By the end of 12th grade, I had achieved “the good life” — a preview version of what I thought I wanted for the rest of my life. My name and face was broadcast to the student body twice weekly; I had an impressive resume; I had a solid group of hilarious friends, and options in the romance arena; I was seen as super nice because I distributed baked goods, mix CDs and carpool rides; I was labeled a good person because I led so much community service. I was enjoying the perfect balance of high achievement alongside magnanimous reputation; I was comfortable, ambitious and really happy. I was decent, while hoping to change the world in my name. Thankfully, that kind of life aspiration was and is completely socially condoned. Pride in self may not be, but as long as I never consciously addressed my own selfishness, and others around me believed I was “good,” I was safe. So when my Stanford career began, everything I said and did was driven by my heart’s ultimate intention: the ideal life I tasted that senior year.
But today, the beginning of my last quarter here begins, commencement beckons and much of what I used to want from college and beyond seems like someone else’s dream. Somehow, my existence at this school and my picture of the future seems…different. For a while, though, I couldn’t figure out why. After all, the “Work” bookmark group in my browser is filled with listings I would have tagged four years ago, too; I find myself looking into the same general post-college plans I would have picked out during freshman year. Plus, I look the same, my hobbies haven’t changed much and casual, four-year-old acquaintances say I’m still recognizably me. The trajectory of my time here seems to have run along with general logic and predictability. What changed, then? Why does that girl four years ago feel like a stranger I’d probably be interested to meet?
This question has been the backdrop for the numerous job-related chats I’ve been having recently with friends and various other income-earning human beings in the world. I initially started contacting these people to learn what their work was like and if I would like it: publishing, freelance writing, consulting, graduate study, urban nonprofits. But what I found myself learning most was how little their job title told me relative to their purposes behind it. “Why are you doing what you do?” is the question that has uncovered the most.
I honestly didn’t expect a graduate course professor to ask me if what I wanted from grad school was an entrance to a fascinating subject, or just an escape from the job search. I didn’t expect my music major friend to tell me she had loved performing ever since seeing the joy it gave her grandparents during their most painful days. I didn’t expect my own father to explain how he was leaving consulting to start a new investment firm in order to have deeper relationships with the people with whom he was working. Why didn’t I expect these answers? It’s because I forget that there’s a heart inside every story — the part of the story I actually love the most. Behind every word, action and interaction there is intention, and I think that intention is born ultimately in our hearts.
Of course, not everyone is thinking about their heart and what it seeks most, or about whether it’s necessary to understand how their heart plays into their version of the “good life.” Our deepest life objective is an invisible thing, with little territory in daily conversations. It is quiet and completely unannounced, even if it guides everything any of us will ever do…which I believe it does.
Sometime in the first century, a guy named Matthew wrote a revolutionary statement: where our treasures are, our hearts are also. And I agree. He suggested that what people desire most from life goes beyond rationale or intellect and right to the core of who we are. He suggested that what we treasure is the giveaway of our heart, which defines us. Well, no wonder my life is different. Somewhere between four years ago and now, what I want from life — and what I want to want — completely changed. And it wasn’t a mere head decision.
In the end, this is just a school column written by a random 21-year old girl. Yet I hope it means something, if it comes straight from my heart.
Curious? Questions? Complaints? Email Nina at ninamc “at” stanford “dot” edu. Happy April, Stanford!