SELLING OUT

By Loric Avanessian

Growing up as a first generation Armenian-American — my parents both immigrated to the U.S. in the 70’s — I was told there were three acceptable career paths in life: doctor, lawyer, engineer. My dad is an engineer, my sister is a lawyer, and I studied business… an acceptable alternative.

My plan was always to combine my love of film with my degree and work in the entertainment industry, in marketing. I spent two summers killing myself to get internships at NBCUniversal, unpaid, with plans to move to L.A. permanently after graduating from school.

I graduated college a semester early, like the natural-born overachiever that I am, and packed my things, ready for my big move to the West Coast. I moved in with my grandparents in L.A. while I looked for a job, which I found pretty easily, in retrospect. About a month after moving, I was an assistant media planner at a small agency, and our client was a film studio. I was set.

Within five months, I was crying on the phone to my mom every day after work, miserable on my hour-and-a-half drive each way through the worst of L.A. traffic. One of my coworkers, a condescending 25-year-old who held the position directly above mine, made me feel worthless and stupid. I was so nervous about doing anything wrong that I was making more mistakes because my hands were often shaking. I triple checked my work before turning anything in and still made errors. It got to a point where my employer basically said, “Either you can quit, or we’re going to fire you.”

“I was miserable and didn’t have a support network to get me through it. My parents were still in Michigan, a time zone three hours ahead, my sister was in New York in law school, miserable in her own way, and while my grandparents are wonderful people, they’re still very much from the old country — they don’t speak English and have never worked here, or had to fully assimilate into American culture.”

I was panicked. How could I quit my first job six months after starting? Wouldn’t that look terrible on my resume? How would I ever get another job? It was my mother, surprisingly, who convinced me to quit. I had expected her to tell me to stick it out for at least one year, to try harder, to do more work at home until I learned, but instead she told me that nothing was worth the misery that this was causing, and certainly not an entry-level job.

But I hadn’t given up on L.A. quite yet — I was still determined to find something in entertainment. I searched for four months, each month bringing me closer to defeat. I was miserable and didn’t have a support network to get me through it. My parents were still in Michigan, a time zone three hours ahead, my sister was in New York in law school, miserable in her own way, and while my grandparents are wonderful people, they’re still very much from the old country — they don’t speak English and have never worked here, or had to fully assimilate into American culture.

By month four of unemployment, I was feeling pressure to just find something. I had always been told gaps in your resume look bad — the longer you don’t work the harder it is to get a job….

All of this advice I had heard over the years was making me desperate. The “entry-level” jobs required two or more years of experience, and my research online showed me that with the salary I could reasonably earn in the entertainment industry, I would be living with my grandparents for a long time. Alarmed, I called my friends from business school asking, “What do you do? Do you like it? Can I do it? OK, here’s my resume. Thanks so much for referring me….”

Four interviews and two job offers later, I ended up in New York City working for IBM as a consultant. Sold out. No longer working in anything remotely related to what had always been my passions. And it’s the best decision I’ve made.

“Regret can be toxic, sending you down a path of ‘what-ifs’ you’ll never be able to answer.”

It took me trying and failing at one of my biggest goals in my twenties (so far) to learn not to attach my self-worth to a job or my happiness to doing something I thought I should want. I have never felt like such a failure as when I was told I was going to be fired after mere months on the job. I went to a good school! I got good grades! I wasn’t supposed to be bad at this! What if I wasn’t cut out for anything other than school? What if the only thing I was good at was studying and regurgitating material?

I just completed two years at my job at IBM, and while I’m only 24, and there is still so much I don’t know, here is what I’ve realized:

If you rely on your job to be your only source of happiness, you will be miserable. Fill your life outside of work with the things that bring you joy. Spend time with friends, read good books, draw, paint, go to concerts. Whatever it is, don’t expect your job to be your everything. Those who say, “If you love your job, you’ll never work a day in your life,” are looking through rose-colored glasses. There is no job in this world that is wonderful in every regard — that’s why it’s called “work.”

Some people feel powerful by making others feel insignificant. Don’t let those people define you, your abilities and your value. If I had stayed at my job in L.A. for another three months, the damage to my self-esteem would have been exponentially worse than it already was. Set your own limits.

Job searching for four months is nothing, and I see that now. At the time, it felt like four years. I have plenty of friends who searched for much longer and eventually ended up in exactly the field they wanted. Do I regret not sticking it out? Not really. Regret can be toxic, sending you down a path of “what-ifs” you’ll never be able to answer.

