I have been trying to find the answer to this question for months now. But unlike my Biology or Communications class, the answers cannot be found in a book. They are inside me, a place where I haven't come to know myself.
Since the fifth grade I have always aspired to be a writer-- it just came naturally to me. My reading was always at an accelerated level and I was speaking in full sentences before I was two years old. Language has always been an important aspect of my life, and journalism and writing are no different. My beginnings started with my dad reading the St. Louis Post Dispatch every morning when he came home from work. He worked long night hours at UPS, so when he came home my mother, brother, sister and I made sure he had his paper and glass of milk. He always told us how reading, especially the newspaper, was so important to do.
My dad grew up with a moderate case of dyslexia which affects the brain's ability to process numbers and words in correct order. As a child, my father had trouble reading, and the newspaper and comics section helped him. "If not for the Post-Dispatch," my father would say, "I would not be able to read this day."
News and the media, if showed honorably and accurately, are a vital tool for society. The papers, as I have seen especially growing up, are a cost-efficient way to bring the news to all people, not only the ones who can afford it.
When I was in first grade, a terrible accident happened in my family. I was spending the night over my grandparents and while I was away, a house fire burned all of my family's possessions.
Although my parents and siblings got out okay, it still left a mark on my perception of material items and a sense home in general. When our house burned down, I did not have the toys or clothes I once had, nor did my mother have her wedding dress nor my dad his photographs. Everything in the house besides a few bricks, a board game and my diary were ruined.
As an eight-year-old, with two younger siblings, our entire sense of home was shattered. Society today places an emphasis on exterior houses, with new siding and doors. But what companies fail to realize is the significance of what is inside the building. When my family lost so much, we had to focus on what we did have—each other.
I remember a time when my brother and I were upset about a week after the accident. We were over my grandparents' house (who lived next door to us) and were crying saying how we didn't have a home anymore. I will never forget what my dad told us after sternly ordered us to stop.
"I don't ever want to hear that again. Our house was ruined, not our home. Our family is home, we are home."
And every time after, whenever I felt sad about moving around a lot, or having no toys to play with, I was thankful that my family was still alive.
When moving in and out of extended family's houses, apartments and hotels there were two things that were constant-- us as a family staying together and my dad reading his newspaper.
Even though we were scraping for cash, my parents still put a priority to be informed as to what was happening in the world.
As many can tell, writing and news has always been an important part of my life.
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But now I am at a crossroads. So much has changed since I was an eight-year-old girl, or even a sophomore in high school, when I lost my best friend Jake Ritz in a plane crash.
I am in college now, and instead of fantasizing about my career, I actually have to face reality and decide. And I'm not sure how.
Let me explain further:
After Jake passed, something inside of me shut down. Once before I had high aspirations to change the world-- environmentally and socially. I was constantly outside walking my two dogs at a local park. Being around nature has always brought great solace and comfort to me and exercising made it even better.
At the time, I wanted to travel around the world on a hot-air balloon and live every single second to the fullest. After Jake was gone, it seemed that all of my high dreams died with him. I no longer even went outside, spending the rest of that summer alone in my room crying.
But something changed. Something brought me back to life and allowed me to feel again. It was dance. It was moving my body while having fun. It was showing the world my feelings of hate, disgust and anguish without saying one word.
I tried to write again, I really did. I wrote in my journal a few times but just couldn't find the words to say what I was feeling. And when I did, the words came out like a rushing tidal wave, just like the tears that streamed down my face. I was unable to hold it back, putting my journal down and crying for days.
Dance allowed me to forget about what happened, even if it was just for a mere sixty seconds. It enabled me to see past my loss and focus on me getting better and being happy. Exercise and dance rescued me in my time of need, writing didn't.
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So currently I have a problem, which to choose for a career? Journalism or Exercise Physiology? Both I love, both I am passionate about. But I am not sure which I love more, because I love them for different reasons. Either of the two career paths I could see myself being thoroughly happy in, each bringing a different part of me to the table.
What do you think? If you were in my position what would you choose?
This is my life. And I'm not sure who I want to be.
