Ever since I was a little kid, I was a storyteller. Instead of playing with my toys, I would sit on the carpet in my bedroom and tell stories about my dolls and stuffed animals. I wrote and illustrated little chapter books, made up songs about monkeys that fell from the sky like a new form of weather, and had a secret alter ego that went on adventures when I had to do boring things like go to the doctor’s office. When I outgrew my dolls and monkeys and alter ego, I began to read constantly and started to keep a journal so I could tell stories about my days. As an adult (????), storytelling is a skill that continues to come in handy in unexpected ways. When I realized that applications, resume writing, and cover letters are all types of storytelling, they began to come naturally to me.

So, before you start writing your resume (or application essay, or cover letter), remember that first, it’s a story, and second:

• Reality is the medium for a story, but not the craft. No good story is an exact retelling of an event. There is a reason that memoirs are more popular than autobiographies. Rather than telling all the dates and facts of their life, a writer uses their experiences as a kind of medium, which they then mold into a story, just as a sculptor molds a pot from a block of clay. Writers and artists of any kind are not passive receptacles of experience: they use their experiences to craft something original.

• Storytellers edit heavily. To expand upon my first point, a good storyteller eliminates the irrelevant information. Imagine that one friend who always has something funny and witty to say about their day when you get meals together. If they are a good storyteller, they likely aren’t going to get sidetracked talking about how they had the best omelette at Frary, especially if the point of the story was the run-in they had in the dining hall with the one person they wanted to avoid (unless, of course, that person stole their omelette).

• A good story follows an arc. While real life is messy and erratic and sometimes mundane, a good story follows an arc (yes, your 6th grade English teacher was right). This means that there is a beginning, a middle (usually a problem, discovery, or change), and an ending.

So how does this all apply to job applications, resumes, and cover letters?

First of all, let’s get one thing clear: I am definitely not encouraging anyone to lie or exaggerate on their resume! Storytelling is my way of looking at a vital part of an application process: tailoring. The material for your resume/application/cover letter are your work and school related experiences. Your job is to turn this material into a story about how your experiences so far led you to this moment: applying to the position you want.

To craft this story, you’re going to have to edit out the unnecessary parts. For example, when I applied for a biology research fellowship, I did not extensively talk about my experiences working for newspapers. However, there is an argument for including experiences that might not seem so similar on the surface. If you can successfully make the case that the skills you learned from these experiences will be valuable in the job you want, you’re good to go (This could be in the little blurb under the job heading, or in your cover letter). For example, in my fellowship application, I did briefly talk about my time as editor in chief and as a journalism instructor, and emphasized that these experiences helped teach me to lead and make executive decisions.

After all, that is what your story is about. It’s a story of skill building. Hopefully, it has a happy ending! (read: you get the job you were hoping for)

At Scripps, thesis is a rite of passage. Like any proper rite of passage, it can seem even greater than the sum of its parts (which, by the way, are research, a whole lot of writing, and depending on your thesis, a fair amount of statistics). When you walk into The Motley on any given day, there is a 95% chance that you will hear a cluster of seniors complaining animatedly, self-conciously, and  a little more loudly than necessary about their thesis woes. Classmates who rarely otherwise have the chance to talk might bond over a moment of thesis-related pain.

For younger classes, all this spectacle surrounding thesis can be terrifying to watch. I remember going to Capstone Day presentations as a first-year and feeling daunted by how accomplished every presenter seemed to me at the time. As a sophomore and junior, I watched friends hole themselves in their rooms over entire weekends, or even all of spring break, to work on their theses. I learned to stop asking senior classmates how they were doing around March and April, when they would inevitably get a look of panic on their faces upon consulting their inner emotions.

Now I’m less than two weeks out from turning in my own thesis. I’m definitely still alive, and I actually have 35 pages of something that I feel proud of. Here are 5 tips I’ve picked up over the past year for younger Scripps students on how to start thinking about this process, and to help it feel less daunting.