I made a decision to move on based on my own limits, and no one else’s.

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Loric Avanessian is a movie lover, bookworm and pop culture geek currently working in none of these things as a senior consultant at IBM in New York City.

THE EASY OPTION

By Danielle Moehrke

"I have a NY apartment that smells like freshly baked bread for no apparent reason and a cool job that starts tomorrow and a sunny eastern-facing window and $1.75 empanadas right around the corner."

These were the half-truths I told myself on July 29, 2013, my first day in New York City.

I did have a new NYC apartment that smelled like freshly baked bread. But mostly it smelled like car exhaust, cigarette smoke or mangú, depending on the day and how wide the windows were open.

I did have a cool job with an awesome nonprofit that seduced me from my Midwestern home and planted me in Manhattan to teach high school algebra and geometry. But this job had thrown me, a white 22-year-old only-English-speaker, into an unfamiliar working-class neighborhood of Spanish-speaking Dominican families.

I did have a sunny eastern-facing window that brought me lots of natural light. But, it heated my non-air-conditioned room oppressively in the mornings, only looked out over the 207th Street Little Caesars and that liquor store with the bulletproof glass, and sat above that terrible, terrible bar that blared bachata into the wee hours of Monday mornings.

I did have $1.75 empanadas right around the corner. But these are all I could reasonably afford on my AmeriCorps stipend until I received my food stamps. These empanadas were the first food item I had managed to successfully ingest into my churning stomach on my first day in that city.  

What I didn’t have was any clue what to do after I took this picture.  

“I told myself I just needed to eat better/start running again/put myself out there/keep myself busy/get away from the city periodically. … But still I felt like I had gunpowder coursing through my veins.”

My dad had just hopped the next plane back to Chicago. My new roommates and new mattress hadn’t arrived yet. We had no real furniture, except my unassembled dresser from Target. I laid down on my bed-shaped pile of bedding on the floor and tried to kick the dizziness I felt from the heat or the anxiety or the sudden crippling loneliness or just my body fighting to expel the last of the mono virus that had so kindly graced my final quarter at Northwestern.  

In my job application frenzy in the middle of senior year, I had applied to a teaching fellowship with a young educational nonprofit called Blue Engine. Moving to New York was never on my radar until I was given an interview and wooed by the organization’s mission, passion, and emphasis on personal and professional growth. I told myself that Chicago is the easy option. It was time to move a little further from home. I knew a few acquaintances moving there, so I would be fine. It’s New York — the place to be for twenty-somethings looking for adventure.

In my first couple months of adulthood, New York hit me hard and fast: the mice, the unknown fudge-colored sludge dripping from my bathroom light fixture, the endless unsuccessful trips to the food stamps office, the crowded isolation, the train delays at 3 a.m., the stress of working with high schoolers who would sometimes say things in Spanish they knew I didn’t understand. I went home each afternoon to spend even more hours grading and tracking student performance. I ached for community, for family, for Lake Michigan and for that feeling that I was doing a good job at something, at anything.

I felt myself slipping away as the panic attacks intensified, gripping me almost daily in school, in the grocery store, on the train, in my apartment. I told myself I just needed to eat better/start running again/put myself out there/keep myself busy/get away from the city periodically. So I ran up and down hills. I cooked healthy food and ate leftovers for lunch. I escaped to my friend’s family home in the Connecticut suburbs to breathe fresh fall air and drink coffee on their wooded front porch. But still I felt like I had gunpowder coursing through my veins.  

“I grabbed my suitcase, inhaled the smell of freshly baked bread and walked out of my apartment with a one-way plane ticket. Chicago was not the easy option — it was where I actually wanted to be.”

I became a crier. I found many places for this new hobby: my bedroom, the 1 train, the A train, the R train, the bathroom in the teacher’s lounge, the Fordham Metro-North station, the Chappaqua Metro-North station, any sidewalk, and that Starbucks by Union Square. Everywhere else I smiled and I taught. When my mom came to visit and I felt dizzy and weak as we walked around Central Park, I told her that I had a long week and just needed some rest.  At the end of October, I imploded in a panic attack that left me in my bed for days, feeling short of breath. I called my mom and let my internal world spill out through shakes and sobs.  

