A Bluesy Portfolio Story

Coming off of one of those nights of sleep that is less sleep and more just night. 
School is making me think a lot about my future. And more than ever, making me realize how not prepared I am for it. I’m in a class this quarter called Portfolio, that is just that– a class where we make our portfolios to represent ourselves as an artist/designer/young professional in the near future. The professor and the work load are nothing I can’t handle, but so far, our first project (making a collection for a company you see yourself working for) is forcing me to ask some questions of myself and think, for the first time, truly unhypothetically (not a word) about my future. 
These very realistic, very healthy, very answer-worthy questions are creating a train of thought a little like this: 
uncertainty –> panic –> insecurity –> defensiveness –> avoidance
Am I any good at fashion? 
If I am, do I even like it? 
Where would I want to work? (That’s a big one for me.)
How do I get hired there? 
Am I competitive enough?
Am I driven enough?  
Am I creative enough?
What can I offer to my dream companies that they don’t already have?
What else could I do if not fashion?
Would I be happy?
Would I feel like a failure? 
Should I be a writer? 
Am I any good at writing? 
Why do my two main interests in life lead to careers notorious for leading a life of unemployment? 
Would I be miserable if I like, seriously, lived in New York?
Can I afford New York?
Is living in New York, even when you can afford it, fiscally irresponsible as a human being?
Am I morally ok with the idea of living in New York City?

Did I eat more ice cream last night than I should’ve?
Is it possible to eat too much ice cream? 
These questions are old, and stale and frankly, I’m bored with them. I’ve been thinking about them for years now. Unfortunately for me (and you for having to read about it since my first day of college), I have yet to come up with answers to these questions that are satisfying enough for me to move on from them. 
What I’m realizing is that I do know most of what I want out of life. 
I want a job that I don’t dread going to everyday. 
I want a job that provides the means for me to consistently and easily pay my bills every month. 
I want a job that doesn’t leave me too tired to do other things that make me very happy. 
I want to feel competent. 
I want to feel appreciated. 
I want to regard my coworkers on a scale of 1-10 (1 being the worst humans ever) at at least a 5. 
To me, those goals seem attainable. None of those “requests” seem high maintenance or untimely or outlandish. (Are they? Seriously. Tell me what you think.) but when I look at the opportunities in front of me, I feel small. I feel under-qualified, I feel like a face in a sea of thousands (yes, sometimes thousands) of other applicants, I feel like a contestant on a game show who is there and eager and knows the answer but just isn’t pushing the buzzer fast enough. I feel defeated before I even start. 
Sleep deprivation and a sore upper abdomen area (thanks, mom, for the yoga gift card) are making everything seem a little worse right now. And I’m sorry to say that I can’t end this post by wrapping everything up in a ribbon and a rejuvenating 10 mile jog around Savannah, but I’m happy that I got to say it and thank you for listening to me, Mr. Mystery Reader of The Dark and Wonderfully Starry Internet Skies. 
I’m working on mentally, physically, emotionally and vocally acknowledging and admitting that I am in absolutely no control of this and to repeatedly surrender. 
Looking at my hands, turning my palms over to the sky, looking at them, realizing that they carry nothing and being grateful for that.
Over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. 

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