Since I was ten, I’ve wanted to be a vet. No, an architect. No, a lawyer. No, an accountant. No, a pharmacist. No, an ophthalmologist. No, a physiotherapist. No, a vet, again. It seems crazy now, but all of those things were on the table at one point, and, as it turns out, I never became any of them.
I also know for certain that I never wanted to be an illustrator. Or a writer. Or a designer. Or a mentor. Or a board member. Or a business owner. Or any of the things I ended up being that has brought me so much joy.
Apparently, we’re supposed to choose a career at 17 years old. Choose what to study for the rest of our life. Get on the ‘career train’ and climb the ladder until we’re experts at whichever craft we’ve selected to pursue in our teenage years.
It makes me wonder how many people are living lives that they decided to live in their teens but don’t really like now. Lives in which they’ve spent 12 years to become this dentist, or surgeon, or vet, and now the sunk costs are too great to pivot, to try something new, to ‘give up’ what they’ve achieved.
But the thing with sunk costs is that we’re using a fear of failing our past selves to inform a life that hasn’t been lived yet. We can’t change the life we’ve lived, but we can change tomorrow. The choice, at its most extreme, becomes “Do I live another day in likely misery because of what happened yesterday (or a decision I made 20 years ago), or do I choose to try something different?” Sure, the choice to do something different may increase misery, but it also may not. And, if I don’t make a choice to do something different, then misery is guaranteed. I know what I’d choose.
Speaking of choice, it is, in itself, a privilege. People have accumulated mortgages, commitments like children and pets, and so choosing something else isn’t easy. But, it’s possible. To avoid making the choice because of what happened in the past, or what you thought you wanted to do 5 years ago and have now since learned it’s not what you want now, seems sad.
I never wanted to be an illustrator. I was working in software (and rather enjoying myself). But, with so much time spent staring at screens, I was fatiguing. I was on a great career trajectory in software and feared that, if I stopped, so would that trajectory. But, my body was telling me to switch off. So I did.
I started spending time with watercolour instead of furthering my knowledge in software design. It was pure play. There were many people close to me who told me it was a waste of time. A silly hobby. What was it for, anyway? There’s no money it!
But it was for my mental and physical health. And it worked. I became more able to do my software work because I had a way to switch off and recharge through the watercolour work. These pathways weren’t divergent, they were (and are) complementary. And then, someone offered to pay for something I made. It wasn’t a ‘silly hobby’ anymore, it was a career.
Soon enough, those same people who discouraged me from taking a path that seemed to ignore my sunk costs were telling their friends about my illustration or taking photos of my books in retail outlets everywhere. In many ways, those people became my biggest advocates.
Because of this, I no longer believe sunk costs even exist, just tomorrow – and instead of being scary, it’s become incredibly exciting!