I felt warm tears rise in the back of my eyelids when I knew where the conversation was going. Was I wanting to cry? Was I really sad? Oh, hell no! This was about to be really exciting news!
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This weekend, That First Year celebrates two years of existence, which also means I’ve now been out of college for two years. I feel like I should have some sort of grasp on this “adulthood” thing, but despite what idealistic-dreamy-girl-college-me thought, I still have no real idea of what I’m doing with my life. They don’t really tell you in college that you never actually “figure life out,” do they? Turns out life isn’t a problem to be solved or a puzzle to be figured out after all, it’s just a string of days—good ones and bad ones and meh ones—to be lived in wild abundance. These two years have definitely been a lesson in this.
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Refreshing my inbox won’t make an awaited email appear any faster. I know this. Of course I know this. But that certainly doesn’t stop me from clicking that little circular arrow every thirty seconds. Waiting for good news—in this case, a coveted job offer—is excruciating, and if constantly reloading my Gmail makes it marginally more tolerable, then I will continue refreshing all day long.
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You know those moments where you can just tell that someone is talking about their passion, because their face is brighter and their voice more animated and their words come easily? That’s how it is talking to Lane about her art, and nothing makes this “FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS!” heart of mine happier than seeing a friend so passionately pursue what makes her come alive.
Welcome to the launch of The Creative Exchange featuring artwork and products created exclusively for That First Year by our fellow peers.
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As young post-grad writers, we often find one another invited to the same pity party. It’s an ongoing gathering, one that Facebook pesters you about seven gazillion times a day. Officially, the event is called: What On Earth Are You Gonna Write About/Fulfill Your Lifelong Dream With/While Holding Some Shred of Dignity With Your Laptop and Cappuccino, held at Location TBD from 6:30 pm through eternity. And everyone in the written world is invited. There is also a 40 percent chance of rain.
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I was in the middle of working on an assignment where I had to accompany a client home on the train. This first job after college had me crying some days over how stressful it was, on top of not being anywhere I had planned for my career to go. As the days progressed, I became more depressed, continually feeling less sane than the first day it hit me that this job had not been meant for me long term.
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Today is my 13th anniversary living in Canada. I’ve been here for exactly half of my life. From the time I arrived there has never been a morning when I did not feel grateful for the decision that my mom made when she applied for immigration. The first year in Canada was a great challenge for her, but I have never heard her complain about anything. She did not complain when an immigration officer called her diploma “garbage” or when she was coming home from a temporary job at a chocolate factory with a fever and icicles stuck in her hair.
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You should know, and you may find it ironic, that you’re reading an article on overcoming perfectionism from a Class A perfectionist.
If anything, I hope it makes you feel less alone, less crazy, more understood, and more capable of overcoming its downsides. Because perfectionists are already harder on themselves than anyone else, so when others put their flaws in the spotlight, it’s crippling. Worse than crippling, actually - it is suffocating.
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“So Ashlee, what are your big plans for tonight?”
I was in the middle of working as a production assistant for a week-long writer’s workshop, and one of the writers tossed out the question as we were all packing up to leave the space for the evening.
It was simple small talk, but I didn’t have a good answer for it.
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I don’t know what I’m doing.
How many times in the past two years have I said this or some variation of it? How many times in the past two years have I felt like I made mistakes or I regret the decisions that I made? Too many.
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Now that I'm graduating college the stress to make all the right decisions is heightened. It feels like if I make one wrong step now people will shake their heads, because they knew I would never be able to accomplish all my lengthy list of goals. I don’t want to be known as the girl who failed because she didn’t have whatever “it” is.
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This method of measuring life changes once you graduate, and that change is hard to deal with. It’s hard to not compare yourself to your peers, scroll through social media and think, “He already has a full time job, volunteers and is getting engaged… I should be too…”
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For as long as I can remember, my school reports nearly always said the same thing: good student, does her work, but she is constantly lost in daydreams; her head is always in the clouds. And I grew out of a lot of things but never that.
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A wistful gleam of light pours onto my pale face, bags like fake Prada clutches sit under my eyes and my hair is swept in a ponytail. I've decided to put on my makeup at work to save time, sanity, and immerse myself in an extra two minutes of sleep.
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Few people warn you of the transition of moving back home. There exists this strange chasm between the gradual independence gained in college and the desired autonomy of adulthood. A degree of dependence, for me, has become unavoidable and I am constantly being reminded of how fortunate I am to be in such a position. It is oddly dispiriting, however, to watch as my carefully constructed independence is dismantled.
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