“There are things known, and there are things unknown and in between are the doors” – Jim Morrison Many years ago I was working for a nonprofit organization in a nearby town.  It was my first job as a professional, having just completed my master’s degree in social work.  I loved that job.  I had the most wonderful bosses; kind, generous, dedicated people who were passionate about reaching out to those who needed help.  It didn’t feel like a job.  It was more like a great big, diverse, wonderful family.

We were men and women, young and old, gay and straight, rookies and seasoned veterans.  We loved each other deeply.  We learned from each other and pushed one another to grow, professionally and personally.  I was a young, newly married social worker and eager to throw myself into the work.  I was willing to do whatever tasks were assigned to me.  I was inexperienced and I did not yet know where my true passion lay.

I grew a lot during those years.  When my children were born, my work family embraced them.  For Christmas one year, when my oldest turned one, the staff got together and surprised him with a Red Flyer wagon, lovingly assembled by the executive director in his office late at night after everyone had gone home for the day.  I’ll never forget the look in my son’s eyes when John walked into the conference room pulling the black handle and guiding the wagon into the center of the festivities.

Social work is hard; heart wrenching, sometimes painful, soulful work that is survived only by careful attention and support.  We were fortunate to work for bosses who understood that and because of that, created an environment that not only allowed us to take care of the people we were committed to serving, but to care for each other as well.

It was a wonderful journey.

And as is often true with journeys, at some point, whether you are ready for it or not, they come to an end.

The days and weeks leading up to that unwanted ending were filled with anxiety and fear.  This was my home, my support system, my definition of who I was.  I was fearful, anxious and heartbroken.  I cried a lot and panicked, spending many sleepless nights perseverating on potential next steps.  Where would I go?  What would I do? And how would I do it?

One afternoon, in the midst of one of those tearful escapades, I called one of my colleagues who was in the midst of his own angst about the situation.  He wasn’t home but his wife answered the telephone.  “How are you?” she asked me, knowing full well the depths of what I was going through.

“Not so good,” I said to her, my voice breaking with yet another onslaught of tears.  “I’m really scared.”  I reached for the box of tissues on my desk and tried desperately to compose myself.

“Suzanne,” she started, her compassion poured through the phone line like a great big hug, “When one door closes, another opens.  Look for the open door.”

Important words.

I clung to those words, like a big, round life preserver thrown out to me in a sea of fear and they held me up.  And in time, I found the open door.

Nearly a decade later, I found myself back there again, walking through another door that was closing behind me.  Again I was anxious, fearful that I did not know what was next. There, in of the darkness of my anxieties came those important words once again, “Look for the open door.”

I grabbed onto those words as I had done before, chanting that mantra in the face of the blankness that stood before me.  It is here somewhere, I thought to myself.  I just have to see.  And once again, I did.

I thought about that story last week as I stood in front of my college students.  They are nearing the end of their academic tenure.  Many of them will be graduating this spring.  They have taken the required courses and they can see the end of the road.  For the first time in a long time, they have begun to think about what is next.

“What did you want to be when you grew up? “ I ask them playfully.  “I wanted to be an airline stewardess." and I tell them that I used to make my friends and younger siblings sit on the picnic table while I served them KoolAid in paper cups and handfuls of pretzel sticks to practice for what undoubtedly would be my future career.  "Obviously, I didn’t make it,” I finish sheepishly, and the sound of their laughter fills the room.  They share their childhood dreams with each other.

“And now?” I ask them.  “What do you want to do now?”

Silence.  They have no idea, comes the answer.   It all seems too daunting, too overwhelming and they are scared.  They looked at me blankly as if they, perhaps, thought I might be able to offer them just the smallest of clues.

“I get it,” I tell them, because, of course, I've been there too.  There are some feelings that are universal.  I can not tell them what will come next, where they will find their niche, discover their passion.  I can only share with them the words that I now know to be true.