• Thesis is just a class. Thesis can feel overwhelming, especially at the beginning, because it’s a different sort of project than many of us have ever had to complete. It doesn’t help that it gets a reputation for being so stressful. However, from my experience, thesis really doesn’t have to be that significant of a time commitment. To get specific, I spent probably 10 hours on average working on my thesis last semester, and about 15 hours this semester. That’s no more than your average class.

• The brouhaha is a bit of a spectacle. To make a big deal about thesis is a Scripps tradition in and of itself. I’m talking the way thesis always seems to sneak its way into conversation any time a senior is present. We learn from the classes above us, and it’s almost gratifying when it’s our turn to complain about the endless research, statistics, writing, presentations and administrative hoops to jump through. Thesis is stressful, but it’s not that stressful.

• Do start thinking about thesis earlier on. While it’s important to keep things in perspective, I would advise younger students to not put off thinking about thesis. The beginning of Junior year is a good time to begin brainstorming ideas. Scope out your options by talking to other students about what research they did, how they decided upon it, and what it involved. Talk to or work alongside your professors. Join a lab. Jot down any ideas you have in a notebook, but you don’t have to act on them. You have creative licence in planning your thesis, and creativity can take time.

• The finishing stretch is tough. I’m not going to lie here. Last semester and for the first half of this semester, thesis felt fairly laid back. I collected my data, went to the Motley to tap out pages, met with my advisor, and worked at my own pace. However, since spring break, deadlines have been bearing down. As I stay up late into the night rerunning statistical tests, revising my draft for what feels like the millionth time, and formatting my poster, I finally understand the anxiety of previous classes. However, it’s important to remember that this isn’t all of senior year.

• Part of the stress surrounding thesis has nothing to do with thesis. The bad news: senior year of college can still be really, really stressful. College is already hard, but trying to figure out the post-college years makes life much harder. It’s an emotional time as we approach a very different stage of life. Therefore, a lot of external stress gets put onto thesis. Bonding over how stressful thesis is can feel cathartic. Even as we all embark on separate journeys, it’s something we all share as Scripps students.

BONUS: You will feel proud of your thesis. Yes, there is some spectacle surrounding the process. But that doesn’t change the fact that this project is a big deal to complete. It’s hefty piece of academic writing, an incredible learning process, and the culmination of an academic career.

The past almost-three weeks since spring break have passed simultaneously far too quickly, and far too slowly. Last Friday, thesis drafts were due for Seniors, and the weeks between spring break and that date were some of the most panicked I’ve felt in my life. It’s not even that I was behind, pulling all nighters, or running into significant issues in my writing process. The sheer fact that this is the culmination of my entire academic career at Scripps has simply been weighing on me. As I wrote in my last draft, it has felt like I’m barreling towards a drop-off of unknown height and steepness. However, things are beginning to look up. As of this week, I’ve turned in my thesis, finished my last two midterms, and I can literally count off the things I have to finish before graduation on one hand (ok, maybe two). Now that I’ve been able to stop and take a breath of fresh air and reassure myself that everything will be okay, that I will graduate, I’m finding myself pondering a conversation I had over lunch with a particularly wise adult I met with over spring break: my kindergarten teacher.

I suppose meeting my kindergarten teacher for lunch might seem unusual or quaint, but it’s pretty common in a community as small as my hometown. My mom had kept in touch with Michelle ever since my little brother “graduated” her class and the two of them have had many coffee dates over the years. On a recent occasion, Michelle asked my mom to arrange a date between us before my graduation so that we could simply talk about life. So over spring break, that is what I did.

There is something poetic about divulging your fears and insecurities about emerging as an adult to the woman who taught you how to write. As I explained to her my hopes and dreams for the future, some of my high school friends entered into our conversation, and I found myself explaining their plans as well. As I explained who is teaching English abroad, who is going to work for a social justice nonprofit, who is going on to nursing school, who hasn’t yet figured things out, I realized that all of us had been in that same kindergarten class. Michelle was listening with rapt attention at the stories of how the lives of each of her students had unfolded, but I found myself dumbfounded, wondering how many of these lunch dates she had made before. How many times had she listened to the worries of her former students, heard about their dreams, successes, and plans that didn’t quite work out?

