a recipe for disaster.

Last week was terrible.

When we're growing up and thinking of what we want to do, who we want to become and where we want to go, a dream is established. Sometimes this is problematic. I think where people often go wrong is they don't account for the nightmarish moments, the stumbles and pitfalls or the challenging seasons, which all make up the journey of one's dream.

Or there are people like me.

People like me are perfectionists. People like me become uneasy with the idea of altered plans. People like me make a mistake and it's on the forefront of their mind, begging for attention. People like me get so wrapped up in the nightmarish moments, the stumbles and pitfalls and the challenging moments. People like me aren't thrown off when difficulty comes, but rather, fear there is no way out of it when it does. People like me lose sight of the dream itself.

Rewind. What is the dream?

Well, when I was little, the dream was to become a chef. It was all very simple in that 12-year-old brain of mine; I would be a chef and own my own restaurant in New York City. The inspiration came from watching my grandmother through the years as she made her homemade chicken and dumplings for our family holidays. Fast forward a couple of years and a few bowls of ramen noodles later, and I am nowhere near chef status. Like the countless batches of cookies I have made, that dream was ruined.  

The dream has changed quite a bit.

I don't know the exact moment that I knew I wanted to be a journalist, but it happened. It was sparked by some inspiration like before. I became less interested in the chicken and dumplings, and more interested in the person that was making them. I became interested in people's stories, and I fell in love with the uniqueness of each one.

This semester I have been working part-time as a reporter for The Missourian. It's embedded in a class for school, but it is too demanding to slap the label of "a class" on it. It's tough.  

If I'm being honest, I have felt inadequate and like a failure 95% of this semester. That's a lot of feeling like you're this small (insert how small your fingers can get here).

I said last week was rough. Here's why:
--I cried in front of my editor three times on two separate occasions. Ew.
--I actually used the words, "I feel like a shitty journalist" to my editor.
--My editor was honest about the improvement I needed to have. We'll leave that there.
--I was frustrated because I felt that so far, all reporting was doing was showing me what I don't want to do, versus what I do.
--Because of all of these things, I got extremely hung up on skills, or lack of, and sulked. Seriously, ask my roommates.

I'm not saying the hard times stop here. I'm not implying the challenges are all past tense. I am, however, becoming more comfortable with the idea of failure and the lifestyle of imperfection. Because that is my life right now.

I gave up the dream of becoming a chef, but I'm not giving up the dream of journalism. I am, however, doing some reevaluating with where I see my future, aligned with what I'm passionate about and good at. News reporting is neither.

I don't have all of the answers right now, but I plan on finding them out. People like me usually don't stop until they do.