Conclusion First: Our professional life spans stretch to about 40 years. In that time, we are capable of becoming highly competent in a chosen area at least three times over. Yet we impose a necessity of linear progression on our work—a ladder if you like the corporate metaphor. The freedom to (wildly or incrementally) reinvent oneself every 10 to 12 years may be the only way to sustain our energy through what would otherwise be a terrible slog of earning years.
Early in my career I became enchanted by the mythology of Julia Child. She was having a bit of a pop culture moment with both a new biography (2006) and a movie (2009) coming out in the years following her death at age 91. This moment lined up with my own experiences in the world of cooking.
From 2003 to 2006, I was a (very) junior member of a cookbook company’s staff. My desk was in the closet with the reference library. There were horrifying fluorescent lights. A creepy guy who worked in the mail room. A dress code. And most of my coworkers were in their 60s. The job was excruciatingly boring and unfulfilling except when it was not. When it was not, there was free food.
In between the bouts of boredom, I would stay awake at my desk by promising myself that I could peruse the cookbooks surrounding me for 10 minutes after I copyedited a certain number of pages. I often looked for things to make for dinner on those wanderings. And I borrowed copies from all the greats of the era, as well as all of Child’s books.
What drew me in about Julia Child was that she hadn’t even learned to cook—the thing she’s most famous for doing—until she was in her late 30s. I was 24 and felt like I was way behind on figuring out the entire trajectory of my life. Child showed me that life is long, and that what you’re doing at 24 likely doesn’t have much to do with what you’re going to be doing for the rest of your life.
Julia Child had something like four waves to her working life. After college, she spent several years as a copywriter for an advertising agency. When the U.S. entered World War II, she joined the Office of Strategic Services as a typist and then as a top-secret researcher. She lived all over the globe and met her husband, Paul, while stationed in Ceylon (now Sri Lanka). Her work earned her a Meritorious Civilian Service Award.
After a couple of years of marriage, the Childs moved to France with Paul’s job in the Foreign Service. It was only then, at age 36, that Julia tasted French cuisine for the first time. She dove in head first, enrolling in the Cordon Bleu cooking school. After graduating in 1951, she created a cooking school of her own. Next came the book—a massive tome called Mastering the Art of French Cooking. It was published ten years after her completion of cooking school and became a bestseller that has never gone out of print.
Finally, Child became a television star. Her show, The French Chef, debuted on what is now PBS in 1962. It ran for 10 years and won multiple awards. She was also the star of numerous other programs throughout the 1970s, 80s, and 90s.
As a bored and directionless 20-something, I didn’t really have career goals beyond making enough money to pay my ill-advised condo mortgage. Child’s life story taught me that life is (usually) pretty long, and we have a lot of time to try a lot of things. I have not (yet) become an acclaimed cookbook author but Child’s inspiration has kept me from getting too terribly locked in to one path.
Even Successful People Should Consider Reinvention
American society tends to describe success in ways that have little to do with personal fulfillment. The markers are almost all external: your job title (consistent movement up the ladder); your zip code; the car you drive; the schools your children attend; and the hobbies and vacations you can afford. Many of these things feel quite good on some level—comforting for sure. But can any of them compare to the feeling of mastering something new?
I have many friends who are physicians. We met when they were all residents at Vanderbilt University Medical Center, around the time I was reading Child and struggling to pay that mortgage. This time was, arguably, the most grueling portion of their careers. Low pay (relative to eventual earning potential), long hours, and low status. While they enjoyed what they were learning, there were all eager to move on to what they had planned next. Yet, surprisingly, “next” often involved more grueling study.
One friend finished his oncology residency and decided to tack on a fellowship. Once he joined a private practice, he realized that he might be interested in the business side of medicine and so pursued his MBA. Another friend who specialized in infectious disease took little time to “rest” in her career as a clinician and associate professor of medicine before she began studying for a masters in public health. Finally, another young doctor I knew who was ground down by his residency took the “easy” road and became a hospitalist. After several unfulfilling years, he returned to training to specialize in nephrology.
I’ve learned from watching my physician friends that starting over or starting anew is incredibly humbling. But the joy of working toward and achieving mastery is worth more than any of the outward markers of success. The caveat, of course, is that many of their choices also came with those outward markers. But they didn’t have to take it so far. (The metaphorical Porsche was already in the driveway when my friend went for his MBA.)
I think we can extrapolate their experiences to non-medical careers as well. I have friends—most are women—who have taken a career break to focus on parenting. They almost all took their return to working as an opportunity for a whole new direction. The grant-writer became a customer support specialist and then a product manager. The journalist became the food writer and then the radiologic tech. All of these moves required saying “I know nothing” and embarking on the journey of learning and mastery.
If I could go back to my 20-something self, I would let her know that she is way more capable than she (and definitely her cookbook overlords) even realize. I’d tell her to take the jobs that seem a little scary and out of her league. (Maybe skip the one at the gardening book company though. What a waste.) I’d let her know that “having it all figured out” is a farce. Not even the kids in medical school know what they’ll be doing for their entire career. As for my current 40-something self, I know now, better than ever, that there’s still time for a couple of reinventions. I even have a few ideas about what they might be.
“A wise palate should go with a wise heart.” — Cicero as quoted by Montaigne
“Not all fat people are wise, but all wise people are fat. Only an idiot would be skinny.” — Margaret the Pug
I'm optimistic the generation entering the workforce now will welcome the chance at reinvention.