“I knew something was wrong when I visited,” she told me. “I was hoping that you wouldn’t have this anxiety the way that Grandma and I have it. You know it runs in our family… the Mueller family curse. This is completely understandable. This is not your fault. You need to focus on getting better. Take some days off, go to the doctor, ask for a short-term Xanax prescription and if they can refer you to anyone. You’ll be okay. Always remember that you can come home at any time.”

I spent an hour on the phone with my mom, called my boss to ask for the next day off, scheduled a doctor’s appointment, got some pills and stopped pretending I could handle this alone. Over the next days, weeks and months I started to regain footing, to hit a new equilibrium and enjoy New York, a little. I stayed.  

My apartment didn’t ever quite feel like home, but I did enjoy moments in NYC: people watching while eating a shameful amount of Belgian french fries on a bench at 2 a.m., drinking beer on a rooftop in the East Village, quietly walking through Inwood Hill Park in the snow, sharing large picnics in Central Park, and eating lots and lots of bagels. I learned how to teach math, but more importantly how to motivate students to be agents in their own learning. I learned how to be “Danielle” and not just “Ms. Moehrke.” I got bed bugs and only cried about it twice. I learned how to deal with emotion constructively, and I spent a lot of time reflecting on the power of place and my own conception of home.  

My fellowship ended smoothly. I woke up in my NYC apartment as the sun came through my eastern-facing window. I grabbed my suitcase, inhaled the smell of freshly baked bread and walked out of my apartment with a one-way plane ticket.

Chicago was not the easy option — it was where I actually wanted to be. That was the full truth I happily told myself on June 27, 2014, my last day in New York City.

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Danielle Moehrke works at an educational nonprofit and spends a lot of her time riding public transportation with middle schoolers. She happily lives in Chicago.

“REAL” LIFE

By Vicki Wang

It’s the Fourth of July, three weeks after graduation, and I’m hosting a party in my new apartment. I’d just moved in a few days earlier, and I’m playing Slap Cup on my deck with friends. Admittedly, I’m a little drunk, but for the first time since March, I’m thinking, Alright, post-grad life is gonna be just fine. After all, why wouldn’t it be? I’d finally gotten a full-time job, after months of searching, and was living in Chicago near many close friends. I had everything I needed.

Of course, “everything” has its caveats. I’d reluctantly accepted this job having no other options and was less than thrilled about it. Most of my friends were not living in the city yet, and my roommate was spending the summer in New York, training for a job in finance. However, at that moment, things felt okay. I felt safe, enshrouded in a cocoon of familiarity as I played drinking games with my friends. I had everything I needed.

A few weeks later, things took a turn. I’d recently begun exploring a romantic relationship with a once-platonic friend, a situation which usually either ends in happily ever after or a friendship permanently damaged. Ours went the wrong way, and along with a little heartbreak, I lost a friend that I’d relied heavily on.

As far as my job, my feeling less than enthusiastic had turned into total apathy. I felt listless, unchallenged as I grammar-checked PowerPoints all day and unsure why I’d taken the role. I began to panic as I saw my friends seem to progress in their careers while I was falling backwards, and I envied their punishing hours and workplace challenges.

“This couldn’t be what my real life was supposed to be, right? Coming out of college, I was incredibly arrogant about the post-grad opportunities I would have. … I certainly shouldn’t be stuck in some dead-end job.”

This couldn’t be what my real life was supposed to be, right? Coming out of college, I was incredibly arrogant about the post-grad opportunities I would have. Like many Northwestern students, I’d spent my undergraduate career enmeshed in extracurriculars, hustling for great internships and sleeping at the library. I certainly shouldn’t be stuck in some dead-end job.

I began searching for something else, some kind of job that would lead me to the life I was “supposed to have.”

And then in an unfortunate turn of events, the company I was working for lost its one and only client. My work, already sparse, became practically non-existent. The urgency of my search mounted — I needed to get out. In my blind haste, I failed to realize that my boss would notice my growing disinterest and my changing attitude. On a Friday afternoon, I was called into her office.

“I can’t afford to keep someone who doesn’t want to be here.”

Those words rang in my ears as it hit me — I was being fired. The rest of the meeting blurs in my memory. I walked out of the office to face my two coworkers, the expressions on their faces a mix of pity and guilt. I later found out through my termination report that they’d told my boss I was looking for other jobs and going to other interviews.

On the bus ride home, the gravity of the situation sunk in. I’d lost my first and only job. What the fuck was I going to do? How was I going to tell my gainfully employed friends? How was I going to pay rent? Do I move home?

