When I was four years old I wanted to grow up to be a ladybug. My mother told me that I could grow up to be anything I wanted and, while I was a bit confused as to how this metamorphosis would take place, I knew my mother never lied to me. I remember sitting in our front yard watching the tiny spotted creatures scurry over the sidewalk and happily thinking that, one day, I would scurry too.
I eventually realized that my ambition had some serious limitations, and so I set my sights on something more practical: a princess. Over the following years I changed my goals to include a world class ballerina, an artist, and an author. I loved to read and the teachers in my English classes told me I had writing talent. I carried this dream with me for several years, and it wasn’t until late in my high school career that I abandoned it, realizing that most “aspiring authors” end up waiting tables.
From then on I was in the camp of the undecided. It was a lonely place to be, filled withe pressures from family and friends anxious to see me "commit to something." I finally settled on an education major, though it seemed as much a serious contender as a ballerina.
After graduating, I enrolled at Drake University as a Secondary Education major. I loved college, and I was good at it, earning myself a 4.0 GPA and a place on the President’s list. As much as I loved college, however, I did not love teaching.
What I did love, was my boyfriend, and when Paul proposed on New Year’s Eve, I accepted. He had been pushing me to drop my education major, and now that it was certain we would spend our lives together, he pushed harder. He wanted me to love my job.
We were both young, in love and optimistic about life. So when Paul suggested that I leave my relatively safe teaching major and take up photography instead, I thought “why not?”
When I was a senior in high school, however, I decided not to go the prom. The year before, I had been dating a boy from a neighboring city and I’d spent a considerable amount of money attending two separate proms. I decided to buy a digital camera instead.
I picked out a Canon. When I went to pick it up I was told by the clerk that it wasn’t in stock and I would have to wait three weeks if I wanted it. I am not, however, and never have been, a particularly patient person. Knowing nothing about cameras, I bought a Fuji Finepix instead. This turned out to be a mistake and I did better on my next purchase, selecting a Nikon.
At the time we were engaged, I was a mere eighteen years old (much to my parent’s chagrin) and Paul was twenty three.
My family said I was too young to get married, but admitted that I was mature for my age, and we were both very morally and financially responsible. Paul was a graduate student in seminary, at the time, working his way to a master’s degree in theology and counseling. He was an exceptionally bright student and had transferred from Iowa State University’s engineering program in favor of a small, private Bible College. He was working as an independent contractor and made a decent, though hardly outlandish, salary.
My decision to change my major affected the months before our wedding more than we had anticipated, because it was now obvious that spending another semester at Drake, with tuition at $30,000 a year, was a high price to pay for the convenience of being close to one another. I reluctantly agreed to move back home, a nearly two hour drive from Paul, and enroll in photography courses at the local community college. At the start of the semester, I dove into my studies once again, this time trying to cover my disappointment. My friends were all at college and I felt very alone. I was also a little ashamed at having left a prestigious university for a community college. It was a prideful attitude, I admitted, but a part of me still felt I was better than that.
Fortunately, I was placed in the company of a number of educators and photographers who quickly helped me realize that schooling is not nearly so important as talent and motivation.
Through the remainder of my college career, I underwent such chaos, panic and frustration that I began to wish I had become a teacher after all. If it hadn't been for the intermittent moments of joyful euphoria, I probably would have dropped photography all together and become a Wal-Mart greeter. As it is, I hoped that the action of writing down my experiences would help me to see the less irritating, more humorous side of my profession.
Here's to hope.
I eventually realized that my ambition had some serious limitations, and so I set my sights on something more practical: a princess. Over the following years I changed my goals to include a world class ballerina, an artist, and an author. I loved to read and the teachers in my English classes told me I had writing talent. I carried this dream with me for several years, and it wasn’t until late in my high school career that I abandoned it, realizing that most “aspiring authors” end up waiting tables.
From then on I was in the camp of the undecided. It was a lonely place to be, filled withe pressures from family and friends anxious to see me "commit to something." I finally settled on an education major, though it seemed as much a serious contender as a ballerina.
After graduating, I enrolled at Drake University as a Secondary Education major. I loved college, and I was good at it, earning myself a 4.0 GPA and a place on the President’s list. As much as I loved college, however, I did not love teaching.
What I did love, was my boyfriend, and when Paul proposed on New Year’s Eve, I accepted. He had been pushing me to drop my education major, and now that it was certain we would spend our lives together, he pushed harder. He wanted me to love my job.
We were both young, in love and optimistic about life. So when Paul suggested that I leave my relatively safe teaching major and take up photography instead, I thought “why not?”
When I was a senior in high school, however, I decided not to go the prom. The year before, I had been dating a boy from a neighboring city and I’d spent a considerable amount of money attending two separate proms. I decided to buy a digital camera instead.
I picked out a Canon. When I went to pick it up I was told by the clerk that it wasn’t in stock and I would have to wait three weeks if I wanted it. I am not, however, and never have been, a particularly patient person. Knowing nothing about cameras, I bought a Fuji Finepix instead. This turned out to be a mistake and I did better on my next purchase, selecting a Nikon.
At the time we were engaged, I was a mere eighteen years old (much to my parent’s chagrin) and Paul was twenty three.
My family said I was too young to get married, but admitted that I was mature for my age, and we were both very morally and financially responsible. Paul was a graduate student in seminary, at the time, working his way to a master’s degree in theology and counseling. He was an exceptionally bright student and had transferred from Iowa State University’s engineering program in favor of a small, private Bible College. He was working as an independent contractor and made a decent, though hardly outlandish, salary.
My decision to change my major affected the months before our wedding more than we had anticipated, because it was now obvious that spending another semester at Drake, with tuition at $30,000 a year, was a high price to pay for the convenience of being close to one another. I reluctantly agreed to move back home, a nearly two hour drive from Paul, and enroll in photography courses at the local community college. At the start of the semester, I dove into my studies once again, this time trying to cover my disappointment. My friends were all at college and I felt very alone. I was also a little ashamed at having left a prestigious university for a community college. It was a prideful attitude, I admitted, but a part of me still felt I was better than that.
Fortunately, I was placed in the company of a number of educators and photographers who quickly helped me realize that schooling is not nearly so important as talent and motivation.
Through the remainder of my college career, I underwent such chaos, panic and frustration that I began to wish I had become a teacher after all. If it hadn't been for the intermittent moments of joyful euphoria, I probably would have dropped photography all together and become a Wal-Mart greeter. As it is, I hoped that the action of writing down my experiences would help me to see the less irritating, more humorous side of my profession.
Here's to hope.
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