At eleven years old I was stuck up, naive – a completely self-centered adolescent. The world revolved around me. I was a genius and the only person who could save mankind.
I was in the sixth grade at this time, and I was having a grand time. I had three good girlfriends, and we had an absolutely unbreakable bond. I haven’t spoken with any of them in almost two years.
I miss these times. My elementary school years were my glory days. In my school, administration started pushing life-planning early. We took a career quiz in sixth grade to see what jobs might be a good fit for our eleven-and-twelve-year-old selves.
I took my quiz and got a list of six or seven jobs. On that list was “doctor…” M.D. Medicine is a prestigious career in this country. Doctors are put on pedestals, and I wanted to be put on a pedestal. Remember, I was stuck up and self-centered.
I also looked up to my grandfather, lovingly referred to as PopPop, who was a surgeon himself. So, in less than 30 seconds I determined that I would be a surgeon too. I would go to Ivy League schools, become a doctor, and win the game of life . When I told my parents about my plan, they nodded their heads, “ok, we’ll see.” “Thank goodness my friends are supportive,” I thought. We were all confident in each other and were sure we could do anything we set our minds to. “This will be easy!” we thought, in regards to our career choices.
Wrong, becoming and being a doctor is not easy. It is beyond not easy. I later discovered that I was only mediocre at science. (You must be absolutely superior in science to become a doctor. That’s nonnegotiable.)
Still, my interest in medicine waxed and waned. I nonetheless thought it was possible to achieve anything one put their mind towards. I understand now that concept is completely false – it’s only true for a minority, just ignore the inspirational posters hanging in your high school classrooms.
I haven’t wanted to be a doctor in at least three years now, so I’m making progress. And progress is good. On to the next goal.