How my 11-year-old self predicted who I'd become

"Ugh, I don't know," I whispered to myself. I was the only one there who was confused, it seemed. The only kid in grade 5 who didn't have a deep knowing of who I would become, or at least a half-dream of what life could be as an adult. My desperate eyes wandered around the class, searching to absorb anything that could give me the spark that I needed to make a choice. But the idea of deciding which career my future-self would desire and putting it to paper, at that point, felt like picking between which fictional crush I loved more, Edward or Jacob—impossible. I glanced behind me at a boy in glasses, who stuck his tongue out as he confidently drew himself kicking a soccer ball, with the letters "G O A L" spread across. Nope. I then shifted my sight over to a blonde girl in purple, seated next to me, who was humming as she used her felt tip markers to trace cats and dogs around a sketch of her dressed in a doctor's coat. Not quite.

"Cinq minutes, les amis," my teacher warned. She and us students were only allowed to speak in French, the primary language taught at our school.

I took a deep breath and twirled my pencil between my fingers, staring at the blank paper. I prayed the panic would end soon and action, or something, would follow just in time to meet the deadline. What sort of job would I be good at? What did adults even do? I barely had time to make a real choice, one that would actually make sense for me. So, in a daze I figured the best bet would be to just wing it. After all, this drawing didn't really matter at the end of the day—unlike my upcoming math test.

"Here we go," I said. I started with a big circle, for the head. Then, the two lines for the neck, four for the arms, and finally, a rectangle for papers between my likeness' hands to hold. A desk would make sense too, I told myself, and continued drawing. My shaky hands didn't stop moving for the next two minutes, until finally, I was left with a 2D-version of my imaginary adult-self and the word, "journaliste" laid out on the page.

"Good enough," I declared.

The teacher walked around, picking up our work one by one. The class immediately began to chatter and tension subsided. This lasted for about twenty minutes, until she signalled for silence and announced a winner was ready to be chosen.

"C'était un concours?" I asked. I wasn't aware that there was anything at stake, or that my picture would be judged publicly. At the realization, I sank down into my chair.

"Oui Sarah," she exclaimed. "Et tu es la gagnante!"

Me? The gagnante? The winner? I couldn't believe it. It was totally surreal and well, mostly confusing. And in that moment, I experienced my first taste of a brutal little monster called Imposter Syndrome, as classmates congratulated me for a receiving a prize that I barely remember today.

Still, time went on. Days turned to months, then into years. I graduated high school, completed my undergraduate degree in fashion at Ryerson University (hoping to be an Art Director or stylist), and ended up working at a job I sort-of liked. I was an Assistant Editor for a veterinary magazine. And though it was great experience, and meant to be a stepping stone toward a job back in fashion, to my surprise the whole thing wound up confirming one thing to me. I was done with the fashion world, it was no longer for me. I hopelessly wanted to do more, to make a change. And I didn't just want to be an editor in a field that I wasn't deeply passionate about. I wanted to report the news.

Excitement bubbled fiercely as I rushed to find a way in and toward the path I was certain I wanted to pursue, at last. I applied for relevant jobs, certificates, and contacted anyone I knew that could possibly help get my foot in the newsroom. Then, right on time, a global pandemic hit. And in a flash of shocking events (many bad) that spiralled, I somehow found myself out of publishing and working in a warehouse, where heavy boxes, bigger than my head, were being tossed in my direction. I knew this turn of events was all temporary, but I didn't have any idea when I'd get out and back to my dream—the one I finally knew was mine. And as I drove home one evening, stuck in traffic on the snow-covered highway and sore from all of the picking and packaging I'd done all day, I looked up to a glistening billboard with the words, "Apply now to start in January" splashed across it. It was bright red and had the beaming face of a young person around my age on it, who I was sure if prompted, would swear that attending Seneca College was better than receiving a puppy on Christmas morning. And hey, I was convinced. So, as soon as I arrived home, I began to do some research and low and behold, I saw it: the journalism program. It was exactly what I was looking for and called to me, winking and whispering, "Sign up now, Sarah," and I complied without a thought. Within a few hours, I went from a 25-year-old on the verge of a mental breakdown to an excited college student. And I'd begin this new life in only three weeks.

Not long after I enrolled, my mother reminded me, as most do, of something I did when I was young. A craft I created once upon a time, that she treasured and I unconsciously omitted from my memory. It was buried somewhere, but she discovered it at the perfect moment, gleaming with pride. "Look," she texted, alongside a photo of the prized drawing, the one I was anxious to make nearly 15 years earlier. The one of me, sitting at a desk, doing the job I'd just recently decided to change my entire life to pursue. And it made my heart sing.

Somehow, by means I will likely never understand, my 11-year-old self knew what I wanted. Or better, who I was or would be. The real me. Even when she thought that she didn't belong, and feared she probably never would, there was something that prompted her to keep going. It was a strange prophecy, unfolding in front of my very eyes. One I'd never would have guessed in a million years. And it made me feel like a real winner—une vraie gagnante—Imposter Syndrome be damned.