A few years ago I found myself on the precipice of entering into my dream career. I was in grad school at Emerson College in Boston, well-paced to cultivate years of effort into a life in academia teaching writing and entrenching myself in the pursuit of Ars Poetica. Instead I found myself placing a call to my best friends and asking if they still needed a bassist for their band.

As hard as I had worked for my achievements, I couldn’t truly dedicate myself to such an enveloping pursuit without first laying to rest the ghosts of the men I could’ve been. I had never truly been able to give my love and passion for music a genuine shot at being my career for more than a few reasons. None greater than the disapproval of my parents. Their skepticism was of course rooted in a pragmatic view of life and, much as it pains me to say, entirely justified. However, much as it is said that "no man may serve two masters," no heart can walk two paths.

I had a tugging compulsion to return to Colorado. Kind of like when you know you locked the door before a road trip but two blocks down you have to turn your car around and come back to check. Well, this was a permanent road trip, and I was pretty sure I left the door completely open. I had to go back and close it.

Ultimately, my musical endeavors proved unsuccessful (professionally, at least) and I lost the progress I had made towards my goal of being a professor. That said, as much as I regret leaving school at times, I really can’t regret leaving it to join the band.

As we grow and develop, we change from one person into another. And another. And another. The problem I found myself facing in Boston was that I was still trying to carry the shells of the people I had once been. I will never be the man that my sixteen-year-old self envisioned as he sent out college applications. I didn’t fulfill all the aspirations I had as I endured sleepless nights and agonized over thesis edits at the age of 21.

That said, I am finally able to let go of who I was because I have been able to accept that it is not who I’ve become. Those other versions of me died one at a time in order to make way of every version that followed. I’ve spoken to many friends who have had similar troubles with self-identity. It seems that the only solution ever is to let go.

So, if you find yourself haunted by your past selves I’ll tell you the one thing that worked for me. I gave them a funeral and let them rest. After that, the only thing I find myself contending with is the utter terror of having no clue which choice to make in life. And that particular tribulation is one of the few constants I’ve found in life. Much like sunrises, sunsets, and 5 o’clock traffic, it's always there.