To be a dancing star
I READ it once again. “Tell us something that does not appear on your transcript or resumé that will give us a more complete picture of who you are,” the application form asks. I let out a weary sigh and lean back against the chair. It’s such a big question that I hardly know where to begin.
I return to my resumé and glance at the text filling up the page: Senior technology consultant. Global consulting. Change management. Financial analyst. Master in business administration. I cringe at the thought that these very words, hard-earned milestones of a seven-year career, might lead to the rejection of my application. There is nothing in my past that caters to the new path I hope to trek. There is nothing in my past of seeming relevance and value to this field I want to explore. Why would a technology and finance professional consider the world of publishing? More importantly, why should its gates be opened to this outsider?
The answer goes far beyond the simplistic answer: “I’d like to venture into something new.” The truth is, it is an honest response to a life crisis, the quarter-life crisis. And I am in the midst of it.
I have defined the quarter-life crisis as the juncture at which a twentysomething is faced with the reality he has created for himself vis-à-vis the life he once thought he would be living. It’s reality versus expectation. If there is no conflict between one’s reality and one’s aspirations, then there is no crisis. Should a difference exist, then one has two options: capitulate to reality or address the expectation.
Some people, often adults older than myself, dismiss this period in life as a period of temporary madness because it is not always pretty and not always neat. The crisis manifests itself in career changes, broken marriages, changed identities, or wanderlust. There is an unraveling of some sort. And sometimes, when all is calm again, there is deep regret.
In high school, my favorite English teacher was a lady named Mrs. Eala. She was one of those teachers who had a legendary status mostly because she was an aberration of sorts. A descendant of one of the country’s most prominent business families, teaching seemed almost too modest a profession for someone with her upbringing and personality. She was intelligent, ambitious, magnetic and sophisticated in thought and manner. In other words, she was everything the corporate world could have wanted. The proverbial elephant in the room was always the question: What is she doing teaching English in a conservative, Catholic all-girls school?
She addressed this directly on the first day of classes. Her answer was simple: Teaching was her passion. She could have worked in a skyscraper, putting her psychology degree to practice, but she said she was her truest, best self in front of a classroom. Passion is life’s fuel, she explained. It is “to conspire with the universe and align yourself with what it is you were meant to do in this life. And when you live out your passion, miracles happen. So find it.”
Perhaps I would have forgotten this lecture of hers were it not for what I witnessed throughout my senior year. I understood then, as I still do now, why this teacher was so much loved: she committed herself to teaching, and we knew it. It was inspiring to see it unravel before our eyes. She was simply stellar. And what we learned went far beyond the realms of Shakespeare’s sonnets or Tolstoy’s text. She was the teacher and the lesson. Her life served as a testimony to the conviction she held dear: Pursue your passion. Live what you love and greatness shines through. The stars align.
Looking back to those days, I wonder now if Mrs. Eala underwent the same quarter-life crisis that I am experiencing today. I ask myself what she would have said. In many ways, her story lends me hope. I take into consideration that there really is only one thing I require from myself, and that is to make a difference in someone else’s life. And I don’t think that is too much to ask. I return to the profound impact Mrs. Eala has made on me, even at this moment, and I think: I want to be that person for someone else. Let that be my miracle too.
Friedrich Nietzsche once said, “You must have chaos within you to give birth to a dancing star.” My wanting to enter the publishing world is my way of rewriting my story, of beginning anew. It is heeding the call of my soul to be a dancing star, where I am my truest, best self, aligned with the person I know I can be. It’s no longer enough for me to be lit like a flickering candle. I want my light to burn.
This is where I stand today, and this is the weight behind my decision. I fully understand that the road ahead is uncertain, that it will be fraught with challenges. I know I will have to be brave, humble and strong, steadfast in the conviction that the compass I’m guided by is true and good.
So I stare at the application form in my hand, and now sense forgiveness in its tone: “Tell us something that does not appear on your transcript or resumé…”
They are right to ask. The entirety of who I am cannot be captured in that static piece of paper.
In Shakespeare’s “Hamlet,” Polonius’ last piece of advice to his son Laertes as he embarks on his voyage is: “This above all, to thine own self be true.” I dare say that following one’s passion is the best expression of one’s self truth.
So who am I? I am someone committed to making miracles happen, to making stars dance and the sky burn bright. And I want to illuminate the pages of other people’s stories with my own light.
Carissa Duenas, 29, is an investment analyst considering entry to the Columbia School of Journalism. She works in downtown Toronto.
