When I was a kid and doing career quiz stuff in school, I decided that I wanted to be a therapist. I sort of stuck with that idea for most of school because I had already encountered my fair share of psychological dysfunction and I was fascinated by people. How somebody’s experiences and damage and biological potential converge to make a personality and a life. I’m an introvert so it’s not like I seek new friendships out all the time but I like when I have a conversation with someone that gets near the truth of who they are instead of, like, what they think about the weather and what sports they’re into.
So lately, I had been beating myself up a bit or dwelling on the fact that I’m not where I meant to be at 26. I’m not living my 100% ideal life, no. (I want to live alone. I want a newer car. I want a rescue dog I can name Chauncey or Ferdinand or Scruff McGruff. I want a budget that allows for more trips to Starbucks. I sort of want a life partner to make tacos with.) Well, whatever, the point is that I realized I’m a lot closer than I was giving myself credit for.
I get up every day and go to a job where I’m salaried and have an office, where I get to work as a clinician and do real counseling sessions. Not only am I doing something positive that I might actually be competent at, but there’s the potential for me to learn and grow and have a career. There’s the possibility that I won’t be indebted to the federal government forever, though 30 years is still plenty of time enough. I’m doing what I wanted to do when I was 10, it turns out.
In my corner is a small but dedicated team of awesome people, so that’s nice too. Being in love didn’t help me at all in the life goal department. Somehow that’s gratifying because I’m proud to have done it on my own. (That’s not to say that love wouldn’t be a bonus. I’ll get Chauncey the english bulldog first and then use him to attract boys at the dog park.)
If this happens to be the last year of human existence, it’s not going that bad for me.