When I was twenty-one, freshly graduated from college, I was offered an internship at a small publishing house in San Diego, whose unique children’s books I greatly admired. I’d written a novel for children and studied visual art and was thinking this was a logical step that might lead to a job. They accepted my proposal and I drove to San Diego, rented a studio apartment, and stayed for three months. But overall, I wasn’t happy. I’d strategized to try and get something, but wasn’t really there for the actual experience; I was there for the future security I thought I should try to get. But in striving to connect the dots to a job, I had failed to connect me as well and was strangely absent from the picture.
After the internship, I returned to Seattle, distressed about what kind of work to pursue. Eventually, exhausted from doubting myself and trying to figure out my life, on an impulse, I interviewed for part-time work at a daycare. As I approached the large room filled with 30-40 four and five year-olds, a little girl named Ella stood before me wearing a dress and a long strand of large beads, her straight brown hair cut short and blunt with bangs. She greeted me as though she were the prime minister of a small but dignified country and took me in. Ella had much to say and I was interested. As I sat across from her and her friends, without trying to get anything, I discovered both a new world to love and more of myself.
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