When I was twelve years old, I distinctly remember fingering through the waxy pages of a National Geographic I found in a soggy, old box in the garage and envying its creators. The cover story was about Alaska and the pictures were aerial images of white caps and glaciers, log cabins, a Kodiak bear. It even smelled like adventure and I knew then, that someday, when I grew up, I would have to be something important and wild like a continent-hopping wildlife photojournalist. I wanted to write stories people would read, take pictures people would see.

The first job I took out of college paid me $10 per hour, and I got my own cubicle. I had a potted plant on my L-shaped desk and my name was displayed on the ledge. It lasted exactly ten weeks; one hot, wet summer bellied up to a computer screen — hours upon hours of entering data, interjected only by the announcement of “donuts” and “bagels” and “oh, fresh coffee.”

One afternoon, when I was feeling particularly anxious, I placed my security badge on my desk, and without saying a word to anyone, I got up and walked out. My boss and coworkers called me for a week, worried if I was okay. I dodged all of their phone calls. I quit the job, but I didn’t actually tell my boss until a week later. I think they got the point. Also, I forgot my potted plant.

And it went on like that for a period of time. I moved from job to job — a baker’s apprentice, inside sales rep at an independent newspaper, teacher’s aide at an elementary school, manager at a natural foods store. Five jobs in one year — none of them with aerial views of anything. It was always the same; once I made the decision to leave, for whatever trivial reason, I would get out that day. I wouldn’t say a word to anyone, and they would never see me again. Obviously, I watched too many movies.

Come to find out, the sagging economy had no immediate need for wildlife photojournalists. They needed accountants, and well, math had never really been my strong suit.

Over the course of the year, and after a period of extended unemployment and involuntary reflection, I began to question my motives. What was I really looking for? Why did I quit all of those jobs? Did I even want to be a photojournalist anymore?

Suffice it to say, I was confused — and a bit depressed.

It became clear to me, only recently, that my patterns of professional abandonment came exclusively from a place of pride. Confronted by the sky-high expectations of my inner child, I was too proud to accept anything less than my dreams, so I walked away, again and again. I think I expected to “catch a break,” like they do in the movies.

I have been working for a newspaper, editing and publishing and other such business for nearly two years now. I feel rehabilitated and I understand things differently. I no longer expect to find fulfillment in one specific career. I realize that’s a little reckless. Now I am free. I enjoy my cubicle and new office plant, the coffee breaks (of which I take many) and my free time is for adventure. It’s for taking photographs and writing poetry, reading Hemingway and planning one epic road trip to Alaska.

Dayna Copeland is a writer and publisher in Denver, Colo. She hikes, camps, cooks and pretends to play guitar for her family and friends.