I chose my major the way most college students do—a whim.
One of my assignments for my Art History class was to attend a lecture at the Harn and then write a report about it. I loathed the concept of it because it would inconvenience me. I would have to take a 30 minute bus ride and attend a lecture on one of the very few and far fall days in Gainesville, Florida.
It didn’t particularly surprise me when I enjoyed it. I use to dread anything that was forced upon me outside my own accord.
Almost instantly, I regretted sitting in the back. I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time, but there is something undeniably engaging about listening to someone else’s story.
I can remember wanting to ask questions, but a combination of fear and uncertainty kept me silent.
When I got home, I began writing only stopping to look at my notes.
I knew that I liked writing, or at least that I found writing to be profoundly preferable to math. But I had never told someone’s story. I had written papers. I had written book reports. But I hadn’t written a story yet.
I was enamored with the cathartic-like experience of telling someone else’s story.
So I decided to change my major to journalism without any real knowledge of the profession. I figured as a prior philosophy major, I didn’t have much to lose. (Except maybe the debilitating debt of law school.)
And journalism just so happened to be the perfect major for me. Now, I am not afraid to ask questions. I love that I am constantly learning. I even don’t mind the homework.
Some people find themselves in college through clubs or experiences. I found mine through my major. Changing my major opened up the floodgate of passion followed by opportunities for myself.