When I was little, I lacked direction. I mean, who really knows what they're doing when they're five or six years old? Even so, the question always comes up in one shape or form about, "what do you want to be when you grow up?"

Simple enough, right? "I'll be an astronaut or a firefighter, or perhaps a princess." Well, I didn't really want to be any of those things, but I didn't know what else there was to do. I grew up lacking that real sense of dreaming about my future career.

At some point, though, I'd like to say maybe around fifth grade, I decided I wanted to be a doctor. Every other career paled in comparison to the crowning achievement that those in the medical profession had earned. I've always loved to help other people and it brings me joy to make them feel better when they aren't at their best. This seemed like a natural fit for me, so like the stubborn mule I am, I set in my mind from then on that I would become just that.

I was a relatively smart student throughout my years. I did well enough in middle school and in high school I took as many honors or college level courses that I could. My interests swayed towards the science and math departments, both because they were appealing and because they would benefit my "dream."

I fell in love with anatomy, battled with calculus, and had scholarly conversations with biology. All seemed to be going well and I was on the fast track for getting where I wanted to go in life. Every standardized test showed that I fared well enough in those subjects and I was pleased. Enter college.

I'll be the first to admit that my study habits were lacking and my motivation to study was at a near negative level. Nevertheless, I had jumped right into advanced classes in the sciences. I was your typical pre-med track first year, with medical school dancing in my eyes and a biology major in hand.

I had everything planned out to a T. I was invincible and nothing could stop me from being Dr. Sandstrom. It was hard, though. Some of those first exams I got back had so many red marks on them, I wasn't even sure I'd even done any work on them. I called my mom crying after receiving one of those horrible grades in chemistry. It was awful and I was not enjoying what I was doing. But I pushed on for awhile.

Now, throughout my life, I've had a passion for words. I love to read, write and speak them. I love to admire they way they can dance across the page or caress the cheek of the reader from their spot in their text. If in any area I was advanced in school, it was with reading skills and comprehension. I was reading eighth-grade level books in third grade and my test scores in those areas were always extremely well.

But I had always pushed aside these skills. They would become my hobbies later in life, as books were for reading and reading was only done when one had time for the pleasure. Yet, this skill stuck with me through my first semester. I had a professor encourage me to change my major to English. I conceded because it came naturally to me and I felt it would be easy to double major and still go to medical school.

One day, I was taking a chemistry exam and I was struggling. I knew my failure was inevitable and panic was starting to rise in my chest. I sat and pondered. Why was I doing this? I don't even like a single thing about this. Then it hit me. I was going to spend the next fifty years of my life doing a job that I likely wasn't even going to enjoy.

I was dumbstruck. I had been set on this one singular dream of becoming a doctor for so long that I had failed to notice what I actually wanted to do with my life. That day I changed my major to a full English major. It hurt a little to do so; What was I going to do with my life now? What would my parents think?

I was scared for my future. I chatted with my English professor that day and she told me an interesting tidbit. People change careers about seven times in their life. Seven times for careers. For me to change my major in my second semester of college meant very little about what I was actually going to do with my career(s). I felt a huge weight roll off my chest and I finally felt at ease about changing my mind.

I gave up on my childhood dream. I let it fly off into the vast unknown of "what ifs" in my life. It made me sad to do so, but it was also just that: a childhood dream. It wasn't like I was done aspiring for my future. Instead, I was changing my dream to fit who I am now versus who I was.

I guess what I want to say after this long story is this: it's okay to give up on a dream. You might not know it then, but a new dream will take its place. My dad always tells me that life doesn't always go according to plan. You can't plan out your life down to the detail because things change.

You've likely changed a lot since you were a kid and you don't want the same things that you did back then. We can't spend our lives having such a narrow scope that we miss all the things that we love about life. College is about finding what you love to do and preparing yourself for a future where you get to do what you love, every single day. I gave up on my childhood dream; I waved goodbye as it floated away and I smiled as I took the arm of my new dream.