I’m secretly terrified that I’m genuinely burnt out rather than the just temporarily burnt out condition that I have assumed.
I love history. I love teaching. I love the life of a professor.
Do I want to go to school for another six to seven years, rack up a couple hundred thousand in debt, and then deal with tenure politics and idiotic students? Instead, do I want to buy a delapidated old Victorian and fix it up with that couple hundred thousand and have a books and tea shop and collect the art walk crowds? Or would I rather hide away living poorly and dangerously in assorted countries, working in various charities?
I’m worried that I won’t be up to the challenge of grad school.
I’m afraid that I’ll make my decision out of guilt or fear.
I’m more terrified that I’ll make the wrong decision out of following my obsessive compulsive completist tendancies.
The reality, though, it that the decision is already made. I know that this is the life I want. Getting there, however, is intimidating.
Especially with 53 days until 9 months of South America-induced liberation.