Fifteen or so years ago, my parents, like many others, asked me a very serious question.

I imagine that I stood just shy of 4-feet tall at the time, decked out in my favorite red cowboy boots and hot-pink-sequined tutu, twirling my pigtail around my finger as I considered their question for a whole ten seconds.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” they asked.

At age three and three quarters, such an easy question merely insulted my intelligence. Without careful consideration or hesitation I squeaked back something along the lines of, “I’m gonna be a queen with a purple crown and a castle made of glitter, and Miss Kitty [my cat at the time] can be a princess.” It was just that simple.

When I turned five, I decided that life as a queen would become a bit too boring for my liking; my royal court of teddy bears could only drink so much imaginary tea before naptime anyway. So I resigned from my pillow throne and decided that I was going to be just like my mom instead.

House became the game to play. I would dress up in my mother’s heels, smudge her lipstick across my face, and push my baby dolls around in my sister’s stroller, all while feeding them plastic food and talking on my Barbie phone. I was living the high life, and I was happy.

Once I reached elementary school, my intended occupation changed on a more regular basis. Some days I was going to be a teacher, an astronaut, or the president, and other days I’d throw on Dad’s big white tee shirt and pretend I was a doctor.

My bright future held endless possibilities. Money was no object. The idea of growing up was neither stressful nor intimidating; it was thrilling. My eyes would light up the minute anyone asked what I wanted to be, because I had an answer ready.

In high school, societal pressures got the best of me. All I knew was that I wanted to end up wealthy, healthy, and wise.

My ideal future took another transformation as I decided that fame and fortune were the keys to happiness and that good grades and connections were my way to the top. Four years later, I graduated with honors, packed my bags, and headed off to SMU.

Yesterday, my parents asked me a very serious question. However, this time I couldn’t respond as quickly as I used to.

“What do you want to do with the rest of your life?” they asked. Good question.

Instead of examining the contents of my dress-up box, I reached for my transcript, reconsidered my talents and determined my weaknesses.

I decided that I fear failure above all else, and that I long for happiness more than anything. I thought of all the times I’ve heard people complain about being trapped in jobs they no longer love, working only for the money.

If one thing is for certain, I told myself, I do not want to spend the rest of my life stuck in a box.

As a generation, we need to learn to live for our passions and to embrace our talents rather than our wallets. Why should we waste our lives away in an office cubical that we hate when we can live life with the same twinkle we had in our eyes as children.

When I was seven I wanted to be a doctor, not because it was a high paying profession (I had no concept of that), but because the idea of healing people appealed to me.

While we determine our majors and potential occupations, we need to reevaluate our desires. The time is now.

The future becomes far less intimidating and overwhelming when you begin to listen to your heart.

Dress-up games may be over, but at least now our clothes fit.

Now that you’re grown up, what do you want to be?

Jordan Jennings is a sophomore journalism major. She can be reached for comment at [email protected].