On Boxes, and Career Choices
I remember being so excited to take the ASVAB test in 11th grade. This was part of our routine standardized testing docket for 1998, and it was pitched to us as a test that would help us figure out the best career path based on our natural aptitude and abilities.
No one told us that it was also the test that the military would use to determine which of us poor, rural high school kids to most actively recruit. My friend Holly got called so often, her mom eventually lied and said they were communists to get them to stop.
Spoiler alert, I did so poorly on the mechanical reasoning part of the test that exactly zero military recruiters called my house to ask if I’d ever consider enlisting.
Anyway, I was so excited about this test because it was the first time I was getting some real, externally validated information about how to best use my skills in a career. I knew I was smart, and had potential, but aside from that had absolutely no clue what would be the best “job” for me. That meant I had no idea what I was supposed to major in when I got to college. And this seemed like the literal million dollar question. Your major led to your career which led to success. All this together felt like an unbearable amount of pressure for me.
Part of the pressure also came from the thought that maybe what I was going to do with my life didn’t quite fit into anything I was seeing in my life in a small town in rural north Alabama. The best my mama could hope for was that I’d be a doctor, lawyer, or K-12 teacher. But neither of those sounded great, because I don’t like hospitals, working in a law office, or the thought of spending all day with so many kids. I was part of a leadership group that allowed us to job shadow one person for a day, and when I asked to shadow a genetic engineer I got laughed at, and assigned to hang out with the Limestone County Commission Chairman instead. (It was Stanley Menefee at the time, for my Athens people who are curious.) I sat in a chair, watched him talk on the phone for 2 hours, went to eat fried catfish with him at lunch, and ran away from his office as quickly as I could when he brought me back to the courthouse that afternoon. He was perfectly nice, but that was not how I wanted to spend my job shadowing time. And I was upset that someone thought this was what I should aspire to do with my life. Catfish and public service are great, but just not for me.
My 17-year-old self was secretly praying, please, ASVAB, validate my need to be told I could do science, or math, or literally anything to help me escape this small town.
I won’t ever forget the feeling of deep disappointment when I read the test results. It said something to this effect:
“You would excel in a career where you put things in boxes.”
And underneath there was some clipart of a person on a factory line, packing things into cardboard boxes. Sort of like this, but in black & white.
I remember sitting there a minute, letting the disappointment sink deep into my bones, basically feeling like I’d been told something I secretly suspected from a short lifetime of being held back and discouraged by people and institutions I thought mattered: “you are so worthless, all you’ll ever be able to do is stand in place and put things in boxes.” Please don’t misunderstand me and think that there is anything wrong with packing boxes on an assembly line. But for a girl who had dreams of getting away from so many small-minded people, and leaving her actual pasture and seeing the world, who was sitting on a 4.0 gpa and would have college scholarships waiting on her to help her escape, getting told that I would never do anything but work in one of the factories nearby truly hurt.
Let’s fast-forward several years. Ultimately I settled on Communication as a major and career path, thinking there wasn’t anything boxy about a degree or field where you talk to people for a living. It’s like the anti-box of majors. Even in teaching, which I loved, there were no boxes. I excelled when I thought outside the proverbial box! Screw you, ASVAB.
And then, trying desperately to find new ways to achieve and help and escape my own personal drama through overworking, I started down a path of higher education administration. It wasn’t all bad. I learned a lot.
But one day, I was building the semester schedule for 65-ish faculty, 4 B.S. majors, a graduate program, and 180 sections. It was a routine task for an assistant minion in a giant department. I built the schedule in a large Excel file, with multiple columns, rows, and sheets. I spent hours on the schedule every semester, most of it moving things from one box to the next. Every change required, both literally and metaphorically, repacking at least 3-5 small boxes to fit in with the bigger box.
When I realized what I was doing, my brain took me back to the ASVAB, and I felt on some level like that test was laughing at me. Here I was, PhD in hand, an award-winning educator and faculty member, with years of work experience and successes, putting things in freaking boxes.
Once I thanked the universe for humbling me, I tried to find the humor and lesson in all of this. It was particularly sad because building the schedule was one of my favorite parts of the job. The ASVAB was right. I hadn’t exactly ended up in a factory, but I was exceptionally good at strategy, and ultimately, that’s what I think the test was trying to tell me. One of my strengths is an ability to see the big picture, and strategize on the little things that ultimately help achieve a bigger goal. It’s just so much easier to tell someone to put things in boxes instead of showing them that that skill goes way beyond an assembly line.
While there were hundreds of little things that ultimately contributed to my own personal big picture puzzle coming together - the realization that I needed a career change - the ASVAB and Excel schedule building were two of the first. Maybe I really am a box-packer, on some level. Maybe I’m actually stuck in a box here with this job. But I bet I could use my box-packing skills in other ways, to help even more people than I can here. Maybe it’s time for a bigger box. That truth took hold in my heart and did not let go.
On the day I decided to submit my resignation from my job, I felt like I was about to leap off a giant cliff, with a questionably functional parachute. Sure as I was that I was doing the right thing, it was still terrifying to leave the security of tenure, a salary, benefits, and everything I’d ever worked for in life. I needed one last boost of inspiration so - laugh if you want - I chose to do a Peloton ride that I knew would give me some strength. I always feel better after a ride, and sometimes spend a bit too much time trying to figure out which ride best fits my mood or needs for the day. If you know me, you know I am obsessed with my bike and my instructors, and I do something on the app or bike at least 6 days every week. I had been saving a particular Robin Arzon/DJ John Michael ride (I LOVE DJ John Michael), and I decided to take it about 3 hours before I clicked “send” on the draft email I wrote the previous week.
For my fellow Pelobuddies who want to take the same ride. 10/10 recommend.
Robin, for those who don’t know, was a successful New York lawyer who left her well-paying, stable career to do fitness, which also required a leap of faith. Halfway through the ride, Robin stopped pedaling, stood up, looked dead into the camera, and said these exact words:
“Maybe the box they’ve put you in isn’t big enough anymore.”
I nearly fell off the bike. Robin shrugged, looked over at DJ John Michael, who nodded enthusiastically and kept dancing, and I think I screamed something like “Yassss queen!!” I thanked the universe and Peloton and Robin and DJ John Michael, took a shower, went to work, and hit send, knowing that whatever box I was about to open was going to be good.
