There were two dominant, conflicting messages in my household while I was growing up.
“You are smarter than most people,” I heard often. I was taught to question authority, value intellect, and trust my own convictions. I’ve never shied away from conflict or debate. When I’m right — about politics, work processes, or where to get the best bánh mì in Philadelphia (Cafe Cuong) — I know that I’m right, and I want you to know it, too.
When it comes to making decisions about what I want in my own life, those convictions fly right out the window. Give me the opportunity in a meeting to explain how workflow could be improved, and I will argue my case with the certainty of a defense lawyer. Ask me to write my performance goals for the upcoming year, and I will cower under my desk while itching my hives. That’s because, “It’s not that easy.” This is the second lesson I learned as a kid. Nothing was easy — from installing air conditioners into our bedroom windows, to applying to college. I learned that, no matter how smart I was, life was probably going to kick me in the ass anyway. When other families went on vacations, or sent their kids to New York to complete prestigious, unpaid internships, I was told, “It must be nice.” And, less explicitly: “Don’t want things; you probably won’t get them.”
So, this is the paradox that I have wrestled with for three decades: I was smart and talented, but I didn’t know the code for the lock box that contained the map for a Happy Future. Or, more so, I was told that the map didn’t belong to me. It’s a story that I think might sound familiar to any kid who grew up in lower- or middle-class America, where “wanting” is often a dirty, taboo word. And it has led me to feel unbridled, ugly envy for anyone who is living the life that I am too fearful to pursue.
A month before I graduated from college, I was offered a paid, summer reporting internship at a digital media company in Washington, DC. I felt like I had hit the lottery. But from my first day on the job, I was literally sick with anxiety and self-doubt — so sick that I made more than one trip to an urgent care in Cleveland Park, convinced I was having a heart attack at age 22.
One day that summer, my editor pulled me into his office. A reporter who covered federal policy — let’s call her “Amy” — had put in her two-weeks notice and was headed to a big, national news company. He said that once she left, I would need to contribute some political reporting, and so he asked me to shadow her at a committee meeting on Capitol Hill later that week. Finally, my big break! Washington Post, here I come!
I woke up on the morning of the Big Day with a throbbing headache, a clogged nose, and what felt like shards of glass in my throat. A cold. Because, of course, “it’s not that easy.” By the time we got into the taxi, I could not stop the snot from dripping down my blazer, as Amy chattered away, and I tried to focus through my brain fog on any key words that might be helpful. “I don’t feel very we–,” I mumbled as she marched us through the hallways of the Capitol and into the meeting room. But before I could finish my sentence, Amy had abandoned me, disappearing into a crowd of journalists hugging and congratulating her. “Oh, how AMAZING!” “I put in a good word for you!” “I haven’t seen you in ages!” “We’ll have to get dinner with him next time he’s in town!” “I love being part of this exclusive DC media club, and we definitely DO NOT need any new members! RIGHT?” (I made up that last bit, but you get the gist.)
I sat in the back of the room, feverish, confused, and feeling like a little girl watching her big sister’s party from the crack in her bedroom door. “I’m better than these fake people,” I thought. And then, “I’m not good enough. I don’t belong here.”
I think that was the day I decided to abandon journalism. Or, it was the day I decided journalism didn’t want me. Maybe things would have gone differently if I had been healthy that day; if I had done some research and filed a well-reported news story to my editor; if I had the confidence to say, “Fuck you, Amy” and networked with other journalists in the room. Instead, I bought a gallon of apple juice, crawled into my twin bed in a bedroom I shared with two other girls, and began applying for nonprofit communications jobs.
I’m not telling you this so that you’ll pity me. I’ve had a good career so far. I get paid to talk to interesting people, learn about science, and tell stories. But some days, as I’m scrolling through Twitter, I start to feel like I’m back in that Capitol conference room — watching from the sideline as writers share their published work, pat each other on the back, and announce their next career moves. Every once in a while, I’ll make a professional connection, or get a job interview, or someone will tell me they like my writing. Still, it always feels like only a window’s been cracked open while the door remains locked. You’ll always be lost. Everyone else already has the map. The damn map!
Maybe this newsletter is my first small act of rebellion against my own negative self-talk. Maybe it’s my way of saying, “I want to be a writer. And I’m allowed to want that.” Maybe it won’t be easy, but it’s not impossible, either.
Erika is right, and I totally related to this piece — from anxiety convincing me I was having a heart attack at 20, to that “watching from the sidelines/through a crack” feeling (just swap DC with “Hollywood”).
To add to your optimistic ending, when I think about my writing/film heroes, the ages at which they achieved “success” varies greatly, as does (even more-so) how they got there. It’s made me a firm believer in 1) there are no maps 2) one’s passion (combined w/work ethic) is the “compass.” It’s also good to distill one’s writing “wants” as you did, and arrive at not just wanting that elusive/alluring success part, but deeply wanting to communicate ideas, tell a story, move/connect with an audience, etc. which tends to yield the best work… I think you’re on the right track!
You already are a writer — and a damn good one! I am excited to come back to this newsletter every week. ❤️