I write a lot about my early twenties as if they happened ages ago. It feels like ages ago. Five years ago I was twenty-three. That age has become a marker for many of my friends and me as a terrible transformative age. We drank a lot. We loved too much. We fucked around too much. I had many sidewalk drunk crying sessions over a guy that only wanted half of me, memories of my childhood that I could not make sense of, and that perpetual affliction of women, my looks. Most importantly, I would fall in and out of bouts of depression over the direction of my life. I would justify my laziness in quests for meaning. The truth was that I did not want to face reality. I was not ready to face it. My early twenties were a re-incarnation of teenage angst, only this time I was completely liable for all my fuck ups. I could not accept the fact that finding meaning takes hard work. It takes dedication. It takes sacrifice. Most of all, finding meaning or direction, for me, took a difficult awareness of my flaws, mistakes, and an even more difficult decision to completely change. There was one constant in my life, though. My passion, often infused in my will to create, has always instilled a belief in my own potential. Even in my darkest moments of angst ridden faux existentialism, I have always believed in my passion. This passion, characterized by Anais Nin as white heat, feeds my fragile ego. Even today when life gives me annoying hiccups, there is a deep-rooted passion imbedded in my emotional core. It gives me the strength to endure heartbreak, over and over again. It gives me the strength to stretch myself thin with school, internships and work. I virtually have no days off, and my sanity often depends on people urging me to relax. My passion is strict nowadays because it knows too well that I can become distracted when any little man pays me any little attention. I often cling on to that attention because it has been the one consistently emotion missing in my life. It never really works out because that is often the curse of creative and hard working women. Not that every hard working woman out there is an aging spinster, but for the ones that choose work over everything else, this is often a trait. My passion has always given me meaning. I have found a perfect way of infusing my passion into everything I do. I am passionate about my writing, my studies, my research and my commitment to sharing it. All three aspects of my life (work, school and personal) compliment each other perfectly. So, when I hear people struggling or complaining about finding meaning in their work or life, it’s a bit difficult for me to understand. I’ve heard it from countless of people, best friends, co-workers and new friends, and the first question I always ask is, “What are you passionate about?” It’s a hard question to answer. Most of these struggles have often been from men, and they have one common answer, they find passion in hobbies. They like to build things. They like to play video games. They like to play golf. I try to be sensitive, but all I want to do is yell at them and say, “NO. These are not passions. These are distractions.” We all need distractions, but realistically, we cannot pour our passions into distractions. It hinders us from taking a real difficult look at ourselves and accepting that the only way to move forward is through hard work. It sometimes saddens me. Is it a product of our disenchanted “millennial” generation? I cried to my sister today and I asked her, rhetorically, “Am I asking the universe for too much? I only ask to meet one person who can equal my passion, who can find great satisfaction in their work or studies. Someone who has a vision. Is that too much?” She said yes. She said yes because she said that it’s rare to find people with enthusiasm. I’ve dealt with people, men in particular, who expect to have that dream job right after college. When it doesn’t work out, they lose enthusiasm. Being an undergraduate at 28, I tend to meet a lot of early twenty year olds. I tend to meet a number of people dealing with anxiety and depression about their job prospects. My advice is always brutal. You will not find satisfaction right after college. You will not find complete happiness at this age. Some people might, but for most, you won’t. It’s a difficult process and if I could go back to my early twenties, I would tell myself to be patient and not to dwell in the things I cannot control. Finding meaning, purpose or an answer is sometimes pointless and it’s a sure way to become depressed. Having a vision, but accepting that it’s incredibly hard work, makes things a little easier. Not having a vision can be frustrating, but like Dan Savage says, it gets better. Being positive and accepting that things do not always work out has strengthened my emotional core. It was a difficult process and I still don’t have everything figured out. I get depressed and I get anxiety attacks, but I let myself indulge in that negativity for a short amount of time. It’s healthy to let it out, but I realize that itself is a privilege. Most people cannot afford to indulge in cries, in anxiety attacks, or bouts of self-pity, life doesn’t work that way. To put it annoyingly simple, life is a bitch. I can indulge in that negativity because no one depends on me. There is a degree of guilt in that. That guilt gives me the strength to pick myself up and realize, ok enough of that bullshit, it’s time to get actual shit done now. Sometimes I wish I could make people see the way I view life. Life was not always serendipitous, positive or exciting. Life used to be depressing, confusing and directionless. Though, I have always lived on impulse that has often been fueled by white heat. Whatever the situation was, sex, love, work, school, writing, there is something so stubborn, so rooted, within the chemicals that drive my emotions. It’s a belief, sometimes egotistical, that transcends meaning or the pursuit of. It’s a will, an indescribable need, to live my life according to a most primal need, the will to survive. My survival depends on cultivating my passion, without it my life would be boring, sad and dull. If I could characterize my generation, and some younger folk, it would be generation sad. I’m probably being too general, but that’s just my observation. But I suppose I should stop hanging out/talking with early twenty year olds, and even mid-twenty year olds. I remember being 22-25 and thinking, who the hell is this almost 30 year old giving me life advice?! Now I am that almost 30 year old.