Who’s the boss of me?
During my late teens to early 20s, one of the biggest concerns I had was what I would do in the professional world. I was just entering college and figuring out what I wanted my life’s career to be was overwhelming. It didn’t feel like it should have been. Besides, up until then, I’d been so good and figuring out other people and, most of all, me. I had me figured out but it seemed that I didn’t have me as part of the world quite ironed out yet.
I graduated college. With a lot of pieces of paper that, in the end, don’t really seem to mean much other than people thought I was smart. People thought I was creative. People thought I had a lot to offer other people (not just companies). But, I gave them money (well, some. The rest, I’d imagine, came from the government. Thanks, Clinton! Well, and Bush, a little. But I still hate you.) and what they gave me were accolades and official sheets of paper. And a really long graduation ceremony complete with a military lovefest (which I didn’t stand up and applaud for).
So, where the hell was my place?
I tried the nonprofit thing as that’s where most of my training and all of my knowledge went towards. Helping people, being aware, and being present. But something struck me about nonprofits and other institutions that fell into social work. I wanted to change things. Permanently. I didn’t want to simply apply a bandage.
I tried the corporate thing after the nonprofit thing barely paid the bills (I had some serious shit back then as far as debt is concerned). I was grossly underpaid for what I did and the services I provided. If I was lucky, I’d get an $800 check. Every month.
The corporate thing lasted 5 years. And it was horrible. I was slowly becoming what I absolutely hated doing – creating a need that wasn’t really there to begin with. And people paid me. A lot. I loved most of the people I worked with. But the micromanagement, the policies, the supervisors, and the environment brought up ethical questions for me every day I came home. And I worked lawyer hours. Literally.
Plus my feet were effing killing me. A pesky little bone disorder I could have lived comfortably with suddenly was in desperate need of surgery. Fantastic.
Why was I doing this again? I kept telling myself it was a means to an end. I’d save up what I needed, peace out, bounce, and start the necessary steps to get to where I needed/wanted to be. I was saving money. But it wasn’t getting me closer to my goal. I found I barely remembered my life’s goals. The more time passed by, the more lost I felt.
When I was younger, I had multiple passions. I liked photos. I liked writing. I liked playing music. I liked helping people. After some very long nights of talking, crying, and trying to remember, I figured it out. I could do all these things. Together. So, I told myself, just a couple more years. Just a couple more years. I can go back to school, quit, and do this shit right.
Fast forward. I end up in Austin, Texas with the reasoning that I would attend the graduate photojournalism program at University of Texas, Austin. Here lies one of the best photojournalism schools in the nation. So, I’d wait out the year to become a resident, apply, and I’m on my way.
Sort of. I can’t stand Texas. Austin was tight as hell but I kept feeling that I didn’t belong there. In all seriousness, I love almost everything about Austin and the rest of Southern states (yes, I’m serious) but something felt off. I’m sure it had something to do with the fact that I was still in the corporate environment – and it was worse in Austin. Ethical questions became concerns became employees making regular calls to HR in the hopes of removing frustrating management from our midst.
One day, I get a call from a visual journalism school in southern California. I think on it for a couple of weeks, fill out paperwork, got an acceptance letter, checked the money I had saved, and quit my job the day after x-mas. Fuck it. A week later, my car, my best friend, my cats, and myself arrived on the beach in southern California. I took several deep breaths, cried heavily when I entered my nutshell sized living quarters (which I’ve since come to grips with and loving it a little more every day), and started a gradual freak out. Thankfully, the freaking my shit out dissipated after some thinking and perspective.
So, now comes the really difficult part. I came to the realization that I don’t play well with others when the others feel they’re in a position to tell me what to do and how to do my job. Especially, when its a job I’m not particularly fond of. Other things learned?
1. I’ve done self-employment before. It wasn’t great then. But it’ll be better this time. Freelance is where the boss of me will always be just me.
2. Network. It seems like a lot of work in my field depends on connections – who you know. Names get dropped and needs get created.
3. Patience. Things take time. I’m very driven and often find that I must get things done now. But I also know that my best work emerges when I make the time for it to do so. I have to be patient, thorough, and give myself the time I need to do what I need.
4. Self-motivation. I’m a highly motivated sorta gal when it comes to getting things done as long as they meld with things I really want. There must be a balance between the two for me to be honest enough to say/think: “Ok. Imma rock this bitch.” Even though there are a ton of small jobs within my field out there, I need to be mindful and pick the right projects. I need to understand and be aware of my limits and what I’m willing to deal with.
