Graduation Station

There are three kinds of college graduates in todays higher education system. Those who went to school for money, those who went to school for a dead end, and those who went to school to become crazy.

If you went to school for money you are smart. You worked hard though college and landed a great position in your JCrew suite. Sure your job might not be the most enjoyable thing going, but you will have weekends off and paid vacation to travel the world with your earnings. You will trade your 6-year-old car in for a fuel efficient, adult-like SUV right out of college as your “First Big Girl/Boy Purchase,” and you will pose with a thumbs up next to it for Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and Vine. Your life will be lived in the comfort of your three bedroom two and a half bath home in the middle of the beautiful neighborhood of your choice. Most of these people end up in places like Houston or Dallas. I’m not sure why, it is just what I know. But all in all, I applaud you. You have chosen the way of survival that many are too blind to see. I also offer the advice to buy a really well suited chair with your first paycheck. 30 years of sitting at a desk can be hard on the back. Or wine. Wine always seemed to get my roommates through hard times, and Tuesday nights.

If you went to school for a dead end it is because you are in a creative field and you aren’t being creative. This might sound harsh, but I am only telling you what I know from experience. Being a broadcast journalist who copied AP writing into a 9 o’clock news cast is in no way being a journalist. I wont go as far as to say anyone can do that job, the only reason they kept me around as long as they did was because the actual producer could not, or would not do it. I still can’t decide if he was the most sluggish person I’ve ever encountered or the most brilliant. One time, an overheard conversation lead me to believe he faked an illness and went to Las Vegas for an entire week. The guy was hyperventilating at his desk and coughing up fake hack. If this is in fact true, I believe he is made of sheer brilliance and could find great fortune in teaching others his ways. Either way, my advice for you is to get out. Get out while you still can. Your life is way better than punching away at a computer screen for little to no money. And frankly, in most cases, they are lying to you. Your boss isn’t waiting for a job to open up to place your name on the slightly bigger cubical, one that faces the water jug and not the wall of cords. He likes that you do the work no one else will, and he is making sure you stick around.

Lastly, you went to college to become crazy. Well, really you have been crazy for a long time, and only now you are seeing that it could potentially pay off. You want to start your own business or change the world. You settle for an efficiency in the “hip” area of whatever large city suites the dream best. Others begin to seek pity on your lack of understanding that this is not a game, and you can no longer just play with your own rules. These people pick up the check and saunter off to their newly furnished high rise at the end of the night.

The thing no one tells you about life after college is that the real world is in many ways comparable to a play ground. You can chose who you hang out with, and which activities you take part in. You can be the popular girls who stand on the side and talk sly mess about others, or you can be that weirdo off by herself who is stacking dirt and sticks, while eating the occasional hand full of rocks. All fingers pointed at me on that one. But while everyone is going about their own fun that random kid, she is making things happen. sure it is a mess of dirt when she is little, but at some point in life it becomes more.

Why Is Busy A Bad Thing?


Half a gram cracker smeared with Nutella lay limp out of my mouth as I pressed export on the Premier video editing program. 1 hour and 30 minutes remained. I tucked the computer away on the unfamiliar night stand and rolled over to take one last check at the five preset alarms on my phone. Because you never know when our beloved form of communication will fail and I will be doomed to not wake up right on time. Then I checked Facebook. Twitter. Instagram, and three separate email accounts once more.

When I was younger I begged for a life of experience, and to a non justifiable extent, fame. At the age of 23 I am sleeping at my aunt and uncles house in Gruene, Texas due to a pansy fear of returning home in the rain. I’m jolted awake (please forgive me phone for ever doubting your abilities) at 5am to a full days worth of task crammed into two hours before driving back to Austin for 8 hours of meetings and four more hours of work to follow. My hair is the opitomy of mess (mainly because it exudes my life’s permanent state) and the Chipotle burrito bowl container is sliding around my floor mat 24 hours later. Clearly dropping it in a trashcan would take away farrr too much time from the days task.

My bumper-to-bumper drives are taunted by the words of others saying my generation acts like busy is cool. And that being busy is an excuse for not managing time well.

To them I say suck it. Or more so, I ask why? Why must we act like being buys is a bad thing?

As a sophomore in college I can remember sitting around on a Saturday like it was my job. Literally, it was my job. I sat with my roommates and watched TV. We poured a glass of apple juice, and watched more TV. Around mid afternoon we would force ourselves off the couch for a Target run. Yes, the most active part of our day was spending $100 or more on things we would never use. Or apartment decor we would hate a week later.

Now, if I have just one hour of down time I treat it like what I would assume an addict treats his last hit. It is pure gold. I run around the perimeter of my two room apartment five times, jump on the bed for three minutes, then settle in to watch all the 20 reality shows I’ve DVRed. Because busy girls spring for the extra $25 a month to make sure they don’t give way on their shows, this I am sure. I do it all while simultaneously reading the books I have purchased with good intentions of finishing before my eye sight gives way.