After I finished babbling about the excitement of young-adulthood, Michelle shared a few of her stories and pieces of advice with me. First, she told me that my plans might not pan out. This advice sounds harsh, but she didn’t mean it that way. Instead, she meant that I would apply to many grad schools and jobs, and that even if the first attempt, or five, or ten, didn’t work out, that next one would. She assured me that it might take time to figure out my place in academia or the work force, but in the end, I would find that niche and everything would make sense in retrospect. She told me stories of her other past students, those who are now older than me, and the uncertainty of those post-college years, and where they eventually found themselves. And she told me stories about my own strengths, ones that she had seen in me when I was a precocious five-year old who loved reading, telling stories, and talking to adults.
Five weeks out from graduation, I glean a tremendous amount of perspective and peace from the memory of this conversation. It may seem simple, but feels powerful to realize that all of us were once kindergarteners. So much life has unfolded between then and now, but on a basic level, despite fears and insecurities, we’re pretty much doing okay.

My last spring break as a Scripps student is winding to a close. My overall reflection on this past week? To be honest, it wasn’t exactly rejuvenating. I think “surreal” would be a more appropriate word. Spring break is the bridge between the two halves of spring semester. Before spring break, it feels like you have all the time in the world and that the semester is still full of possibility– new friendships, new interests, new activities and classes.

A semester full of possibilities

As soon as the break ends, there’s a certain finality to the rest of the semester. There’s little time to explore new possibilities, and it feels as though the end of the semester is rushing towards you at full speed. This is especially true as a senior, with thesis deadlines already looming in the very near future, and with our semester a full week (or more) shorter than other students. Finally, this time is especially daunting because it doesn’t just signal that we’re yet again nearing the end of a year at Scripps– this is it. After this, we won’t be coming back as students.

Before Spring Break, I was a total gooey sentimental mess, but also excited about the big changes coming up and being able to say “I just graduated college.” While I still have these same feelings, I also have some apprehension. The experience reminds me of the first time my friends took me skiing on the mountain in my home town. I was 14 years old, had just learned to ski, and was a nervous nelly whose worst fear was heights. After I ran out of excuses for staying on green runs, my friends dragged me up to the blues and black diamonds. I remember coming off the ski lift on Mount Ashland, and making my way down the first gentle slope towards “Romeo.” It didn’t feel too bad at first, carving down a gentle slope towards the fork where the different runs diverged.

Then I noticed what was coming up ahead. The change in terrain was so suddenly steep, that all I could see was a giant break in the trees and a drop off so sudden that, from a distance, it appeared to be a cliff. While the logical part of my brain knew that my friends weren’t trying to kill me, it went totally against my instincts to continue moving downhill on a pair of planks towards something I couldn’t see. That I continued at all wasn’t so much an act of trust, but more an acceptance of the inevitable– I couldn’t exactly turn around at this point.

This is how I feel right now. Like there is a giant cliff in front of me, that I logically know isn’t actually a cliff, but still can’t help but anticipate.

Once I got to the lip of the cliff-that-was-not-a-cliff I could see that it was, in fact, very steep. I felt as though if I were to fall, I would not simply hit the snow, perhaps skidding a few feet at most, but would instead plummet to all the way down the slope to the tiny ski lodge below as though it were in fact a cliff. But taking a deep breath, I proceeded, my skis pointed in a pizza slice, my back hunched like a granny, cutting turns so wide I was getting in the way of other skiers. I did not fall, and though my thighs burned from going so slow, I made it safely to the bottom. Looking back up at the slope, I was disappointed with how it looked so much shorter and less steep from below.

Skiing’s a little different from graduating. But right now, I’m reminded of this experience because more than anything I’m stressed out by the unknown. I’m looking out on a cliff-that-is-not-a-cliff, and all I can see is a gap in the trees. But it’s important to remember that in the end, the unknown is the only stressful part. When the end of school actually comes, it will be hard, but I’ll be perfectly capable of succeeding– even if that means looking like a granny.

