GOALS the size of DREAMS

This morning I realized how uncool I have become and how I'm generally okay with it. It was nearing noon and I had been firmly planted in the left corner of my couch for hours tap-dancing in and out of my daunting search for a Ph. D. mentor. This means I was reading a lot of faculty bios and corresponding research articles. Upon my realization of my uncoolness, I poked fun at myself with a facebook post about these Saturday plans. When you are a sassy, introverted 20-something who really loves school, there's no shame, but instead, a glimmer of hopeful pride in such a status update. 

After some minimal yet appropriate amount of time, my father commented asking "about that doctorate work...are you moving forward?" Well, the answer to that question is complicated...and so the following descriptive email was sent:

I'm sure we will talk about this plenty by the time I jet home for Christmas however, you inquired via facebook about the progression of this doctorate work goal of mine so I'll do some sharing...

First of all, I'm conflicted in a vacillation between feeling thrilled and disillusioned (which presents like incapability) because my goals look a lot like what others call dreams. I don't just want to conduct research, yet I also cannot justdo clinical work. 

As I've reflected on my academic and personal experience over the last decade, this makes sense: I loved the way my nose would wrinkle as I pushed my brain to integrate the information I learned in my high school bio and physics classes and I loved the way the creativity of theology and english made my eyes sparkle.

There's no 25-item career test that takes these things into consideration and sputs out the directions to build a career that combines three disciplines in search of causation, effect, and intervention for a pervasive problem. Had there been such a questionnaire, I don't think it would've made much difference...it may have just allowed me to know where I was headed this whole time. 

As it turns out, I'm not content being an agent of social change with flamethrowers of compassion (aka a therapist). I'm also not content showing up to a lab every day and churning out deficit-based research. As of right now, it seems I need social work to guide my biopsychosocial strengths-based approach (specifically with intervention), developmental psychology to explain behavioral components of brain functioning, and neuroscience to provide information about that which is unseen. 

I'm still in the infancy of both articulating my questions and researching who can help build my knowledge base as I seek answers. So, no, I don't know where I want to do my Ph.D. or in what yet but I know there are some good looking programs out there and that the way a timely intersection of graduation-1st job-joining in research-liscensure-Ph.D is stressing me out a bit.

Happy saturday.

When I was telling someone about this earlier in the week, she laughed and said "well, you're not going to change the world..." 

What does she know?! Does her crystal ball actually tell her legitimate truths about the future? I doubt it.

If you have goals the size of dreams, don't apologize, don't believe they're born of fiction. Be passionate in your fierce pursuit and don't take no for an answer (from anyone, including yourself), because no is not right. 

Know Thyself

I'm still working on changing the world. Today, however, I'm taking a moment to check-in with myself rather than the world at large...or perhaps it's more honest to say I did a face-plant in a pile of 'woah, baby, what's going on? why is that so important?' just a few hours ago.

It's a good face plant, don't worry. Like shoving your face in cake on your second birthday and tasting the sweetness and fluffy wonder that you hadn't been able to take in a year ago because you were way too overstimulated.

So, a few hours ago, I'm standing in line at Dunkin to get pumped full of gasoline for humans doing what 21st century twenty-something city-dwellers do--pretend to be busy checking something on the smartphone that seems almost as comfortable on your palm as skin. Go ahead, judge me...but I know you do it too, especially if you live in New England where people are generally floating through life with a too-cool-for school attitude mixed in their coffee and dancing out of their earbuds.

An email pops up!
Great! Now, I'm not really pretending...even though we all know it is advisable to do real email correspondence on the computer.
Double great! It's a notification that a professor has graded and commented on a homework assignment. I really like comments. So naturally, I'm engrossed in this now.
I read the comments. I bubble with sparkles glazing my joyous smile. I have to share this.
And so the text is sent: "My writing is rocking Jessica's (the professor) socks. She just used the words beautiful and brilliant in the same descriptive sentence. Major win!"

