Four-Year Plan

Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans. ~John Lennon - Beautiful Boy

Last year, during a meeting with my thesis advisor, I noticed that one of the files he had on his computer was entitled "Four-Year Plan" - and it had been written by one of the first-year undergraduate students. I figured this had been a requirement, dictated by my advisor, for Andrew to join the lab. And it got me thinking: on the one hand, it's a great idea in order to see his level of commitment and his goals for college, to get him thinking about long(ish)-term goals; on the other hand, it's unfair to expect a first-year student to have a substantial four-year plan that is an actual, typed-up Word document, you know?

Here's the thing about plans (and I should know, because I love having a plan): they often don't work out. Most of the time, what actually happens is only a semblance of what was planned to happen. Thus, for frosh to have a four-year plan is all well and good, but the likelihood of that plan working out is maybe only 50/50. I know many people who came into college with a solid plan - go to med school, go to grad school, work on Wall Street, etc. - and ended up following that plan, but I also know many who came in with a plan and left without one. (I also know people who came in without one and left with one and some who came in without one and left without one, too.)

Had I been asked four years ago to write my four-year plan, what would have been on it? Heck, four years ago, I thought there was no way I wouldn't have graduated by now and, oh look, I'm still here. Coming into college, I was so sure I was going into research - because I didn't have any other idea of what I could do. I thought my major and undergraduate degree were going to dictate my life path. Silly me. I planned to go to grad school; I planned to work in tissue engineering or pharmaceuticals; I planned to be a scientist. Plans fall apart. Which isn't always a bad thing, I've learned.

Thank goodness I realized research wasn't for me now than after a year or so in grad school. I can just imagine how much more I'd be freaking out about my future then. Thank goodness I got involved in other things outside of science here - it turns out that my RA experience has made for a decent personal statement for law school. (I would say, though, that coming into college, I think it was always my intention to become an RA... so some plans do work out. Imagine that.)

I suppose I am following my four-year plan to some extent by trying for Teach For America. I have wanted that so badly for so long (since 11th grade, at least)... I don't know how heartbroken I would be if I didn't get in (my guess is extremely), but I think I could take comfort in the fact that I still have a plan (ironic, no?) in going to law school. In my questioning of how fit I am for a program like TFA, I have accepted that they may not want me nearly as much as I want them, and I realize that's the way it's supposed to be.

I took this philosophy when I was rejected from colleges: if they don't think I belong there, then I don't belong there. And that's fine. There are places I do belong (Penn State, for example!), and though I would be broken up about not getting in, I am taking a very Zen view on this TFA thing, because I am learning that it is not for everyone, and in the classroom may not be where even the heartiest cheerleaders for educational equity belong.

My revelation comes from this: a dear friend, even more rah-rah TFA than I, has decided to leave the program. I couldn't help but feel angry toward those who quit institute this summer, but I have found that I feel nothing but sympathy for my friend, who had triumphed through institute, and who I know has given her kids all that she has so far. It's just not working out. I understand her motivations, and I respect her decision wholly.

This is what I mean about having a plan. Last year, she was all set on doing the program and moving out West and everything that comes along with uprooting your life for two (or maybe more) years. Now, it's time for a different plan. I would say she is a very flexible person, much more than I, and I know that she is going to find something else she truly loves, probably also related to education, and rock at it. And I'm grateful for the lesson in her experience, that if I do get in and feel that validation that TFA thinks I can succeed in the classroom, I will still need to think long and hard about what is right for me, whether or not I think I can, and try not to get blinded by my devotion to the organization. But anyway, I will cross that bridge when I get to it (aka November 10, the day admissions decisions are revealed).

I've just been thinking about plans lately and how I have this whole law school schedule worked out (10 days to Duke!... if my last letter of recommendation ever gets processed. You're killing me, LSAC!) and the Teach For America schedule memorized, but I still have no idea what's going on for next semester. I've also been thinking about the next five years (assuming two for TFA, three for law school) and how much, exactly, my life will change after I leave Penn State. Where will I be - physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually? The physical I have some say in, considering I will get to rank my regional preferences for TFA and apply to only those law schools I would actually want to attend, but everything else? Who knows?

While I've always enjoyed the certainty of knowing and of having a plan, I think there's a lot of freedom in not having everything all pinned down, too. If I were to actually sit down and write a four- or five-year plan today, I don't think it would make me inflexible to future change, necessarily, but I think I would find myself inordinately disappointed by things that didn't go according to that plan. I mean, we're getting to an age where many crucial decisions are made, ones that dictate our futures much more than "should I get a minor in Spanish?" I can't quantify it, but I feel like in your 20s, you take failure more personally than ever, as if somehow you're supposed to become perfect as you age.

I just want to remind myself sometimes, Come on, cheer up, kid, you're still young... You've got a whole lifetime ahead of you for the best-laid plans to go awry.