We live in a culture that places a high premium on having a job that we not just like, but feel passionate about. For example, as a kid, I got asked “what do you want to be when you grow up?” so often, that the answer I gave (a writer) began to merge with my identity. As I’ve gotten older, however, I’ve realized that while a career can be an important part of some people’s identities, this isn’t true for everyone. For these other people, a career is a means of making their life– their true community and passions– work. My parents represent opposite ends of this spectrum. Over the years, watching my parents and their very different relationships to their careers has taught me that neither way of relating to one’s job is inherently better or worse. However, I’ve learned that how you view your career can have a big effect on your lifestyle in general. Most importantly, I’ve learned that in the end, for both my parents, coming to an understanding of what their livelihood meant to them took a long, gnarled path with plenty of change and self-discovery.

I’ll start with my mum. After studying culinary science at University of Bath, she moved to the US to study and teach Yoga in Berkeley while holding a full time job as a nanny. Later, she went back to university to study anatomy and physiology, thinking she might become an occupational therapist. For a while, she taught kindergarten, but now she is a successful real estate agent. Basically, she’s tried everything. However, the idea of a calling, or a passion, or even a dream job has never resonated with her. In each of these jobs, she’s had a nagging feeling that there might be another career, a better fit, out there waiting for her. At the same time, each of these careers has impacted her life in one profound way: through the people she interacts with.

You see, my mum is still good friends with the little girls she nannied 25 years ago. Her former kindergarten students hug her when they see her in the grocery store, although many of them are in high school by now. And today, she is not only best friends with her business partner, but constantly makes friends with her clients, making them feel welcome as newcomers in our community not as a business tactic but because she genuinely loves them. My mum’s career is there to support a life lived well. She hikes and mountain bikes every single day, still practices yoga, has a rich spiritual life, and cooks huge, rich meals for boisterous dinner parties with all the friends she’s made. My mum views her career is something peripheral, though necessary, to life. She doesn’t love the business itself, or feel a sense of passion or purpose within it, but that’s not the point for her. Instead, real estate is a source of income that allows her to live a full life and  cultivate a beautiful community.

In contrast, my dad’s career is, aside from his family, the center of his life, his project, and his passion, sometimes bordering on obsession. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who loves their job more. But let me back up a little.

My dad played classical violin his entire childhood. His family is a musical bunch- my grandma was an opera singer and piano teacher who wanted her family to be like the Von Trapps, but with string instruments. My dad spent a long time searching for that one career that would be his passion. An economics major, he was driven by ambition. However, my parents settled in a small rural town, and he ended up working for the local public radio station. It was a flexible job that let him be an active and present dad, and when I was in elementary school, he started coming into my classroom to teach violin, and even taught a few lessons out of our house. This side gig grew slowly over the years, and as my dad became bored with his other job, he began to put more and more time into developing a teaching philosophy and taking on new students. Finally, he quit his day-job completely. Today my dad is a popular fiddle teacher who has developed his own curriculum to make music fun for young children. He has to turn away students constantly. He has a business selling his cute and innovative online fiddle curriculum to teachers across the country.

This career has become my dad’s calling. When my dad isn’t teaching lessons, he’s taking students out to the pizza to celebrate learning a complicated new piece, or leading a fiddle jam at the local grill, having potlucks at the homes of his students, teaching parents guitar so they can practice with their kids, driving his older students to Fiddle Camps across the west coast, developing new curriculum, running webinars for other teachers, brainstorming ideas for the website… I could go on. And he loves every minute of it. To my dad, making music fun and exciting, turning it into a community-building activity, is his life’s work.

My dad’s music business is his life. It ranks up there with family for him. This is a key difference between him and my mom, who sees work as something to support her life. She wants to travel, build community outside of work, and have adventures. Although the two of them are polar opposites in this respect, they are perfectly compatible. Like yin and yang, they balance each other out.
My parents have helped me understand what it means to search for a career. I have learned that the process can be long and convoluted, and that you don’t necessarily work in the same field as your college major. I have learned that sometimes a career helps cultivate a life, and sometimes it is your life, but that I can’t really go wrong with either philosophy. And I have learned that at the core of a healthy career and life is community.