And then some of the sparkle diffuses to wonder, amazement, and near self-deprication with the thought "what about that assignment was so beautiful and brilliant? why is Jessica drawn to my writing?" But I catch myself. I stop myself thank goodness! My brain has been known to snowball quickly--especially with these sorts of critical musings. And I recognize how fully affirmed I am feeling.

An incredibly well-spoken, well-read, well-educated neuroscience professor has just complemented me in a huge way.

HOLY DANG.

And then I think deeper again (see, you don't want to be me, it can be exhausting)..."why is this so big for me? what about this is important to me?" Yes, I took narrative therapy this summer, can you tell?! 

A trip around the block searching for a spot to park allowed me the time to answer...I already knew it was important that people like my writing. I figured that out sophomore year of college when I encountered the first professor who did not particularly care for my style--the comments on my papers were always style-related--and I noticed I was offended. I know I am a good writer, but I'm not comfortable describing myself with any stronger adjectives. The questioning, learning, self-conscious creator inside me needs affirmation. I don't want to just be a good writer. I'm not okay with just being good. Somewhere along the purple cobblestone road of my life, I decided that's not good enough for someone whose career desires have, for years, included writing a book (at least one) and earning a Ph.D. People who are just good writers might write a book but not get published or if they know the right people they get published but no one buys their book. 

To be affirmed in my writing style is to be told that my dreams are reachable, that I'm not a crazy person who wants fresh pumpkin pie in April (oops, that's already happened). 

This afternoon, I met a part of myself that needs to be pushed to excel while its efforts are being both rewarded and affirmed. Now that I know I need feedback that does this, I'm gonna go seek it out. Next time Jessica calls something brilliant, I'll sit down with her and hash it out some more. If she's as intelligent and wonderful as her reputation says, I'm in good hands for the next 12 weeks. 

Cinnamon Chex, Rainbow Sherbet, and Pocahontas

This week has not been a winner in the life of Emily Clark. One to remember, definitely, but probably on my top 10 list of weeks I don't wish to ever repeat.

About an hour or so ago, my friend Theresa called to check-in on sickly me. Be proud of me, when she asked "how are you feeling?" I responded saying, "actually kind of awful" though I know the socially appropriate response is "oh, I'm doing alright" even if I feel like a slightly warmer version of death. Conversation ensued about the reasons for this awful feeling and took a slight left turn to emotions then a down escalator to problems and fears followed by a ferry ride through the sea of possibilities, specifically on the course of here-and-now acceptance strategies. Theresa is my "let's brainstorm a plan and use it to fix this" gal.

"Sit on your couch and watch your sick movie," she says. "But I don't know what my sick movie is...I know what yours is..." I respond almost thinking I could use her sick movie as my own then realizing that's exactly what I need to not do--to look away from what I need and what will make this easier for me and instead, forces on someone else in a way that I know I can fix...because, after all, it's much more fulfilling and far less vulnerable to fix another person's problems than to sit in the swampland of your own. And then it came to me: Pocahontas! She's not my favorite, not even close, but that's not the point. She's got a simple story with laughs and tears and songs and colors. I can watch it with my eyes transfixed or with them gently fluttering closed and it is exactly perfect.

Yesterday was my first day of class and I left school after 1 1/2 (of 3) classes--this is very unlike me, I don't leave unless I have to leave. People know this about me. My graduate program is not tiny but it's not ginormous--about 120--and I'm are studying clinical mental health social work (aka therapy) which means all my teachers are current or former therapists and by mid-semester a lot of our personal junk has been neatly layered on the desks of our classroom. This ain't law school people. This is just to say that a friend called me after I told her I had left early and decided I was struggling. True, but I wasn't going to say it. She showed up later with some of my favorite foods (i.e Cinnamon Chex and Rainbow Sherbet) and ready to have a conversation not about how I was feeling.

I have many talents. Declaring my needs is not one of them. I know this. For years, I've sort of hoped people will just know what I need and be able to provide those things to me. Then I realized that I'm not the only one who can't read minds, it's part of the human condition. Dang. But I spent so long not articulating these things that to do so now feels at best, foreign, at worst, unreachable. Luckily, I have found a happy medium, I have found people who have instincts and who know me well. I have learned to stomach the feeling associated with saying "something's not quite right right now and I want you to know" and I'm still working on changing the second clause to "and I need some help," but there are folks in my life who interchange those words for me and then they poke me and poke me until I let them help.