So yes, while I understand why people think we are wasting time being busy, I also think they are not factoring in that we are really just wasting time sitting in traffic.


But honestly, we are not wasting time. We are young, and being busy isn’t a bad thing. We have dreams and they take more than a few hours to fulfill. I want to fight and push and beg and plead now so I don’t have to when I’m 60. Though lets be real, I’ll be doing it when I’m 60 because my generation isn’t capable of sitting still.

All I’m trying to say is that I don’t think being busy is a bad thing because I am having fun doing it. Though, don’t ask my mom, she will dispute my accusations, as I call her in tears of alarming concern more times than is acceptable for a 23-year-old to do so. But the average age children stop asking their parents for help now is 41, so really it’s fine.

As long as you are doing what you love, busy isn’t an option. Busy is something you desire. And one day you will find someone else who makes you not want to be as busy. You two will fall madly in love and things will slow down in an harmonious way. Because I also truly believe in fairytales. And that is all. The end.

Slaves To Failure


This is a story I have shared before. But it is one that shaped where I am today, and hopefully one that can help someone else in this crazy world we call adulthood:


I sat in on a life coaching class a few months back. As we wrote down words on the board to solidify our feelings I was asked if I was resonating with these words. If like the mothers and wives, I fit in.

“Yes, I am a slave to failure.”

At a young age we are told to do great things, be great things, live great things. In contrast we are warned that great things come with time, realistic thought, and hard work. To achieve greatness we must first fail.

“No good things come to those who didn’t struggle.”

My life is wrapped in failure. The fear of failing. The fear of ruining what I have made. The fear of turning away from a dream too quickly because I haven’t failed enough. Failed enough? Is that a joke? The truth is, we fight failure everyday because we let ourselves. I know because I’ve been there, because I let failure take my place:

As an eager beaver intern for a local news station in my college town I pulled on my most appropriate “camera ready” outfit and trotted off to destiny. My life was always meant to serve a purpose, that I was sure. What better way to do it than by the eyes of millions. Or what would one day be millions, when I took over as head anchor on a national channel. Or got my own talk show. Whichever came first.

I remember racing home with fingers crossed hoping the Red Socks would win the baseball world series. If they won, my package was going to air. A mere intern getting a spot on the 9 o’clock news. And there I sat, watching my frightened face peer out of the screen as I became a reporter! I remember thinking, there can be no feeling in the world better than this of starting my dream.

Failure isn’t always bad. But bad always feels like failure.

Though, as the months went on it wasn’t all sunshine and Red Socks wins. I became the failure. I was writing stories left and right, stacking shows all by myself, cutting video and finding video, filming video on cameras I was not legally allowed to hold. And with all this hard work, I was always wrong. Always being yelled at for bad stories and blurry footage, yet always being asked to come in when someone was sick. Working 60 hour weeks but being told I wasn’t good enough to be an actual reporter. My name became Bailey, a girl they hired to a position I was promised. Yes, this is correct. My boss not once questioned why he was now calling the girl who worked there for a year and a half a name that was not hers. Or why there were two Bailey’s on staff, wearing different outfits, at the same time… I was living failure.

And one day, as I sat at the desk I claimed when no one was looking, we heard the screams from his office.


Of course it was me. And of course I spelled something wrong. I got that screeching note at least once a week.

In one swift motion he shuffled out of his room on tottering legs, snagged a big red dictionary, the kind your mom uses to decorate but no one ever opens, and slammed it on my desk with a pudgy finger release.


What? No words could be said. No thoughts were being processed. With trembling lips I flipped page after page, my long fought battle with dyslexia creeping up on me. Rushing back came the memories of elementary school when I feared pop corn reading and buddy time because I could not make out the words on child book pages. All the years of bad grades due to mixed up letters and triple spell check swarming in around me. Chocking me. Holding me down to this now very small office.

It felt like hours. It felt like days. As the word I no longer remember, finally uncovered itself.

“Spell it.”

A quick glimpse in his direction showed that everyone in the entire office was now focused on me. Focused on the mess of tears and shaking body as I read. Letter by letter. The word that masked my failure. And then, he was gone. Gone into his office where the problem would most likely never cross his mind again. And I was left to decide, do I fight failure? Or do I let it fight me one more time?

My story, like many others is how it so often goes. We hold onto failure because we think great things will come of it. I wish I could say that story ended with an epic speech where I packed my things and left, but it did not. I turned in my two weeks the next day, only for my boss to ask if I had FINALLY found a job…

But I can say it taught me. That experience is why I am here today. Why I want to show people they can chase their dreams, and defeat failure. We have got to learn to stand up for ourselves, even in a world where unpaid internships and being immersed in our work is the norm. I hold great esteem for those who know their dreams and chase them.

Fight for your dreams and love what you do. But don’t let people steal your life, or make you feel like misery. Don’t ever be a slave to failure.