I started out in college studying nursing, with the intent to also complete pre-med courses. During my second year of college, though, my mental health took a turn for the worse and I realized that, while I was actually doing well in my classes, I was not going to survive clinicals. So, I opted to switch over to history (with a focus on the history of science, since I'd already made it well over a quarter of the way to a degree in biology and didn't want to waste my credits). Having no idea what to do with that, I decided that it made sense to join one of my friends in grad school for political science, and to focus on ethnic conflict and genocide in Sub-Saharan Africa for bonus uselessness because it sounded neat at the time.
At one point, I did plan to go to either lawschool or a doctoral program in secondary education, but both were ideas from my then-fiancé's family. I didn't want to do it and, after we broke up, I pretty much just went through the motions of applying because I didn't know what else to do with my life. I didnt know it at the time, but I would later be diagnosed with what I can really only describe as the boring kind of Borderline Personality Disorder (although I'll admit that I spent years refusing a full psych evaluation because I was afraid to learn that Dogshit Manchild - 'Deserves to Die in a Dumpster Fire' Subtype was an actual diagnostic category in the DSM-V). Sadly, I will never know the simple joys of running to the ER screaming that I want to die because my favorite shirt's ruined. I was, however, ridiculously good at allowing other people to define who I was and hold complete control how I felt when this happened. At one point, I stumbled, hungover and maybe still a little drunk from a movie party the night before, into an early admissions exam that I hadn't studied for because I didn't actually care, and somehow managed to get a score high enough to look like a typo (it was the 2014 or 2015 MAT, for anyone familiar with admissions exams; raw scores over 500 are so rare that anything above 510 just looks wrong). Sometimes, I'm still a little impressed by my 23 year old self's dedication to squandering opportunities, but yeah. In the end, I opted not to go for a third, potentially more useful degree.
So, with a bachelor's in history, a master's in political science, and absolutely no idea what I wanted to do, I started looking for work. I did honestly struggle for awhile, but that was mostly because I live in a place where trees outnumber people, and where the most lucrative career opportunities usually require a road onto Forest Service land, a 1992 Honda Civic with no muffler, several months' supply of Sudafed purchased by some dudes called Squirmy and Slim, and a handgun in case you get out there to check on your investment and find some cunt rummaging around the trunk (face tats are optional, but highly encouraged). Overall, I've done well for myself, and having a degree in something has opened a lot of doors, none of which lead to a garage full of stolen high school lab equipment. In retrospect, a lot of what I thought was totally aimless bullshitting around was actually my own deeply buried awareness of what I do and don't enjoy, leading me down a path that ended with me being considerably more experienced and worldly than my peers from high school who chose to go straight into either the High Asian meatgrinder, the meth mines out near the Tennessee line, the true horror that is fast food, or even genuinely high-paying construction or agricultural management jobs.
TL;DR, you should live life for yourself sometimes. Maybe even if you don't really know what that means yet. As long as you don't do anything completely stupid and ensure that you're going to have food and shelter, it's better to have meaningful experiences that you enjoy than it is to waste your entire life doing what you think is expected of you by others. If you want to teach some kids, teach some kids. It's vitally important work that carries a lot of meaning. I work in healthcare and I've seen old people who did everything "the right way". Their kids never visit, they've never been on vacation to anywhere that isn't covered in neon and fake palm trees, they think their neighbors talking about the dinner menu are gossiping about them because they see Spanish as an unlearnable shadow tongue, they think smoking a joint will cause you to go crazy and eat some dude's face, and they always bitch about the rain until the Sun comes out to be bitched about again. Basically everyone dies either unconscious or delirious, shitting themselves in a room they share with a stranger who just wishes they'd go already so they can watch Yellowstone in peace. You don't want to get there without prioritizing the things you love, because they're not going to be there in that fucking room.
