Who You Are
I wrote this post on December 6, 2019, and never hit publish on it because I just wasn’t sure I wanted to.
But today I got the official go-ahead to register for my teaching certification test — because, oh, by the way, I decided to get a teaching certificate in April when the world was still shut down and I was panicked about what I was going to do when my writing contract ended in May and my gym was still closed for the foreseeable future and it was something that had been in the back of my mind for a couple of years anyway, rattling around in that way of things you don’t anticipate ever actually getting around to doing.
I felt like writing something about it, and how I felt like I’d fully shifted into this place of being happy about pursuing a career path that was really different than the one a younger version of myself had always envisioned. And then I remembered that I’d already written something about it, kind of. And I read this back. And turns out, one year ago I basically already said everything I wanted to say.
The only differences are that, as of today, I’m an operations manager for Momentum as well as a head coach; and honored to be a part of our Climb School staff as well, personal coaching and teaching lead classes. The skills and experience I’ve gained in those roles, in fact, have been some of my biggest motivators as I started down the teaching path. I’m actively subbing for Katy ISD and hoping to find a full-time teaching spot once my certification is complete, freelancing photography jobs on the side when I feel like it, and generally, genuinely excited and curious about the future. Thankful to be in that place — and to have a piece of writing like this that lets me look back and get a glimpse that I’m growing in the right direction.
Eight months or so ago, the general manager at my climbing gym, Rees, asked me if I’d ever thought about coaching. I laughed out loud, and said no. I’d been climbing for about seven months at the time. I had never thought about coaching anyone on anything.
“You should think about it,” he said anyway.
And I did — for maybe ten minutes, and every now and then at random times. But mostly what I thought was “no,” and moved right along.
“Hey, did you ever think about coaching?” he asked again, a couple months later.
“Kind of?” I laughed. It had been in the back of my mind. I’d been climbing for less than a year, I wasn’t sure, it seemed like a stretch. But he assured me he wouldn’t be asking if he didn’t think I’d be a good fit, that I’d be partnered with more experienced coaches, and mentioned that there was a final round of coaching interviews the next night. If I wanted, I could hop in and try it for the fall season. Just twelve weeks. Just give it a shot.
And for whatever reason — probably because Rees is just the kind of person you want to say yes to — I said I’d go to the interview. When I grabbed dinner with my parents that night and told them, half-jokingly, neither seemed surprised.
“I think that would be a great fit for you,” my mom said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. My friends had similar reactions. I shrugged, went to the interview, was offered a spot and decided, “Why not?”
I started coaching.
I loved it.
I loved work that involved me being on my feet. I loved the purpose of getting to know the kids and further their goals. I loved how it challenged me and pushed me to become a better climber myself. I loved the curiosity it both spurred and satisfied. And honestly, despite the learning curve (which I’ll forever be behind, in some ways, I think), I loved how natural it felt. Surprisingly so.
In the months since, I’ve taken on more classes. I got head coach training, and a Climbing Wall Association CWI certification. When the gym’s assistant manager left in the fall, I was curious what the path to a position like hers would look like and decided it didn’t hurt to ask. When Rees and our new AM, Ellen, told me I’d need operations experience — and offered me a spot on the ops team — I decided to walk through that door, too. And surprise, surprise — I’ve liked it.
At one point not long ago, I found myself harnessed into a lift, wobbling at the very top of the building as Rees swapped out auto-belays on our speed wall and handed them carefully down to me. As we made our jerky descent back down, my palms sweating, I turned to him and said, “If you’d told me one year ago that in a year I’d be doing this—” and he burst out laughing.
Writing has always been an anchor for me. My greatest strength, the skill I’ve spent more time honing than any other. There are very few things in life in which I am utterly confident. My writing ability is one of them. Maybe the only one. It’s not to say my voice is for everyone; but given a blank sheet of paper, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt I can tell you a story that will compel you. It’s what I do best.
So it makes sense that I spent my college career getting a journalism degree and as many writing gigs as possible, even though I clearly couldn’t choose typing over a sunny day. Or a snowy day. Or a good conversation with a friend. Or a sporting event of any kind. And spent more time in my “marketing assistant” role at the hockey rink helping out at skate rental or assisting ops staff during games than doing any marketing. And really only liked writing 2,000+ word stories on niche sports from weird angles, which I now know is an essentially nonexistent job market.
And it makes sense that I tried desperately to get jobs that utilized those same skills after college, landing myself in marketing in order to make something resembling a living and constantly trying to pitch stories on the side. Even though, in an almost out-of-body-experience that I don’t remember ever admitting to my parents or many friends, I turned down a true journalism job offer from a local paper after college because I realized it would mostly be me sitting in a cubicle calling high school football coaches on weekends, when all my friends could go hiking or snowboarding.
