When grade school projects asked the then lighthearted question of “what do you want to be when you grow up?” I cannot remember a single instance when ‘writer’ was the flavor of the day. Despite splattering ever-changing and lofty dream jobs—most notably a professional snowboarder—across neon trifold poster boards, the only consistent thing about my projects was that I could write a kickass essay for them.
Over the years, as I unsuccessfully pursued a slew of different ventures (who knew that growing up in the Midwest isn’t conducive to a prospering snowboarding career?), my knack for writing remained constant—something that took me a lot longer to realize than I care to admit. So after years of trying to figure out what I would do in the future, it turned out that hindsight was the lens through which I finally saw my calling.
My desire to chase after each and every one of my passions and interests made choosing a college major the bane of my existence. It also makes my resume look like it was written by ten different people. But writing transcended everything and turned out to be something entirely different. Writing is not my one true passion, but the avenue through which I can more deeply explore and express my passions. Being a writer means I don’t have to settle for one thing. Being a writer allows me the freedom to traverse and articulate my curiosities and to help others do the same.
So I write because it is what I am called to do. I write because we are all responsible for tending to and fostering the development of our natural talents. Writing is a gift I’ve been given and it’s my job to nurture it and not to squander it. Using our gifts to serve others is the best way to make use of them and be good stewards of what we have been given.
“The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time.” -Mary Oliver