A unicorn in a forest full of wild horses

by Jóia Boode

When I was ten years old, I was 100% sure that I was meant to do great things. I was ambitious. Eager to learn. I asked for more homework while my friends went outside to play. My teacher looked at me, confused. “Just go play like the other kids.” This is the first time I remember being actively discouraged to be ambitious, but it was definitely not the last.

If you had asked me to describe myself four years ago, one of the first things I would have said was: “I am a hard worker and I always give 110%.” But I haven’t felt like that for a while now. I come from a family of incredibly hard workers. My grandfather had his own bakery, and my parents worked as performers – being ill hadn’t existed for generations. Ibuprofen and the show must go on. You can imagine that, coming from a family like that, stopping or letting someone else decide my limits for me was not something I generally dealt with in a healthy fashion.

It brought me far, don’t get me wrong! After primary school I was sent to a practical school because my intelligence was underestimated. And within a year I had worked my way up to another school, where I switched to a higher class after half a year of working tirelessly. I was fiercely trying to prove myself to those who told me I couldn’t do it. I had no boundaries, no weekends, no breaks. Just like my family did before me. I graduated high school on the highest level and landed myself straight into a burnout once I started university. I dropped out.

After months of lying on the couch, starting and stopping another bachelor’s, and having three different side jobs, I found my dream study program at the Art Academy of Maastricht — and got in. I found back my spark, my motivation, my strengths. I learned to set boundaries while still giving 100%. I wanted to stay in that field forever – my heart felt whole. With straight A’s I went to one of my teachers and asked him: “What can I do now to prepare for a master’s degree and a PhD in this field?” He laughed. “You are a first-year bachelor student. Just focus on that for now. A PhD might be too ambitious.” I felt ashamed. Maybe I was just too ambitious. Maybe I wasn’t meant to do great things after all.

I went on with my studies and silently continued my plan. In the last year of my bachelor's degree, another teacher noticed me and came up to me. “You are meant to change the world,” he said. “You have been a unicorn in a forest full of wild horses, and whatever you plan on doing, I believe in you.”

With great hesitation I applied for a master’s program abroad, and a stipend to finance it. I almost cancelled both applications because I was so afraid of not being smart enough that I’d rather give up beforehand. But I got in, with a 10K stipend. And so the journey went on.

Moving abroad definitely is a humbling experience. Sucking at a new language, not having any friends, no professional network. After months of applying for over 70 jobs, I hadn’t received a single interview invitation. Days of sitting at home, with barely enough money to make ends meet, made my eyes go grey and my heart grow weary. The sparkling unicorn slowly turned into an old, grey, lonely horse.

But once I started my master’s, I began to make friends. Once I had friends, I had energy and motivation, which I used to study and learn the language. Once I learned the language, I found more friends – and my first job. And once I finished my master’s with a 1.0 GPA average, I found a full-time job. So, the horse got up and running. It is not alone anymore, and its fur looks sturdy and healthy. But even after four years, the spark of the unicorn hasn’t returned.

Until today — as I sit at my desk, writing this text. Believing in my words and my abilities. For the first time since moving abroad, I feel that what I say matters. That my experiences can help people. That what I have to offer is real and needed.

We have many battles to fight in this world, and I believe we need all the unicorn power we can get.

Joining NIWA as an ambassador gave me back my purpose.

And I will write my sparkles back — one column at a time.