My cap and gown are lying in a heap on the ground below me. I must have been feeling overwhelmed and found a little escape in the limbs of the live oak tree. I was never very good or comfortable at parties in my honor. Something about all the attention focused on me felt a bit like being at a carnival: claustrophobic and awkward.

It was May 2000, and I was graduating from Rice University’s Architecture School. Houston, TX had been home to me in grade school, and I had somewhat reluctantly returned to Houston for undergrad, a decision that never seemed to feel quite right the whole time I was there.

As a student, I had excelled in both arts and sciences, yet didn’t have a clear idea of what I wanted to be when I grew up. Like many high schoolers, I just didn’t have enough world experience to know. After a summer trying out the architecture program at Pratt Art Institute in Brooklyn, my parents encouraged me to apply to architecture schools around the country.  When I was accepted to the “Ivy of the South’ at non-ivy League prices, Rice is where I ended up.

So here I was, four years later at graduation, a major milestone in one’s transition from youth to adulthood, and I couldn’t wait for the day to be over.

My parents had scheduled the graduation as a pitstop on their move to London, where Dad accepted a long-term consulting gig. They even flew my brothers in from their far-flung corners of the country. My sweet cousin Gregory came to town too, partly to see his father Gary who also lived in Houston. Gary threw us a flamboyant graduation party which was very sweet and in the theme of the day: awkward. Hardly any of the day really felt like me. I was the reason everyone was there, yet nothing seemed to fit.

At the end of the night, my father handed me a check for one month’s rent and living expenses. They were flying off to England in the morning and wished me the best of luck finding a job and getting started on my life as a self-sufficient, financially independent adult. I could almost hear my dad’s glee.

After everyone left and the party confetti settled, my next instinct was to vegetate. I felt like I’d been racing toward this finish line my whole life, one grade after the next, year after year, on the tracks laid by American institutions of education. From a young age—and under no one’s whip but my own— I strove to be perfect, excel in school, get into a good college, and graduate with honors. So now I had made it there, and I didn’t have a clue what was next.

My body knew, however, that more than anything, I needed to rest. I need to recover from four years of caffeine and nicotine-fueled all-nighters in the halls of the architecture school armed with Exacto blades, balsam dowels, and wood glue. There were no more classes, no more assignments or deadlines, no more grades or expectations. I had entered an entirely new realm, one that felt unfamiliarly spacious and free. In this new reality, I had nothing to do and no one to fall back on either.

It was just me, left to sink or swim.  So, I chose to float.

I spent two weeks of idle afternoons lying spread-eagle in the grass staring up at the blue sky and puffy clouds floating by. I slugged back cold beers at the icehouse with friends and let out giant stress-free belly laughs. I slept until noon. I don’t even think I read a book or magazine for pleasure. I just. Wanted. To do. Nothing.

I floated in that blissful space until my bank account dwindled, then calmly awoke from my stupor.  It was time to hit the pavement. And in just perfect timing, the phone rang. It was a friend a year my senior with an invitation to join her Architecture firm’s team at the National AIA sandcastle competition in Galveston. After many childhood summers at the Jersey Shore, I had cultivated skills in sand carving, and decided why not help the group of designers bring the beach body of Carmen ‘Mermanda’ to life.

Spending a fun day at the beach turned out to be the best networking event I could attend. Some people on our team worked for an international landscape architecture firm, a sister trade in the physical design world that I was curious to learn more about. Shortly after the competition I asked for a job interview and landed my first professional job and paycheck as a freshman designer. From there, the next eight years of my life wrote themselves.

It turns out that ‘floating’ was exactly what I needed to do to reconnect with myself. To let the whirlwind of my school days settle and to find the space and clarity to start fresh on the next life chapter.

Writing Prompts:

1. What was your first experience of being totally independent and on your own?
2. How did it feel? Was it scary? Liberating?
3. What’s your story of finding your first real job?

Share your positive experiences with Thewayfly Tribe in the comments box below. We’d love to hear your stories!