I had no job, no prospects and no idea what to do. I felt lost, small, and above all, more alone than ever.

The weeks that passed after were a mix of highs and lows. There were days when I felt myself drowning in my total failure to succeed as a “real person,” scrolling through my social feeds in a coffee shop when all my friends were working in offices. There were weekends I got way too drunk and cried about that lost friendship and how much I missed it. There were also some days when I reveled in my newfound freedom, going to the Chicago Zoo on a Monday afternoon or trekking out for Hot Doug’s on a random morning. I began to pursue design freelancing, and found myself getting paid for something I loved doing.

My lowest low came on Sept. 21. At around 10 p.m. I was in bed when I received a text from my mom. It was a picture of my dad, and beneath, the text read, “Dad on his 65th birthday.” I’d forgotten to call my father on his birthday. In fact, I hadn’t spoken to either of my parents at all since I’d lost my job — too ashamed to tell them the extent of my failure. My fear of their reaction had caused me to overlook two of the most important people in my life.

“I hadn’t spoken to either of my parents at all since I’d lost my job — too ashamed to tell them the extent of my failure. My fear of their reaction had caused me to overlook two of the most important people in my life.”

The weight of the last three months hit me all at once — I called my best friend and cried and cried and cried. I was a failure, I’d shut my family out because of my shame, and I didn’t know if I could keep doing this.

And then, as quickly as things fell apart, things began to come together. I was oscillating between going to “real” job interviews at “real” companies and then rushing to interviews at cafes, restaurants and stores. My first offer came from a coffee shop as a barista, and I thought, OK, I can do this for a few months and freelance on the side. This could be fun. Then, I received an offer from a company in Chicago I’d recently interviewed with. A few days later, the company where I’d interned in New York offered me a position as well. After that, I received a third offer from another company in Chicago.

Suddenly, I had options. A new question loomed in my head — stay in Chicago or move to New York? Chicago would come with everything I needed once again, but I’d started with that and it hadn’t ended well. Maybe moving to New York would be the right start to the “real” life I was looking for.

I boarded a flight on Oct. 19 and began my new job the day after. That fall, I would frequently walk home from work. My favorite route to take is down Broadway, as it offers one of my favorite vantage points in the city — the Empire State Building standing tall to the north and the Flatiron Building to the south. As I walked down the street on a particularly clear evening, I looked up to take in the view. As usual, it amazed me. At that moment, I felt like I was exactly where I needed to be.

I wasn’t beginning my real life, though. That happened the day I graduated, and every moment between then and now had led me here.

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Vicki Wang lives in Brooklyn, New York, and works at Spotify.

THE ROAD TO HAPPY DESTINY

By Hannah Smart

Let’s talk about this snapshot. It was taken a couple of months ago when I was working a freelance gig in Amsterdam. I know that sounds pretty cool, and to be honest, it was. I got a job at an agency I’ve dreamed about working at ever since I began my career years ago. So off to Europe I went to live out my dream.

And in my beautiful apartment overlooking the Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam, I realized that even when I have everything I think I want I’m still not happy. The career, the shoes, the boys, the Sephora VIB Rouge status — none of this is doing the trick. I know these are definitely first world problems, and I feel like such a basic bitch moaning about intangible, possibly imagined, issues. But y’all asked for the truth, and the truth is that something is missing.

Most nights in Amsterdam, I ordered take out and binged on Netflix after work. That night, I actually took off my sweatpants for once to hang with a co-worker and his friends. We were dancing in the kitchen of his little apartment, me trying to let go and stop worrying about what my hands are supposed to be doing while I dance. At some point, we all piled onto the balcony for a smoke. Except for one girl.

She stayed inside, dancing alone with the lack of grace that comes only with extreme drunkenness. But she looked so happy, waving her arms and legs, spinning in circles. Outside in the crisp fall air, one of the guys whispered to me as we watched her dance: “That is freedom.”

“I’m doing my best, and the older I get, the more I’m starting to like the woman I’ve become — mistakes and all. Every time I get that brief feeling of freedom and peace, I know I’m on the right path.”

Freedom. Being completely present, in the moment and free of worry. Letting go of the weight of yesterday and tomorrow, the never-ending list of responsibilities and wants. Realizing that in this moment, you have everything you need. And everything is beautiful.

I almost never feel like that.

