There was something about the way I was brought up, and the way I reacted to my upbringing, that created a hapless young man with no idea what he wanted out of life. When asked as a child, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I’d respond “A doctor or a scientist,” quickly checking my mom’s reaction to make sure that I had answered properly. She liked these two professions, so that was my story and I stuck to it for many years.
I had music as an avocation throughout my youth. I started in a church choir in early childhood, picked up the guitar at about 12, and continued singing, playing and composing music well into my college years. Then I took it too far.
I got an offer to travel with an “Up With People”-style gospel singing group when I got out of high school. After a significant fight with my parents, at the age of 18 I decided to go. My mom pursed her lips at me for years over that decision. What happened to being a doctor or a scientist?
Worse, when I returned from that enlightening year, I dared to dream of embarking on a music ministry. I had been encouraged by the music director of that group – he said I had a natural affinity for music. That was all the encouragement I needed – impressionable youth that I was. So after a couple of semesters of generic calculus and science curricula, I announced to my family that I was changing my major to, of all things, Music. My mom’s lips pursed audibly, they snapped shut so fast. She was not happy.
I did pretty well in music. I was a vocalist with a specialization in composition, and my compositions were featured in a couple of recitals. But the horror of stage fright (which somehow did not abate even after a year-long national tour with a fairly renowned singing group) made it clear that I didn’t want to pursue that career any further.
In the meantime, depression had begun to sink in. In an attempt to find relief from the gnawing disease that was robbing my satisfaction with life, I started seeing a therapist. He suggested that I might be good at being a therapist. That, it turns out again, was all the encouragement I needed. I promptly and enthusiastically changed my major to Psychology.
My mom blew a gasket. She had finally resigned herself to my life of obscurity as a poor musician (and had finally been impressed by my meager success in that arena), but the thought of my deteriorating further into a career of psychology somehow broke the camel’s back. Whatever will become of your music? she whined.
In the meantime, I had begun working as a bookkeeper in a mail order company to put myself through school. It was fun work for me – I had always enjoyed the statistical part of psychological experimentation better than the nether world of psychoanalysis anyway. And my boss said I was a natural as an accountant. That, it turns out yet again, was all the encouragement I needed – I was off again, this time to school in accounting.
Well, at least this was business, my mom apparently reasoned, so she didn’t kvetch with such vehemence any more. And in the meantime, my good grades and diverse coursework in college had earned me a Phi Beta Kappa key, and a Summa Cum Laude degree. My mom, mollified, began to see me progress as a financial analyst and accountant. Soon I was Assistant to the Controller – then Marketing Manager! Then Inventory Planning Director! I was on the go!
Then I quit my job at the mail order company because it was too stressful. I began a six-year nearly fruitless search for a nonprofit that would hire me, deciding I wanted to do something more meaningful than hawking men’s clothing via catalog. I worked at a couple of nonprofits, including a church for eight years. But I never made enough to save any money.
Then I got a job as an Accounting Manager at an engineering services company. In two years I was the Controller! My mom, finally impressed with my success, passed away while I was at that job. At least she died happy (although she never was fully convinced that I was eating enough vegetables, and frequently stated as much).
The final blow to my career, though, was my last job, as a Controller for a defense contractor. As I’ve said, that job left me physically depleted and sick. Thank god my sainted mom died before I quit THAT job. Her head would have imploded!
Have you sensed a theme? Well, now with no mother to disapprove of my decisions (except for the nagging echo of her voice in my mind) I was suddenly thrust into being the captain of my own fate, with no one to suggest any affinities for me to follow. Whatever shall I do? All I know now is accounting and financial analysis.
Here’s the point: Even though I was clearly making my own decisions all along, they were not based on my dreams. They were based on the preferences, suggestions, and observations of other people. I was clearly a man with a lot of promise, but absolutely no internal compass whatsoever.
I mourn at the thought of myself as a child, manipulated by my situation and naïve childish decisions to forego any semblance of real, self-directed dreams. And now, at the ripe age of 53, I have tasked myself to put a “WHAT” with my “WHY.” So I have to learn a whole new skill-set – I have to learn how to dream.
Fortunately, there are resources. Did you know that there are actually certified “dream coaches”? I didn’t. Now I do. One I am following with interest is Marcia Wieder. Check out that link to her free e-book offer. These are some amazing resources.
I will share more about my process of learning to dream in future posts. Stay tuned!
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