Figuring Out What I Wanna Be When I Grow Up: In Pursuit of Erudition

Last week, my brilliant cousin asked me to review her med school application before the deadline. She respects me as a writer and wanted my help fleshing out her experiences. Of course, I was honoured. People in my life often ask me to edit or review their academic and professional work, and if I can help, I do.

But it got me thinking: what am I doing with my own academic and professional aspirations? Do I even have any anymore?

I’ve always felt safest with knowledge. Most of my childhood was spent buried in books. I had passionate causes even then—“Little Lisa Simpson,” they used to say.

Now, with a ten-month-old baby, I’m in no rush to return to work. Don’t get me wrong—I find my work compelling. There’s nothing like helping hardened men lower their defenses and finally talk about their struggles—and I’m good at it. I’ve watched many a tattooed gangster cry into a tissue during what was supposed to be a quick interview.

Even so, it often feels icky. I’m not solving anything. The system is broken—it perpetuates despair. Most people in it end up jaded, even those who set out to care. And it’s far too corporate.

I need to do something that sparks light in me, while still helping others.

So what do I do, then?

Lately I’ve been exploring Master’s programs. After much searching—and dodging the well-meaning suggestions that I pursue counselling psychology—I’ve realized that the Gender, Sexuality, and Women’s Studies program at SFU might be the best fit. I still don’t know what career path that would lead to, but it excites me. Maybe I could weave writing into it and still make a difference.

I’ve also been eyeing some UK programs, including Narrative Futures at the University of Edinburgh (my dream school), but the costs are prohibitive. If an online Master’s in Radical Political Thought existed, I’d leap at it. For now, though, SFU seems the most realistic—perhaps when my daughter is a little older.

In the meantime, I need something. Maybe a poetry or fiction class. Maybe an editing course. Maybe just self-education and pouring my energy into my new website—a hopeful, politically attuned space for leftist parents.

Of course, I also need to make money. I hate thinking that way—I’ve never been motivated by money, just as I’ve never wanted to climb corporate ladders—but here we are. I was earning well in my last role, enough to hit six figures full-time, but I know that’s unlikely if I pivot. So whatever I choose, I need to truly love it and believe in it. I’m picky, and nothing ever feels quite enough, so it won’t be simple. If only I could write and be paid well for it, while also enriching the world and its people. A dreamer can dream.

All of this is to say: I still don’t really know what I want to be when I grow up. But I’m figuring it out—even in this season of motherhood. I’m learning to accept that I’m on the slow road, and that’s okay.