So much for ‘my life, my rules’

by Yashvi Peeti

Growing up, I’d go around telling everyone that I wanted to be a doctor. My reason was really simple. My mom is a doctor, and she was the only adult who looked genuinely happy while she was working. I wanted my work to bring me the same joy.

Around 8th grade, I realised I was fascinated by engineering related subjects. I decided to pivot. I entered 11th grade after a long battle of parents coming to terms with me studying Maths, Physics and Chemistry. A few months in, I realised just how much I was drawn to studying language and literature. As much as I wanted to study medicine growing up, and engineering for a few years after, it was in 11th grade that I truly realised what brings me joy.

Words brought me comfort and joy for as long as I can remember. When I first started writing poetry, I was in awe of my own ability to express myself. Not that I was any good. My many childhood diary entries make me cringe plenty. But I was in awe of having my very own stage to perform on for my very own audience of one. I was sincere and authentic, and understood myself better through this activity, than I did doing anything else.

When I sift through my old report cards, it’s clear that I gravitated towards reading and writing from the very beginning. But neither society, nor my parents, ever presented it to me as a possible career path. When I finally realised I wanted to pursue my undergraduate and possibly postgraduate degrees in literature and writing, I was met with a lot of resistance. The responses I heard were, “That’s a hobby, not a profession”, “How are you planning to make money doing that?”, “So you want to stay locked in a room and write everyday, how is that a career?”

There wasn’t a single person who told me this was a good idea. I don’t know about anyone else but my 15 year old self resigned to this. I finished my two “intermediate” years studying subjects I didn’t particularly like. Reluctantly and grudgingly, I also finished my undergrad in Engineering. The first two years of college, I read almost constantly. If studying literature wasn’t a realistic possibility, then I decided I’d make it the most real thing in my little world. I read breezy fiction, pretty poetry, dense nonfiction, classics, comics – everything I could get my hands on. 

I published my first poem during the pandemic, and was paid a small amount for it. That’s how it started, and I’ve interned and freelanced for organisations I’ve always been fascinated by, and wrote about things I’ve always wanted to. It has felt so freeing to be able to share my voice on platforms where it can reach someone who might want to hear it.

I’m not writing this to ask you to follow your dreams. I’m also not asking you to make the “responsible” decision, and pursue your passion on the side. My practical, responsible decision often made me deeply unhappy and frustrated. I’m writing this to rant. To tell you that it sucks, because it really does. There are a lot more ways to make a living as a writer today, than there ever have been before. But it’s still difficult to pursue a creative field if you aim for financial stability.

With the current state of things, it takes an immense amount of privilege to be okay with the uncertainty that comes with creative pursuits. I’m writing this essay in the hope that it will be irrelevant in the coming few years. I’m hoping that the industry will change enough for creative fields to become viable career options. I hope more parents will start to see that.

If I could say something to my confused younger selves it would be this: The joy is worth seeking. The thing that lights you up is not “stupid”, “unrealistic” or “impractical.” Irrespective of whether you choose to build a career around it, your passion is valid. You can learn what you’re interested in, and contribute in small ways that don’t feel small to you. The first time you get recognised for your work, your world will get a little bigger and brighter. And it’s big and bright, still.

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