Maybe it’s just human nature to be perpetually discontent. Maybe that’s why we're a species of inventors and creators, always searching and yearning. Maybe I’m having an existential crisis, and because all of my basic needs are met I’m finally reaching the top of Maslow’s hierarchy, attaining self-actualization. Or maybe I’m just not on enough Zoloft. Your guess is as good as mine.

It’s my understanding that this whole project is basically about the story behind the picture, and how our lives look awesome on Instagram but in reality, your 20’s are kind of a shit show. I don’t know about you, but that’s definitely been true for me. On both counts. I mean, look at that photo — I have SO MUCH fun. Just all the time, fun fun fun. Right?

Riiiiight.

Your 20’s are a time for figuring out who you want to be and worrying less about whether the world is okay with whoever that is. For me, this has been a struggle. I make mistakes, screw up friendships, embarrass myself at work. But I’m doing my best, and the older I get, the more I’m starting to like the woman I’ve become — mistakes and all. Every time I get that brief feeling of freedom and peace, I know I’m on the right path.

My 20’s are almost over and I have no answers for you, no wisdom bombs to drop in this story. But as you figure out the same stuff I’m trying to figure out, how to live and love and be fulfilled, just know that we’re all in this together; every one of us trudging the road to happy destiny.

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Hannah Smart is a freelance writer, novice burlesque performer and current parents’-basement-dweller.

THE TRIBE

By Elena Schneider

I was standing in the security line at Reagan National Airport when I saw my ex-boyfriend for the first time in more than a year. He’d moved to D.C. recently, but despite an early attempt to meet up, he’d remained a ghost for months. It took a long time, but despite our shared zip code, I’d started to find my footing again.

But then I saw him. And I ducked. (Mature, I know.) Under my convenient sweep of hair, I texted two of my best friends, Laurie and Meghan. SAW HIM, THIS IS NOT A DRILL. Even in this long-distance friendship, where we often struggle to stay in touch, they were magically both there to panic alongside me. It was a long security line, me at the beginning and him at the end. I thought, OK, I don’t think he saw me. We can get through this and not talk. Cool.

But as I sat at Gate 35X, I stared at my phone with a text from an unknown (but oh so known) number saying he’d seen me passing by and how he just wanted to say, “hi” — a text shrouded in the obligatory “haha,” because can’t you tell how casual I am? (Granted, he was more of a grown-up than I was by acknowledging it, so Maturity Round One: He wins.)

Typing and deleting — I cycled through all the iterations of cosmic meaning that put us in a place of arrivals and departures at Christmas time, wondering frantically: What is this supposed to mean? Does it mean anything at all?

Before responding, I asked Laurie and Meghan what I should do. I’m the youngest of three girls, so I’ve been asking women what to do my entire life, and I believe deeply that three heads are better than one.

“You spend four years building your little castle in the sky, populated by friends who make you laugh until you cry, who challenge your perceptions, who hold your hair back as you vomit — every once in awhile, all at the same time — and then, one day, that castle’s gone.”

But rather than support my not-so-passively aggressive text that would ask for answers from him I’d been dying to hear, they said absolutely not. Don’t respond, they said: This isn’t a sign. You shouldn’t talk to him. This doesn’t mean anything. Get on your plane, and go home.

Rage ripped through me as I read blurring blue messages from my long-distance friends. Finally, here was an opening to ask questions that went so long unanswered after this relationship stuttered to an end.

Fury flickered brighter and brighter. They don’t know me anymore. They don’t know how I’ve been feeling. We don’t even talk to each other. They don’t know me anymore.

☐ ☐ ☐

Growing up, I lived in a small, conservative college town in North Carolina, and I knew I hadn’t found my tribe yet. Sure, I had nice friends who are lovely people. But beyond the convenience of high school, I knew, at my core, I didn’t belong there. I was not going to stay there.

Then, [trumpets] I went to college. And the rest of this paragraph will read much like a love letter because, to be honest, I fell in love. My friends and I, we assembled a league of extraordinary women who delighted in each other in every way. But that same group also knew when to grab you by the shoulders and ask, “What the fuck are you thinking?” And you probably deserved it.

In my bones, I knew, “Here they are. Here’s my tribe.”

But then, we graduated. Which, yeah, happens to everyone. But we’re also young and human, so we thought we felt graduation the most deeply. You spend four years building your little castle in the sky, populated by friends who make you laugh until you cry, who challenge your perceptions, who hold your hair back as you vomit — every once in awhile, all at the same time — and then, one day, that castle’s gone. You’ve all fallen face first on hard concrete, and when you get up, you’re not together anymore.

