When I was in first grade,a really long time ago, for some strange reason, our school had us take a test to identify careers we might be suited for.
This was long before online assessments. Back in the era of mimeograph machines. (Google it if you’re under forty.) I can still remember the smell of those purple copies.
We sat down, answered whatever questions first graders answer on a career test, and waited for the results. Mine came back on a narrow slip of paper.
I was sure it would say teacher. Maybe nurse. Something familiar. Something that made sense to a seven-year-old.
Instead, at the top of the list was:
Train Engineer.
What the actual hell.
No explanation, at least none that I remember. Just those two words.
I was embarrassed. Deflated.
The only trains I knew were my brother’s Lionel set and the slow freight train that rumbled through our neighborhood, following the tracks that separated the two lakes where I grew up.
I have no idea what happened to that little piece of paper, but I remember the moment clearly. The classroom. The desk. The direction I was facing. That odd feeling of being handed a future that didn’t look anything like the one I had imagined.
I feel a little like that today.
As I look at my calendar, I see three interviews for three completely different jobs. One feels familiar. One feels exciting. One opens a door I never would have considered walking through.
It’s still connected to education, but in a way I hadn’t thought much about before. The challenge alone makes me curious enough to hear more.
So here I am, decades later, sitting on a stool in my kitchen, looking at possibilities that don’t all fit neatly into the story I expected to be telling.
What I’ve learned since first grade is that unexpected titles aren’t necessarily mistakes.
Sometimes they’re invitations.
Sometimes they’re pointing toward strengths you haven’t discovered yet. Sometimes they’re asking you to imagine a version of yourself you haven’t met.
I can’t help but wonder what might have happened if someone had looked at that first-grade test and said, “Let’s talk about why train engineer showed up.”
What curiosity might that have sparked?
What confidence might it have given me to explore something unexpected?
The older I get, the more I realize that the paths worth considering are often the ones that initially leave us scratching our heads.
They’re a little exciting.
A little unnerving.
And full of possibility if we’re willing to sit with the question: What if?
Maybe that’s why Robert Frost’s words keep coming back to me:
“I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
At seven, I thought train engineer was a wrong answer.
At fifty-five, I’m finally learning that sometimes the most interesting directions are the ones you never saw coming.
North Margin Studio 