I was going to be an astronaut; there was no question about it. I was seven years old and when I grew up I was going to be an astronaut- landing on the moon, exploring space and bringing back to Earth whatever lived “up there”. My conviction that I was born to be an astronaut was formed around the time I began learning about planets (back then Pluto was still in the clique with the other eight and hadn’t been dismissed).

Mars was my favourite planet; probably because the textbooks always showed it to be a delicious red colour. Next was Saturn. Shallow little astronaut that I was, I found it quite an attractive planet; always so nicely illustrated with its colourful rings. I liked its name too- Saturn. There was a particular textbook which contained a short story about the first moon landing.  I must have read that story one hundred times; neglecting the Robinson Crusoe book, newly gifted to me.

I was going to be a teacher; of this I was absolutely sure. I no longer wanted to be an astronaut.  I don’t remember having a solid reason for the switch at the time. Maybe I felt that there were hibiscuses which seemed just as red, if not redder, than Mars. Or maybe I began thinking the astronaut's suit looked confining. Whatever it was, I was seven and a half years old and could see myself becoming a teacher. It couldn’t be that hard; I knew a few teachers. In class, during a letter-writing exercise, I had written the most stirring letter. My teacher had been so moved by my letter that she mentioned it to my mother.  I thought maybe I could teach others how to write letters that would get their teachers to mention them to their mothers.

Five years later…ten years later…more years later and the certainty is gone.  Now, all I want to be when I grow up is happy.  Being happy has become an obsession with me. I wish there were road signs pointing the way to 'happy'. I’ve met so many unhappy people- academics and professionals alike. 

 I’m afraid that I will become like them- someone who was once passionate about the thing she did for so many hours each day. Even worse, I’m afraid of becoming someone unable to detect whether or not the passion is fizzling.

So many things can happen…so many things appear capable of pushing a person to ‘get real’ when they grow up.

Plans change…this I know.  Before I entered the field of journalism, I’d never once thought of it as an option for me.  During all of my first year as a trainee in the field, I saw journalism as something I would do for only a little while before getting back on track with my main plan.  When I later returned to the field and had spent two more years in it, I began seeing its potential as a career that could matter and as something about which I could be very passionate.

Sometimes, when I observe people happy in their jobs and so genuinely fulfilled by their careers and their life in general, a hot streak of jealousy runs through me.  I find myself wondering how they first knew that this was the job for them or how easy it was for them to have figured out the things they wanted to do with the rest of their lives.  I keep wondering if my life will look anything like the plan I’ve mapped out and keep updating ever so often.

Sometimes, I just want to grow up already and matter…and be happy.

Working Girl is now updated monthtly.