One of my most insightful friends put it this way, glancing down a long table of us, sitting in the June Chicago sunshine just before graduation: “I don’t want to make new friends. No new friends.” Sure, it was a joke, but that joke cradled a whole lot of truth in it.

☐ ☐ ☐

That refrain we chant to the people who no longer shape the everyday contours of our life: Things never change between us. We see each other and it’s like no time has passed. We’ll make the distance work.

I say it, too. I say it all the time. I’ve scattered my best friends like crumbs across this country, making trips to their new homes a thrill. But it’s a poor trade-off for what we once had. A trip to India, where one friend lives, might be cool, but then how do you save for the plane ticket? What about vacation days? Walking down the hall felt much easier.

Then again, this is adulthood, right? We grow up, out and on. We chase careers across the world, and why wouldn’t we? Passion is what brought us together in the first place.

“Friends can and do fade, disappear. Sometime it’s a good thing, sometimes it’s not. Keeping your tribe together takes hard, intentional work, and we’ve, luckily, each chosen to fight for it.”

Our friendship looks a little different these days. Weekend trips. Long, unplanned phone calls. Awkward FaceTimes on public transportation. Hurried, sometimes empty, texting conversations. Likes on Instagram and Facebook.

On a weekend last June, Meghan, Laurie, and another friend, Jacqueline, and I went to a country concert (country, we know). We sat on blankets in the fading summer light, splitting cheap beer with arms hanging loosely around each other’s waists. Meg and I posed for a million pictures before we found a social media-worthy one. We renewed each other, finding, again, the depths to which we fulfill each other by simply being there.

There are a million ways to stay in touch these days, but without that essential there-ness, communing in each other’s daily minutiae, do we still know each other in the same way? How do we find each other again?

☐ ☐ ☐

Back at the airport, my fingers drummed at the edges of my iPhone. Tears stung the corners of my eyes as Laurie and Meghan continued to send a stream of texts that poked holes in my anger and irrationality.

Laurie lives in Waco, Texas, and Meghan lives in Chicago, but they know me. Because even as I text-yell at them, they don’t bend, they don’t disappear. They know, sometimes better than I do, who I am and what I need.

I swiped left and the texts from my ex were gone, without a response. Kid Cudi reminds us, “Memories, they soon delete.” He’d be more accurate, though, if he’d added, “…if we choose to delete them.” (Mr. Cudi, please forgive my rhythmically poor edit.)

Friends can and do fade, disappear. Sometime it’s a good thing, sometimes it’s not. Keeping your tribe together takes hard, intentional work, and we’ve, luckily, each chosen to fight for it.

When I landed in North Carolina, I planned to call Laurie and Meghan to thank them. But dinner had already started by the time I got home, so I forgot. I think they’ll forgive me.

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Elena Schneider writes for Politico and lives in Washington, D.C.

IN THE MIDDLE

By Marc Drake

I had a professor in college that would always say, “If college is the best four years of your life, then you should kill yourself the day after graduation.” It was a crude and exaggerated joke, but the sentiment was clear: Life goes on after college. Life should get better.

During school, I took this as a given. I enjoyed the opportunities and benefits my university offered, ranging from writing for the student newspaper to attending soccer matches while studying abroad in London. I was truly grateful to be in my position, and I acknowledged these experiences would mark a special time in my life.

However, during most of my undergraduate experience, I operated under the assumption that my best days were ahead of me. Everything I had accomplished up to that point was just a precursor to great things to come, and I was determined not to regard my college years as the “glory days.”

Three months out of school, however, I wasn’t quite so sure about this anymore. I had elected to take a gap year before medical school to get some more clinical experience, earn a little extra money, and most importantly, to take a break before I jumped into the next few years of intense studying. I started my first “real” job in Chicago and decided to live with my parents in the suburbs (“You’ll save so much money this way!” my mother had insisted). But a few months in, I realized I was profoundly lonely. Lonelier than I had ever been, in fact.

“During college, I had always romanticized the idea of loneliness — it was the catalyst for great art, music and new ideas, I thought. But by the time I began realizing the value of others’ company, it seemed as if everyone who really mattered was gone.”

Everyone who I had grown up with had left home. I felt estranged from my coworkers, who were living in Chicago and seemed to have booming social lives. My friends from college all seemed to be off earning impressive salaries in impressive cities while my experimental year was proving to be a bust.

