I was going to be an actress.
Or a journalist. Maybe a novelist, or perhaps a Broadway singer. I had plans -- you know? Sort of plans, anyway. Loose and flimsy plans, but plans nonetheless. Or maybe you'd categorize them as dreams, instead.
The key to success, they told me, was a degree. They advised this piece of paper, one with my name embossed fancy and large, signifying my worth, prophesying my certain success. At least four years and who knows how many dollars, but that paper would determine my future. Or so they said.
I wanted success, let me tell you. I wanted fulfillment. I wanted to be big.
I was eighteen and graduating high school and I knew nothing. I knew I knew nothing and I depended on the people who told me what success should look like. Teachers, guidance counselors, even my dentist. They all had an opinion on what my future should hold.
I was a simple girl who longed for independence, and all I really knew was that I really loved Jesus. And that I wanted to be someone. I wanted to be someone rather than do something.