Post-Potter depression

I was going through a mid-summer crisis when I went to see the final “Harry Potter” in theaters.

I had just gotten back from D.C., where I had become increasingly disillusioned with politics (I still couldn’t tell you what a think tank actually does). I was having second thoughts about my major. (English? Too bland. Humanities? Too weird. Political Science? Ew. Some combination of the three? Probably.) Every time I logged into Facebook I saw that my friends were jet-setting across the world, or working long hours at prestigious NYC internships.

I needed my Hogwarts fix.

At first, getting back into the Potter craze made things worse. Harry & Co. seemed to have all the important things figured out. I mean, what could be a better life goal than defeating the force(s) of evil? I’m sure Harry never worried about selling out. He grew up to become an Auror! And he probably never worried he was better suited to Muggle Studies or Divination (he was!) than Defense Against the Dark Arts. No doubt it helped that Hermione did all his homework. I — we — grew up with Harry Potter. So why did it seem that as he grew into his own, I was left behind?

But then, Dumbledore turned to Harry in the white-washed dream version of King’s Cross.

“Words are, in my not so humble opinion, the most inexhaustible source of magic,” he said, “capable of both inflicting injury and remedying it.”

“You’re clearly an English major,” was all I heard.

Things will be okay, is what Dumbledore meant, even if you never do get that Hogwarts letter in the mail. (In case you guys are looking for interns, though, I’m in Swing.)

And in the meantime, you can find me on Pottermore. I’m ShieldFeather27.

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