I too have been pondering this very topic recently. I am currently at a crossroads in my life (not work related) so the subject feels quite pertinent.
I had been brought up to make my own choices, although strongly encouraged to write. I had this idea that I might want to become a journalist, travelling the world, lots of adventure, never remaining anywhere long enough to settle - that thought terrified me, for some reason, so I vowed never to buy a house. I also toyed with the idea of becoming a sailor/pig farmer/theatre actress. Mmmm...
In truth, my choices were perhaps largely down to incredible parental support and privilege, for which I am ever thankful, yet wonder whether it allowed me to stay 'floaty' as opposed to becoming more grounded - being ferried everywhere, I didn't even bother to learn to drive until later in life...I simply took it for granted that my path would unfold. Alternatively, my sibling was the exact opposite, choosing the more sensible route (car, study, career, homeownership).
I drifted into the arts in my late teens, still writing but not quite dedicated enough to pursue it academically beyond A-level. I decided to study photography and signed up for a foundational course with a view to leaping onto a Degree. However, it was during this phase of study that I happened to walk through the fine art foundation studios one afternoon and (since they were empty for lunch) had a good mooch around.
That was
it, for me. Something of a defining moment - a kind of folding 'outwards' of myself into the future; it felt like having come to the edge of the abyss and jumping into eternity. As if the universe had opened up in front of me. From that moment I have never wavered or been tempted to, and from that moment I also knew that there would be a
lot that I had to give up in the process of embarking on this particular path.
I switched courses a few weeks later and continued study into my mid to late twenties, when I met my long term ex partner - another artist in a different field. There was a fork in the road here, where I had the option to fulfil another long held ambition: to move far away. I chose, instead, to remain within at least 70 miles of home so that we could be together. And I
do regret that. It is my one, single regret, although I can't say that it has presented me with any real issues.
I never did buy a house, with a focus on savings as opposed to more material assets. My artist's income has been somewhat...generously
fluid with rather wild forays in each direction, and whilst the living is essentially modest, I have led a comfortable life devoting myself primarily to what I adore.
I create illustration and design (commercially) which supports and compliments my personal work (painting), the shifting of which moves at a much slower pace, yet still retains a decent market. Whether one can make a full time living as an artist is largely down to luck (or perhaps the ability to remain open/flexible to new ideas), so there is always this sense of 'not knowing' which you have to get used to, I think.
I wonder what I might have become if my parents had been more strict, if I had been pushed to conform to a certain type. My peer group when young all fulfilled the middle class prescription laid out before them, and many of them are doing extremely well. My future remains something of an open book, which terrifies me, but still feels strangely exciting. We are all warned of the pitfalls of 'making our own way', but I have managed to get to my late 40's intact. This would not have been possible if my parents hadn't (wiped my arse) supported me throughout, so I certainly can't claim that I have worked against the odds. The odds, in fact, are now
ahead of me.
Every now and then, there is another version of myself like
@Wombat68 in her cottage; a sort of vision of a 'me' cosseted by thick walls, an open fire, muddy boots at the door and masses of books, stones, twigs, ephemera surrounding me. And I see myself sat there (probably scrolling forteana.org) dressed like a fisherman's daughter with my hair wild about my shoulders and a jackdaw chattering nonsense in my ear. Alone, with nature and very content, like a heroine from a Leonora Carrington story or Townsend Warner's
Lolly Willowes.
I have lived in a few lovely cottages which might match the description but the one in my mind seems different somehow, as if I may have known it all along (or before...) yet it remians forever out of reach. Perhaps there are so many potential versions of ourselves that the very question could only tie us in knots. I believe that we are perpetually unfolding, evolving, learning. If only life was long enough to fit all of it in!
I would be tempted to put in a few more orders from life, can I have some parallel lives, please? So that I can remain an artist in one, a geologist in the other, and possibly a detective or philosopher in yet another.
If I envision myself having gone into a reliable profession, I can definitely perceive success (I might have purchased property in Southern France/Italy...), although I may have longed to break away from that more lucrative life to circle right back to ....where I am now...and on we go. There is also a very strong possibility that I am simply a very steadfast, dream-addled idiot
..