During college, I had always romanticized the idea of loneliness — it was the catalyst for great art, music and new ideas, I thought. But by the time I began realizing the value of others’ company, it seemed as if everyone who really mattered was gone.

Despite the paucity of social support I felt I was receiving from my peers, I had two important things to help me during my difficult days: a loving family and a supportive significant other. Their care left me in better shape than swathes of the population. So why did I feel so down all the time?

While my friends wrestled through the dating world, I was in a committed long-term relationship — I was doing something right. We had seemed to master the distance thing in the past, so we weren’t worried about that aspect too much. We would still see each other regularly, and I had anticipated that this year was going to be a great one for both of us: I would gain experience in healthcare and be able to attend the medical school of my choosing, while she would continue grad school, thriving as she always had. But she continued to succeed, as expected, while I struggled to adjust to the disappointment of the year.

Work was not what I expected it would be. My advertised responsibilities were incredibly different than those I was expected to complete, and I did not get along with my coworkers. I soon learned that the medical school application process was filled with rejection. As the months went on, I noticed conversations with my girlfriend were becoming more and more strained; she obviously was growing tired of hearing how terrible traffic was every morning, about the prejudices of my coworkers, and how I missed my friends. I was surprised by how our conversations left me feeling: angry, impatient, fatigued. I realized I was beginning to resent her for all of the fun she was having, all the great things that she was doing.

“My professor spoke of the dangers of hindsight. But in my gap year, I learned the dangers of focusing exclusively on the future. With my constant comparisons and anticipation of things to come, I realized that I was looking for happiness in my accomplishments. ”

After five years of dating, she truly felt like an extension of myself, and up until then, I had no trouble celebrating each of her successes as my own. Now I felt as if I had exhausted all of my empathy. She was thriving in her situation; I was drowning in mine. Hearing her speak about how she attended another conference, went to another party, and how all the students she was teaching loved her made me feel as if my life was wasting away. I wanted to share in her success, not live vicariously through her. Maybe my best days were in college, I began to think. Despite her efforts to make time for me and provide support, I had trouble feeling adequate. She was doing everything right, both within the relationship and out, and that was exactly the problem.

I assumed that when I got into medical school, I’d feel better about my situation. It would make these miserable feelings worth something — a justification for the poor gamble I had taken. To my excitement, the acceptances eventually began to trickle in. But as the initial thrill wore off, I noticed I was still struggling with the same negative emotions.

My professor spoke of the dangers of hindsight. But in my gap year, I learned the dangers of focusing exclusively on the future. With my constant comparisons and anticipation of things to come, I realized that I was looking for happiness in my accomplishments.

I’ve had to shake the idea that the perfect resume is what will make me happy. Instead, I’m trying my best to embrace my hobbies and the people around me. Though it has been a persistent challenge, I’ve slowly learned the joys of living in the present.

---

Marc Drake is a medical research assistant living in (a suburb of) Chicago.

SO FAR AWAY

By Alyssa Firth

After graduating from college, I lived in Chicago for one year and eight months. In that time, I quit my first full time job after three months, went through a serious bout of depression that lasted most of my time there, was asked to no longer live with my roommates, lived by myself for the first time, gained skills and experiences I didn’t know I’d ever need and learned more about myself than I had in my entire short life.

When I think about everything I went through, it boggles me. Did I really do all that in such a short amount of time? And why on earth did I do any of it?

I don’t know why I moved to Chicago. I mean, I know I moved there with a friend because she wanted to go to grad school there and I loved the city. I was prepared for any challenge and being successful in Chicago seemed like something I could definitely do. I felt nervous and unsure about everything, but I’d figure it out. I always did.

But I didn’t actually prepare myself for the move. It sounded fun and bold, and even if I was a little scared, I had always thought it was good to force yourself to do the things that scare you. I quickly learned that I was uncomfortable with living in the city and all the things that seemed to go along with it. The long, crowded commutes by myself, not knowing how to make friends, and dating felt ridiculous when I was as miserable as I was.  

“For the first time, I couldn’t find my sense of home. I missed my friends and family every day. The song “So Far Away” by Carly Simon became somewhat of an anthem — everyone was far away from me, but that seemed like my own fault.”