Sometimes it's a push to do what you need rather than settle for what works for someone else. Sometimes it's a hug. Sometime's its knocking you down just to remind you how strong your legs really are. Sometimes it's saying 'I care about you and I'm here for you' by doing something I can't.  And, hey, sometimes it's colluding together to avoid the problem.

Cheers to being better together...to feeling better together!

Supply list for 18th grade: Scissors, Duct Tape, and a Nalgene Waterbottle

Tomorrow I meet my advisees at orientation.
Thursday I begin class.
Next Monday I begin my internship at Boston Medical Center.

Abundant with gratitude, I breathe calmly because my final year of graduate school gets rolling with a gradual start. I can only imagine the number of four letter words and emotionally charged texts I'd be giving out if it all happened on one day!

In honor of the first week of school, it seems fitting to tell you about the items required for a successful encounter with the 18th grade--or so I think, perhaps there will be a sequel to this post after graduation next May.

Scissors:
When I lived with my best friend during our senior year at SLU, we got to know each other's quirks in a whole new way. She realized I have my own style of watching television--it involves turning on the device then turning my back and cooking dinner or opening my compute to catch up on emails. I learned that she has tons of nifty tricks to help one live frugally. When it got to the point that a squeeze provided no progress, Annie would use scissors to cut open her toothpaste tube or face wash or lotion container--she knew there was more inside to be used.

My school scissors are for opening myself up so I can dig deeper and find the good stuff still inside me. This is going to be a tough year--physically, emotionally, and mentally. I'm in a 4-day a week internship as well as a full load of classes. This internship gives me the opportunity to do therapy with my first clients...but I have to be ready to see my first client at 8am, which means I have to leave the house around 6:50 to get not he subway, which means I have to wake up at 5 to run. I'm out of practice with the early-wake up call because I've been injured since December. And after I leave the clinic, I head straight to swim practice where I get to coach 13&unders for 2-3 hours, ending just in time for me to get home to go to bed. I'm going to need every last ounce of will power, desire, confidence, compassion, and dedication I can squeeze out...and then some.

Duct tape:
In middle school I learned of the reinforcing power of duct tape. You can get the sparkly or neon kind and make borders on your notebooks and folders from the dollar store when they begin to get tattered and torn--usually by Thursday of the first week. Even if you get the more expensive laminated notebooks, they're still going to fall apart, it's just a matter of time.

If you're just hearing about fun duct tape now, go get some here!

Things fall apart. That's just how life it. It's messy and mostly unpredictable. When this year whips me around too fast or tries to squeeze me into a space where I don't really fit, I'll bounce back, of course, but I'm also going to need some duct tape to hold the pieces of me together. There's no shame in needing some help to keep it together.

Nalgene Waterbottle:
The nalgene water bottle came on the market when I was in middle school or that's when it became popular. I'm not going to look it up. These honkers were big and colorful and virtually indestructible. For a swimmer who has her water bottle kicked around the pool deck and thrown a bit too hard to her in the pool where it smashes on the gutter, these babies were magic! Enough water to last through practice and the ride home AND we didn't have to worry about them cracking or leaking. GODBLESSAMERICA.

Nalgene's made me feel prepared and safe. I need one this year to hold my confidence and compassion. It's gotta be a nalgene because it's gotta be refillable while also being unbreakable. Last year, as an intern with the Dept of Children and Families, the softness of my skin became a concern rather for the first time. I took things home with me and thought about them often. Though I wasn't traumatized by what I heard and saw, it affected me deeply. And that's okay. I'm supposed to feel, but feel with an tough skin and a fluid center. Every time I sit down with a client, I will be pouring myself into our conversation. I need to keep my lid off when I leave so I can remember to be refilled. It's that self-care stuff my professors tell us about at least once each class period.

There are still lots of Labor Day sales going on--go buy your stuff! Happy learning!