It was mid-June, the end of my Junior year in high school. I was forced to think about my future more often than I usually had. I had been practicing art with the intention of becoming really good someday, but deep in my heart I felt torn. When I received questions like, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I answered with “I don’t know,” because I had learned that if I mentioned a potential career in art, I would be immediately advised to look into a science or math career instead because the jobs are easier to get. I knew they were right though, I needed to have some sort of ensured occupation in my life. Any art profession at that point seemed so distant and unreachable that I was sure I’d never have a job doing anything I enjoyed. I had two options in my head, each dreadful sounding in their own way. The first was that I secretly wished to be an concept artist like Paul. The problem was that I didn’t believe I would ever have the capability or capacity to work hard enough to get there. I felt like if I ever decided to follow my real passion, I would fall short and end up unemployed with a useless degree. I hated myself for dreaming so big. So the option of being an art teacher seemed to be the only way I could set a reasonable goal for myself that could make me feel like I was still doing art. But committing to that seemed like I was betraying myself and giving up my dreams. I was always told I had to live to my full potential, and I was scared. The future seemed like a dark place with too many possibilities of failing. I ended school feeling lost and confused.