From the day I moved to Chicago, I never fully relaxed. I felt scared, alone, depressed, and I was the usual ball of anxiety I’d always been, but I hid a lot of that from my friends and family. I was ashamed that I didn’t know how to live my life properly, so to speak. I had the usual post-college shock that I know a lot of people have, but I felt like I was failing myself.

In my head, I decided no one wanted to hear someone lucky enough to live in a big city complain about it. I cried on the phone to my mom and dad weekly, but only to them. Have you ever seen a random crying girl in a crowd? That was me. I cried in public so much, I’m kind of proud of it. I didn’t really know anyone, so it didn’t matter.

For the first time, I couldn’t find my sense of home. I missed my friends and family every day. The song “So Far Away” by Carly Simon became somewhat of an anthem — everyone was far away from me, but that seemed like my own fault. I felt like I had put myself in Chicago, so I had to stay there, but I was utterly miserable. I created a routine of survival, not even making my rent with each paycheck. My fun was limited because I worked 50-plus hours a week and was too exhausted to explore the city. A phrase I often found myself saying was, “I don’t even feel human today.”

At a certain point, I started imagining scenarios that would force me to go home, like getting fired or a serious illness in the family. It took me a while, but I finally figured out I didn’t need anything to happen to go home. I could just go there because that’s where I wanted to be.

I took this photo the day I moved back home. When I first pulled this picture back up, I debated whether this was before or after I had cried (puffy under eyes give it away though). I remember the incredible sense of joy I felt driving myself back to Detroit. It felt like I had put my real life on hold the entire time I lived in Chicago and it was about to start back up again.

“It’s OK to admit you were wrong about yourself or your choices, or even that you were right.”

However, within an hour of being at my parents’ house, I felt confused. Most of my friends were busy, so I had to see them another day. I had a lot of unpacking ahead of me, but nothing to do right then. I sat on my bed and just felt like I didn’t know where to be. Despite how much I disliked being in Chicago, I had developed a routine there, and it suddenly struck me that it was all gone. That was exciting, but at that moment, bewildering. Once again, I hadn’t really prepared myself for this big change.

I cried out of exhaustion, relief, confusion, and whatever other emotion was going through me. My mom calmed me down, as she always does, telling me it was OK and that I didn’t have to know where to be right then. So I laid down, turned on the TV and snuggled with my dog. I was still a little lost, but I was finally home.

I could end up back in Chicago someday. I have no idea. The biggest thing I learned about myself is that I don’t know what’s coming next, and I can’t prepare for it. Life throws a million curve balls at you, and sometimes they really nail you. But it’s OK to not know how to handle it. It’s OK to admit you were wrong about yourself or your choices, or even that you were right.  

I don’t want this to be an essay bashing Chicago, and I certainly don’t hate that city. Looking back, I wish I could have been in a different place in my life because I know I missed out on some great experiences out of fear and anxiety. That whole time, it was in my head that you were supposed to leave home. You weren’t living your life fully if you didn’t branch out somewhere else. But you’re not “supposed” to do anything. You can’t live your life questioning every move you make — you just have to live it.

---

Alyssa Firth is a graphic designer living in Royal Oak, Michigan, and still cuddling with her dog on a regular basis.

WE'RE LISTENING

From the Editors:

When we launched Cropped, we'll admit we were a little nervous. Of course, we felt this project was important, and the stories beautiful and compelling, but would other people feel the same way? The anticipation was killing us.

Now that the site has been live for about a month, we're so happy with the positive response we have felt from those who have read these stories. We got to talk about Cropped with Sam Zabell on her podcast for Real Simple, "Adulthood Made Easy," and Ashley Fetters's Cropped story was featured on one of our favorite websites, Greatist.

Each story from our first issue seemed to resonate with a different reader; Maria's brother loved Dan's story, our friend Darien loved Beau's, and (apart from her obvious bias) Marina's mom loved Brooke's the most.

And we learned from all of these responses: No two readers interact with Cropped in the exact same way. We're listening, and we want to keep the conversation going. Is there a particular type of story you'd like to read? A writer you feel would be a good fit? Please let us know, either by commenting on the site or on our social media feeds, or by sending us an email at WeAreCropped@gmail.com.

We're excited about what's to come for Cropped, mostly because we already feel the warmth of a sensitive and supportive community, reading these stories, sharing them and creating a beautiful space for being real. There are some exciting plans on the horizon. (Speaking of… have you signed up for our future newsletter yet?)

We hope you enjoy reading the stories in Issue 2 as much as we did.

Love,
Marina and Maria