught me that we’re all just trying our best and we’re much more alike than we ever realized — and also that change only happens when people want it to.

Skydiving taught me that adrenaline is addictive, clouds disappointingly do not feel like pillows, and not even a double dose of Dramamine can stop motion sickness during a parachute ride.

As time passed, my sister became my best friend and my mother a daily fixture of brightness in my life. I won awards and made mistakes, earned two more degrees and failed at a business. I suffered pain and found love again, experienced the joy of birthing a new life (twice). As I allowed myself to be and share who I really was, I began to see we all have common threads.

Many of us spend so much of our lives searching for passion, for purpose, for a “thing,” only to discover that it was already within us. All we had to do was accept it and have the courage to be ourselves.

I found that book in a box recently, tucked away next to the pink ballet diary (its lock now missing), a light blue tee, and a wooden frame holding a collage of yellowing photos. I smiled as I picked it up, cradling it tenderly in my hands, letting memories wash over me. I read the inner flap and quietly chuckled at the premise of the story. 

Raspberry Cheesecake for Rebecca tells the story of a girl living in an ordinary neighborhood, but she was anything but ordinary — she was obsessed with raspberry cheesecake.

Rebecca craved excitement almost as much as cheesecake, so she was thrilled to hear her aunt was coming to town. Rebecca relished the rush of excitement as she awaited her aunt's arrival, hoping to hear some hair-raising tales or tag along on an awesome adventure. Maybe she could ride along to the airport and watch the planes and all the people coming and going. And maybe her mom would buy some raspberry cheesecake as a welcome treat.

With every page I turned, I saw the natural talent, the innate (albeit unrefined) understanding of vivid imagery, alliteration, and distinct characters. What I saw most clearly, however, was a young girl's dreams. Through her words, I heard her longing for individuality, her plea for stimulation and excitement, her wish to discover what made her unique. 

I was drawn to the framed collage inside the box and stood staring at several smiling versions of the same innocent child.

Oh little E, you sweet girl. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t have the courage earlier. I’m sorry you spent so much of your life hiding your beautiful, interesting truths. I'm sorry it took so long to realize your value and see yourself as worthy as anyone else.

“What do you want to do with your life?”

I want to tell beautiful stories.

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This essay is the first installment of a 5-week series for Write of Passage 10. A huge thanks to Latham Turner, Aswin Ranganathan, Maria Kim, and Erik Wetter for their insightful feedback on this essay.