How Do You Know: A Question of Happiness and Taking on the World

I write this post in honor of my friend who is working her way towards her dreams.

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I’ve never seen my story of grad school as one of inspiration or uniqueness. To be fair, I actually see absolutely nothing remotely inspirational in my life story. I mean, as opposed to the lives of other people I know who have actually overcome what the average member of society might see as unfortunate obstacles against all impossible odds, my life has been relatively normal. Sure, I lost both of my biological parents before I even hit double digits and my family’s socioeconomic status won’t be seeing to it that all of you reading will walk away with a new car like we’re on Oprah, but I was privileged enough to go to school. I’ve graduated almost three times now, I’ve consistently landed jobs and opportunities within my field of study since obtaining my Bachelor’s degree in 2013, and I have a roof over my head, food in my kitchen, and nice clothes in my closet. I am blessed, and I know that.

But we never realize how much the stories we are writing with our lives can impact and potentially help others. And today I learned that when my friend messaged me to ask me how I knew I’d be happy going to graduate school in Hawai’i and if I was scared.

This post is a product of that.

The very first line of my response to her question was “Let me tell you a story. I apologize in advance for the lengthiness.”

That wasn’t the original first line, though.

The initial first line, before I added the precursor, was “To be honest, I didn’t really know if I’d be happy. Heck, I’m here now about to round out year two and I still don’t know if I’m happy.” And that line is truer than most people can probably believe. I wanted, more than anything (at the time), to live in Hawai’i. I, being the apple that fell from the indoctrinated tree of mother dearest, needed a good reason to justify my moving to the middle of the Pacific Ocean. And it was just my luck that the University of Hawai’i at Mānoa had a program of study that I was interested in. And for nearly 3.5 years, I devoted my academic career to getting myself to UHM. Because then, at that time in my life, it was the one thing I knew I wanted most in the world. While the years prior to college would have seen me standing in front of the Mirror of Erised with my parents around me (much like Mr. Potter himself), freshman year of undergrad onward would have shown something more akin to a lū’au with leis and sand everywhere.

And little did I know that the kālua pig and lau lau would be so worth it.

My desire to go to grad school in Hawai’i stemmed from several different places within me:

1. I wanted to live in Hawai’i because, well, it’s Hawai’i. I also wanted to know more about the culture and history, and you just can’t get that kind of information on the mainland without also getting a heaping side of America’s notorious tainted textbook storytelling. If you want the real story, the great-amazing-powerful-culture rich story, you go straight to the source.
2. I had determined that my love of children’s media (literature, cinema, television, toys, etc.) wasn’t going to wan anytime soon and I wanted to find a way to bridge the gap between my two majors (theatre and child development). Then the heavens opened. There was a blinding white light and an angelic choir singing the most obvious answer to ever make itself visible: children’s theatre. Duh. And Hawai’i had a program and that was that.
3. I had no clue what I was doing with my life. I just knew I didn’t want to end up a bum. And in not being ready to take on the real world, I turned towards the one thing I knew better than anything. School. Nearly two decades and 80% of my life later and I’m still in school. It’s all I’ve ever known. And going to grad school to continue going to class and learning was far easier than trying to jump into a crappy economy in a field that has no middle class and attempting that 9-5 grind that I had slowly grown to realize was never quite my cup of tea. I didn’t even know what my cup of tea actually was, and even now I’m still trying to pick a brand and flavor (Lipton Raspberry would be perfect if I can find it; or Arizona half tea, half lemonade). But whatever the tea, I had to avoid being a bum.

And that last one is probably what drove me the most towards grad school. Which, in hindsight, might have been a terrible reason to jump academic ship after graduating. I didn’t take a year off. I went straight into it. But I also know myself well enough to know that if I didn’t go on to grad school, I never would. And maybe that would have turned out okay in the end. At this point, we’ll probably never know since I’m so close to having my Master’s diploma holder in my hand.

I didn’t know then if I would be happy, I just knew I needed to be doing something. But that’s not to say that I didn’t worry about my happiness constantly. I did. For those who really know me, I mean really.know.me, they know I am extremely good at psyching myself out. I possess a crazy superhuman ability to thwart all of my thoughts in a cataclysmic-traffic jam that would give even Lorelai Gilmore a run for her money. My defense mechanism (or nuclear war missile) seems to be to talk myself in and out of absolutely everything. I can’t stand to see myself happy, yet being happy is my greatest desire and not being happy is my biggest fear (even bigger than my fear of failure or dying alone/abandonment or public speaking – rounding out my top 5 biggest fears even though I don’t have a 5th biggest fear…).

Ask mother dearest. The civil war I fought with myself about going to grad school in Hawai’i has not only been the topic of many-a-road-trip-discussion, it has also been the source of many-an-intense-argument. And from that always stemmed debates on my happiness and, even more, my fear.

On August 21, 2013 (not the 20th as I accidentally typed to my friend earlier), I embarked on the scariest journey of my life. I had two giant, overweight sea-foam green suitcases, a gray and black plaid skull covered backpack filled with books and electronics, and a stuffed Yoda plush-toy on my person. I was 22, four months out of college, and trying my best to pretend that the plane I would be stepping on in two and half hours wasn’t the most daunting task of my short two-year-and-two-decade-long life. And there I stood in front of the Delta Airlines baggage check face-to-face with a guy who thought he was the best thing to happen to my day telling me that my obviously overweight baggage was, in fact, overweight. And you know what I did?