And it makes sense that I’ve worked in those kind of marketing and creative roles ever since, even though as soon as I reached a maintenance point with any of them I’d get intensely bored. And began to notice that the opportunities for independent creative work I’d hoped would come from the “credibility” of having a creative title were, actually, not coming. And that the independent creative projects I was brave enough to pursue on my own were just as, if not more, fulfilling than any of my paying work. And that I had a similar reaction to working in a traditional office environment that most people do to, say, mild poison.
But what I’ve been learning — finally, slowly —is that my identity is not in what I do professionally. And there is freedom in that.
I’ve never been willing to trade life for words. And I’m never going to be.
For years, people have advised me to stay in writing-adjacent careers; to pepper publications with story pitches, to cold-call and email small magazines, to just keep knocking until someone opens a door. To use the right hashtags and tag the right websites or companies and make the right connections. And none of that is bad advice. I’ve taken a lot of it, and it’s probably what I would give someone else.
But what I’ve finally settled on is that the best writers don’t necessarily make it, the most persistent ones do. And those are sometimes the same thing, but not always. And I’m just not going to be the most persistent.
I’m not so driven to achieve a career goal that I’m willing to sacrifice road trips or relationships or a lot of time on a bike or covered in chalk, climbing walls. And even beyond that, I’m not so driven to achieve a career goal that I’m willing to bend over backwards to fit or sell myself within a market.
The last time I reached out to a (very small, mind you) climbing magazine to ask about freelance writing, they responded positively and asked for story ideas. I sent back a few, hopeful; only to get a response focused less on the ideas and more on me. What angles did I bring to the table? Was I also a coach? An athlete? Someone with industry experience? A large social platform? I just abandoned the email chain.
“I’m a writer,” I wanted to respond. “A good one. Is the job not writing?” Their message was clear, though — the writing itself was secondary. It’s not an uncommon position for publications to take, in my experience. And honestly, it’s not one I’m willing to spend time or energy arguing. Even if it means I get published less. Or not at all.
All of this probably sounds straightforward from here. It’s certainly the sort of thing that I feel like I was the last to know.
“I can’t believe how much I like just… not working behind a desk or a computer screen,” I told one of my roommates at one point. She laughed at me.
“Look, based on what I’ve heard about your college experience alone, I feel like I could have told you that a long time ago,” she responded.
But for years, I’ve tied a lot of who I am into what I do. And who would I be if I wasn’t primarily a creative? If writing wasn’t something I was being paid to do, could I still call myself a writer? (It still is, at this point; but when my contracts are up, what then?)
Staying in creative jobs has guarded me from a lot of imposter syndrome even here on this website, honestly. It makes sense for someone working in marketing or communications to share their own written work. If I’m not working in those fields, it feels a lot more like another white girl posting a blog on the Internet that no one asked for. Self-indulgent. And, if no one’s reading it, a little pointless — right?
Maybe. But also, maybe not.
If I wasn’t me, and one of my friends was having a similar identity crisis, I’d probably say, “Who cares?” You’re who you are, not what you do. It’s advice I know to be true, even if I’m terrible at taking it myself.
But I’m trying.
I’m going to keep writing, but I’m not going to keep structuring my life inside the box of what I think a writer should do. I’m going to keep writing, but I’m also going to be a rock climbing coach, and I’m going to stop worrying about how incongruous that sounds and enjoy how fun it is. I’m going to keep writing, but I’m probably going to do things a little differently, and I might be the only one to ever publish my work.
I’ll probably have lots of jobs in the future, and some of them may even involve sitting behind desks and computer screens. For the right kind of project, I won’t mind. Even now, in the last few months of rewriting Kingsland’s student curriculum, I get giddy when I think about getting to be a part of this work — to give my best words to kids and topics I love so dearly.
But it’s been nice to admit that I’m not necessarily wired for that kind of work, and that I’m free to lean into opportunities that suit how I actually am. Instead of making those “non-creative” jobs I’ve had here and there second tier, I’m likely looking at an upcoming season where I let my non-creative-field work take center stage; and write, instead, on the side.
This isn’t groundbreaking news for anyone but me, and I debated writing anything about my little identity-crisis-and-resolution on here at all.
But I’m a month away from this little blog’s five year anniversary, and it dawned on me the other day that I basically have a public journal of my early twenties. Which, yikes, I’m sure; but also, I’ve recorded just about every lightbulb moment I’ve had since graduating college. And it felt like this one deserved to get its own space, too. I want to remember what it was like to have something so obvious to others around and beyond me be such a revelation to myself.
Maybe it’s just this season and someday that will end, but in a lot of ways, growing up just feels like becoming more myself little by little by little. And so far, I like who I am.
