I’ve lost count of all the things I wanted to be when I grew up. At one point, I wanted to be the person who finally solved the secret of the Bermuda Triangle. At another, I wanted to absolutely understand sleep paralysis. These were both bold claims for someone who never got higher than a C in any high school science class.
When I was younger than five and heavily influenced by shows like Hannah Montana, I wanted to be a popstar.
According to my mother, there was a period of time where I wanted to be a veterinarian (this must have been before I discovered that watching needles get injected makes me dizzy and I hate seeing animals in pain).
Between the ages of six and ten, I would have done anything to become a pilot. For two summers in a row, I went to an aerospace camp at a small, local airport and even got to fly a plane while I was there (side note: why on earth would the pilot let an 8-year-old fly a plane?).
That one stuck for a while.
Another long span of my childhood was composed of the neighborhood kids and I “fencing” with tree branches. There was an easement between my house and the next-door-neighbors house that was lined with trees that we would use to “practice.” We each had our own, claimed tree, and it was a sin to use anybody else’s. The amount of begging I did trying to get my mom to let me actually take fencing lessons so that “Julie’s Fencing Academy” wouldn’t just be a fantasy was outrageous.
Then, when I was in middle school, I swore to my parents that I was going to be editing movies when I grew up. The desire stemmed from the love of the videos my friend and I would make. They were mostly music videos. The one I remember the most fondly was to “Call me, Maybe.” The one I remember most vividly was to “How You Remind Me” by Nickleback (one day, Loco, I will tell you the story of the time I went to a Nickleback concert. Today is not that day).
My point is: That was my dream when I was surrounded by a need to create and the child-like ability to not be terrified of failure. Those were the days when I would attempt a flip on the trampoline without the worry I’d fall on my neck and break it; they were the days when I would fall off my bike and just stand up and get back on it, even if I’d gotten hurt. My childhood best friend and I made videos for fun and we never stopped to think about whether or not they were good.
For Christmas, I got a video editing software and was no longer at the mercy of iMovie and Windows Movie Maker. I took social studies projects seriously when making a video was involved. I took an animation class as soon as I was given the opportunity. I had the feeling that all kids do when they find something they love: I could do this forever.
But then I got older and I would grab the camera and wonder what other people would think of what I made. I would write things and hide them in drawers, or deep in the notes on my phone. No one I knew in person was allowed to read the things I wrote. The fear of rejection and failure led to a standstill in creation– If I was making things, I wasn’t getting any feedback. I was improving because I was writing, but I was improving without basis, without input. You reach a threshold when you become as good as you can without putting in the work to be better, and I’d definitely reached it.
For a few years, I paused most creative outlets. I stopped drawing in 2015 and didn’t pick it up again for three years. Every November, I would pretend to actually try to finish NaNoWriMo, but I avoided the effort so I couldn’t be disappointed when I failed.
I’d resigned myself to majoring in political science with the hopes of becoming a history teacher. I liked history well enough, and I enjoyed a good debate, and I’d decided that I could settle and be happy.
It wasn’t until I watched Mad Men that I realized there were creative jobs outside of the spectacular. It wasn’t likely I’d become a television writer (my dream career, even now), but if there was a job I could do that used some creative muscles, it would be better than teaching history to a bunch of high schoolers that don’t actually want to be in my class. I did research and switched my hopeful major to communications, which eliminated one of my top-choice colleges because they didn’t even offer a communications major.
I’d picked a major. I was out of my STEM and sports-oriented high school, and I thought college would be some kind of catalyst. I was taking classes for my major rather than just requirements. Gone were the days of my creative time slots being squandered by things like algebra and biology– now I could make things, right?
Except, my first semester of college was full of more requirements. A basic communications course, a literary analysis class, a basic writing class where we talked about the things I’d spent the last four years learning. I liked literary analysis, I liked learning about the history of media, but I was longing for the opportunity to create things.
I joked around with friends and we verbally outlined a sitcom about our friend group. Something dumb. Friends but we’re unknowingly haunted by a ghost. I told myself that would hold me, that the ghost wasn’t just a metaphor for the resurgence of my childhood desires.
It was a hard pill to swallow, but I eventually realized that I’m older now, which means I’m more breakable, and failure is constantly on the forefront of my mind. I was writing for classes, which meant I wrote for a grade rather than enjoyment. I took business classes for my major, which meant that I was learning about things I love in the most mundane of ways. The days of making things with my friends for fun became a fever dream because they weren’t profitable, or timely, and they would take energy I could dedicate to more productive things like studying or sleeping.
And then I decided: fuck it, I’m going to take some video classes.
I’m not really sure when it happened: maybe it was the first time I was reunited with video editing software since middle school. Maybe it was when I grabbed a camera and started filming, once again, in earnest. But at some point, I realized I was exactly where I said I was going to end up.
Last semester, I took a video class where the only requirement was to make something. This semester, I’m in a video class where the requirement is to make something better every time.
Whenever I think back to those days: forcing my friends to learn a dance to “Starships” by Nicki Minaj, or have a picnic so I can film them to the tune of “Don’t Stop Believin’” I feel a lot like Heidi Blickenstaff in Title of Show. You know, because I found A Way Back to Then.
Which, frankly, is a miracle because those days are so far away. That friend used to live right down the road from me, now we got to school an hour and a half away from each other. We used to beg our parents for sleepovers and then pretend to vlog when we were supposed to be asleep. We used to throw idea-spaghetti at the wall and didn’t bother to check if it would stick because we were already making whatever it was we’d come up with.
Recently I texted her to thank her. I don’t think I would be the person I am now if she hadn’t been so willing to act like a doof in front of a camera.
The truth is, I don’t think I’m an entirely different person than I was back then. Given the opportunity, I’d still like to get my pilot’s license. I still love animals and want to help them when I can. I still, often, drop everything to sing along to my favorite songs.
When I was twelve years old, I don’t even think that I believed me when I boasted that I was going to be editing things for the rest of my life. Maybe I still don’t believe me. But standing where I am now, eight years down the line and still loving the thing that I swore I was going to do? That’s the best feeling I could have hoped for.
Oh, and Zoe? Thanks. I love you so much.