I cried.

Not because my baggage was being fat shamed (which subsequently calls me out on the number of clothes I happen to own despite the number of clothes I had actually just given away not but a week before and the rest of the clothes I had left behind in my room), but because I had tried to continue keeping it together. All summer I kept calm about booking my flight and my hotel for the first few days. I ordered bedding for my room, figured out things with financial aid, registered for classes, planned how I was going to get to campus on move-in day. I was so excited but I never really let myself feel the sheer agony and terror of picking up my entire life and moving 4000 miles away from everything and everyone I knew. It was never a question of my ability to be independent. I had been independent since the day my father died (or, you know, as independent as an eight year old could be given the circumstances).

But there I was, crying in front of the Delta Airlines drop-off, stressed out. And when I finally walked inside the airport, and mother dearest saw me and my pathetic tear-streaked face, I knew then that being scared was not only normal, it was the most acceptable emotion to feel at that moment. I had every right to be horrified. When the furthest from home you’ve ever been is on a weekend-long field trip to Massachusetts in eighth grade, yeah, you’re going to be a little scared. But I also knew that I had a support group behind me. The most important face out of that group stood in the airport with me reassuring me that everything would be just fine. I went into my move with the understanding that I could come home at anytime if I really needed/wanted to and we’d figure out the next step. If I wasn’t happy or if something wasn’t working or if I really need to regroup, I had a place to return to. Multiple places. My pink house with the pink mailbox, any of my friends’ houses, my home congregation’s church building, mother’s car. Those things would be right there waiting for me if ever I needed them.

But as mother dearest has always told me, I’ve got to try lest I regret it.

And from the minute I stepped foot on Hawaiian soil, I knew that no matter what, I would never regret coming here. No matter what happened, I could never be mad at myself for at least trying.

But it hasn’t been easy.

I worry everyday about the fluctuating health of my aunt. Knowing that anything can happen and that I am 4000 miles away and that it would be $1000 roundtrip that I don’t have to get back if something happened…it’s something I think about constantly.

I have been close to being kicked out of my apartment twice because my financial aid hasn’t covered everything and I haven’t had the money. And you can say, “Hey, maybe you should’ve thought about that before you moved to a place with $6 gallons of milk.” And you know what, you’re right. But I’m making it work and I’m still in my apartment and I will be until the day I graduate.

Mother dearest had another baby this past summer. I have only held him twice. I’ve missed his first teeth, his first Christmas. And I’m going to miss his first words, his first steps. And don’t even get me started at how little I actually get to talk to mother dearest.

My best friend had her first child back in October. I missed the birth. Who misses the birth of their best friend’s first child and doesn’t feel a little ashamed about it? And I won’t get to meet him (for the time being) until May.

I’m missing seeing my nieces and nephew grow up. I don’t get to see my brothers or my little sister. My friends are doing amazing things and I rarely get to talk to them. My hometown is physically changing and I go home disoriented or at least surprised to see another beloved and frequented shop of my childhood gone.

When you move this far away, a lot is compromised. Happiness is one of them. It doesn’t mean you’re not happy at all. I hope that’s not the case for anyone. It just means your happiness is different. Yeah, I’m watching two of the most precious, happiest little boys I have ever seen grow up through pictures via Facebook and text message. And that sucks. And sure, I wish my friends would adhere to our Skype dates more and that my family did a better job of keeping me in the loop about the physical health of my aunt and uncle. That would improve my quality of life a lot.

But at the same time, regardless of some of the guilt that has built up when I think about how selfish it must have been for me to move to Hawai’i without consulting pretty much anyone, I had to do what was best for me. Had I stayed in Nashville, I don’t know how much I would be working towards the life I want for myself. Sure, I want to eventually settle down and meet a great guy and get married and have kids, but I also want to explore and figure myself out. Moving to Hawai’i meant doing something brave. It meant trying something new. Had I stayed in Nashville, I wouldn’t have seen dolphins up close or stepped into the Pacific or scaled down the side of a cliff to gash my leg in a set of tide pools or tried amazing cuisine that you just cannot find on the mainland. Had I stayed, I never would have discovered my love of playwriting. Had I stayed, it would have taken me significantly longer to accept that I am meant to be a teacher in a nontraditional classroom setting (and it would taken even longer for me to accept that I’m okay with that).

I don’t know if grad school in Hawai’i was the absolute best thing I could have done. I don’t know if I’m as happy as I would like to be. I probably won’t realize how this chapter fits into the overall story of my life until many years down the road when I’ve started my career. What I do know, though, is that right now, I am where I am supposed to be. I know that it’s okay to be afraid. It’s okay to feel a little sad because you’ve missed some big milestones in the lives of your loved ones. I know that despite how much I love Hawai’i and all it has to offer, I don’t want to live here for the rest of my life. I don’t know where I eventually want to settle. Heck, I don’t even know where I want to go right after I’m done here and if I’ll be happy with that decision.

But I know that no matter how stressed I get, how many times I cry myself to sleep (or just into a bad mood) out of fear and confusion and guilt, I tried. And I don’t regret a thing. And I knew that the minute I decided that I was going to take on the world and do whatever I could to live my dreams. Cheesy? Yeah, but at least that notion makes me happy.