I, like many other millennials, find myself living between two different worlds. Since I was a kid, I have been consistently told to “follow my dreams.” But I also find myself constantly dissuaded by the older generation from doing what I really love. In a misleadingly affectionate tone, I am often reminded to think about my student loans, that my dream job doesn’t pay well or sometimes even that they have a much better idea of how I should spend my future.

Even though I can’t deny that I’ve spent plenty of sleepless nights wondering if I’m making the wrong decision, I also find myself unapologetically angry at writers like Miya Tokumitsu who say “doing what you love” is a naïve dream rather than a genuine goal.

Holly Salois, another Odyssey Online writer, fellow Wheaton student, and my close friend, originally introduced me to Tokumitsu’s article through her own response to it, where she ultimately ended still questioning whether it was better to follow your heart or follow the middle ground. Originally, when I first read Holly’s response, I was swayed in the same direction. I thought that yes, it was right. There is no way everyone can actually reach the stars, so doesn’t preaching the “do what you love” mentality belittle the people who physically can’t? Doesn’t it make more sense to strive for a comfortable life than an unattainable dream, even if that means compromising my career?

But believing this, I found, didn’t fill me with a newfound sense of self or even help calm my constant anxiety. In fact, it made it worse; I was stuck asking myself the same question over and over and over—if wanting to do what I loved was so bad, then why did I want it so badly?

I thought about this question and Tokumitsu’s countless examples a lot and eventually reached my own conclusion about whether or not we should do what we love. But before I give my rebuttal, here’s an anecdote:

As a child, after I grew out of my nurse/fashion designer/princess/ballerina phase, I became absolutely enthralled with the world of ancient Egypt. I checked one picture book on pyramids out of the local library and the rest would be history–or so I thought. I was in love with the idea of excavating tombs alongside the famous Egyptologist Zahi Hawass and saying, proudly, when anyone asked, that this had been my dream since I was seven.

Even though I received plenty of support from parents and teachers—and spent most of my time happily reading my 1,000 page Encyclopedia of Egypt and drawing facial reconstructions for mummies (I was weird, I know)—as I grew up, everyone else’s enthusiasm seemed to wane. It was okay to fantasize about but adults in my life were adamant that they could shift my interest elsewhere. If they talked about other potential career fields enough, maybe I would grow out of that one particular dream. But I didn’t, not really. So instead I adopted an all or nothing mentality and tried to come up with something else I was good at, something attainable.

For years, I forgot about that dream. I pushed it aside. I applied to colleges with creative writing programs and decided that I would be happy spending the rest of my life working wherever they would hire me and writing whatever I wanted on the side. Even before I read Tokumitsu’s article, I was living her way of thinking.

As soon as I entered my freshman year of college, however, I had an identity crisis. In searching for a work study I wouldn’t hate, I found my perfect job. Wheaton’s Permanent Collection was hiring, and as soon as the Museum Studies professor I was working with found out I loved Egypt, she showed me the ancient amulets they had in their possession. I decided to double major in art history, just so I could keep learning about these things I forgot, or in some cases, didn’t realize I loved.

But even then, I was still trying to stay grounded in realism. I thought that I would work for a few years before even thinking about grad school, try to find an entry-level museum job but settle for anything I could find that I didn’t absolutely hate. I had dreams, but I had already been taught that maybe they weren’t always for the best.

But then, in a random bout of “what will my future be like,” I decided to look at potential graduate schools, even though it’s still too far away to seem real. That’s when I stumbled upon NYU’s Ancient Near Eastern and Egyptian Studies program and started to cry.

I can’t explain how it felt to suddenly see everything you’ve ever wanted written out right in front of you. It was a strange mix of euphoria and grief. It was right there but at the same time, how could I ever reach it? As Tokumitsu points out, reaching your goals can sometimes seem like a luxury only afforded to the rich, and my family situation is anything but. I’m lucky to go to college. I might be foolish for wanting grad school too.

But, in the end, the thing I felt most was determination, the key thing the “do what you love” opponent seems to forget.

She’s sure to point out that your dream job might not pay well, abuse your love for your work for their own material gain and that the entire idea devalues work that isn’t done out of love. I can’t deny that these examples are true and scary, but I can still find fault in why she presents them. Instead of reciting terrifying statistics about the way the world works so we can fix it, Tokumitsu seems to be preaching that we fix ourselves. That instead of striving for a world where we can all feel fulfilled and rewarded for doing the things we love, we lower our expectations and see work as just… work.

In the end, I still wholeheartedly disagree. The conclusion I reached was that, in the end, I might not be able to do what I love and that will be okay. But Tokumitsu is the ignorant one if she believes that, even for a second, I will stop fighting for my dreams. I could spend my entire life bagging groceries, but never would I stop trying, trying, trying for the sometimes unattainable goal I’ve always wanted. We can’t all do what we love but that doesn’t mean we all can’t try, hope and dream.

I will not settle for Tokumitsu’s lackluster way of seeing our existence. Because, for all I know, I only get to live once, and I don’t want to spend my only shot compromising on what I love. Because I do not want to die before seeing the Pyramids of Giza. Because I am human and therefore I dream, I think, I want.