IN MY PARENTS’ BASEMENT, I woke up ready to start my morning routine—hop in the shower, brush my teeth, put on some clothes, grab something to eat, then run out the door. A moment before I tossed my covers aside, I realized that I didn’t have to go to school. And it wasn’t just that day. For the first time in my life, I didn’t have to go to school again, ever.

I’d felt ready to graduate for some time. I wanted to do my own thing, to start working toward something. The only problem was that I had no idea what this something was.

For as long as I could remember, my life had been organized for me. The most major decision making I did came every four months when I’d spend an hour looking at a course calendar and chart my life for the next semester. Advisors told me how many credits I needed, the courses required to earn my degree. A schedule told me when to be at school. Teachers told me when assignments were due. If I paid attention in class, they’d even tell me how to get a good grade. I was so focused on receiving the best grades I could that I didn’t care whether I was actually learning something. I was taught to focus on grades, and I gave my teachers what they wanted. After all, good grades are what got me into a decent college and what would land me a decent job. Good grades are what would give me “value.”

When summer came, I enjoyed my freedom, never feeling any guilt over not doing something else, something more. There was no need to worry about the long term. I had a simple plan—finish my degree. I’d be back at school in the fall and so could spend the next four months making money, partying with friends, taking weekend road trips—whatever, it didn’t matter. There was no need to stress about anything, least of all the job I got. It was just a summer job. And I, after all, was just a student.

When I graduated, it all changed. No longer a student, I was suddenly expected to provide a legitimate answer to the question “What do you do for a living?”

I wanted to accomplish great things, help others, make a difference. I wanted to do everything and be everywhere. I had big ambitions, but I was totally directionless. I’d been thrown ill-prepared into a wide open landscape in which I could create anything. I thought this freedom was what I’d longed for—a chance to achieve my goals, to live up to this alleged potential many saw in me. But with no course schedules or professors to guide me, I experienced this freedom as a daunting reality rife with expectations. Now it was up to me to determine my path.

In the back of my mind I knew that I was lucky to have options at all—since so many people, especially at a time of economic downturn, don’t—yet I found myself overwhelmed by the expectations of others and my own self-doubts.

A few months removed from my student status, I became depressed. I lay awake at night asking myself life’s big questions, and I wasn’t finding any answers. In July, I and a group of close friends went a few hours up the coast to my friend’s cabin, as we did every year. I wasn’t much fun to be around. Admittedly it would have taken some extra energy given the best of circumstances—I was the fifth wheel in a weekend getaway with my two best friends, their girlfriends, and their dogs. I’d go for walks on the beach by myself and think about the routineness of everything. I could see my entire life laid out:

I’d come home from my unfulfilling nine-to-five job and cook dinner. Then, by the time I’d cleaned up, I’d finally have a moment to relax. Exhausted from the day, I’d flop on the couch, flick on the TV for a couple of hours, then go to bed and wake up and do it all over again the next day. My friends and I would keep our annual tradition and go up to the cabin. But now we’d sit in lawn chairs, watch our kids run around, our dogs dig in the sand, and reminisce about the past.

It wasn’t just the thought of routine that scared me but the idea of not having passion in my life. Life without passion meant finding trivial ways to pass the time. Nobody could convince me otherwise.

In search of answers, I decided to travel. I spent the next year and a half alternating between stints at home and on the road. I backpacked throughout Europe and Southeast Asia, taught English in Thailand, and moved to Quebec to learn French. I never stayed in one place long enough to feel that I needed to plan more than a day ahead.

Avoidance became my self-prescribed coping mechanism. If I was always in transition, there would never be enough time to build up the expectation that I should be doing something more with my life. As soon as questions about my future began to surface, I could move on, hoping an answer would appear in the process.

Traveling taught me a lot about myself. I experienced new cultures, met all sorts of people, and was forced outside of my comfort zone on a daily basis. I learned to appreciate the small moments where life becomes simple and the beauty in all that surrounds us is crystal clear. On the road, people I met accepted who I was that day, in that moment. A certain anxiety always accompanied me when it was time to go home, where friends and family had preconceptions about me and what I should be doing. At home, it was all too easy to slip back into comfortable routines and conform to the established expectations of familiar faces.

Around Christmas, a year and a half after I graduated, I moved home, knowing that travel wasn’t providing the answers I wanted. The holiday season made for an easier transition. Friends were between semesters or on vacation from work, and there was always something to do.

But when the new year came, my friends went back to their normal lives. And there I was, twenty-five years old, living in my parents’ basement, and still without a clue about what I wanted to do with my life. I didn’t even know where to start. I knew that unless I still wanted to be living in my parents’ basement at age thirty, I had to do something.

I thought back to a dinner conversation with my parents and older sister in my senior year of college. My sister, Natalie, decided she’d put me on the spot. “So, Sean, what are you going to do after graduation?”

Silence followed as everyone awaited my answer, or rather, the chance to voice an opinion. My hesitation granted my family permission to bombard me with ideas on the direction I should take. My mom suggested teaching. My sister suggested that I use my business degree and look for an entry-level corporate job. My dad was the only one who didn’t have a specific path in mind. He is a man of few words, and the table went silent when he began to speak.

“Sean, it doesn’t matter what you do; just make sure it’s something you’re passionate about.” He paused thoughtfully. “I’ve been alive for nearly sixty years and have yet to find something I’m passionate about besides your mother.”

My dad never had the luxury of making job satisfaction a top priority. In 1976, recently married, he and Mom left their home country of Jamaica, which was beset by political strife and crime, in search of a safer environment in which to raise a family. They followed some friends to Canada. They’d never been to Canada, nor did they know many people there. It was a new culture. They had five thousand dollars to their name and a baby, my older sister, on the way. As a new immigrant, my father simply wanted a decent job so he could put a roof over his family’s heads and food on the table. He endured long hours at his tedious accounting job, deriving his happiness from the pride in knowing that my sister and I would always have something to eat, a safe place to call home, and the opportunity to one day go to college.

Reminded of my dad’s sacrifices, I renewed the promise I’d made to myself that night after dinner: I’d find a career that I would be passionate about, something that I’d love doing. And if there ever came a time when that career was no longer fulfilling, I’d have the courage to change it.

I’m going to spend the majority of my life working, I thought. I don’t want to spend that time always wishing it was the weekend, counting down the minutes to 5:00 P.M. I want to be as happy in my work as possible. I want to be one of those annoying people who say, “I’d do this job even if I didn’t get paid.”

With some newfound inspiration, I scoured various job boards and flipped through newspaper classifieds. All the important and ambiguous job titles sounded enticing, but I had no clue what the jobs would actually be like.

And that’s when I had an idea.

What if I was able to try out these different jobs? I thought. Then I could see what I like, what I don’t like, and find out what I need in a career to be happy.

The more the idea sank in, the more I liked it. At the end of January, I went to my best friend, Ian, with the idea. “So, you know how I’m trying to figure out what I want to do?” I said.

“Yeah. Have you decided?”

“Well, I think I’m going to do a different job each week for a whole year.”

He laughed. “You’re going to do what?”

“I’m going to accept job offers from different companies or individuals, for one week at a time, for a whole year.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah, fifty-two jobs in fifty-two weeks. I’m thinking that I could start a website where anybody can offer me a job for one week. Then I’ll travel anywhere somebody is willing to hire me and try out a different job each week to see what I like and don’t like.” I thought the idea was brilliant and waited for his response.

He stared at me blankly. “So … wait a second here,” he said. “And who is going to hire you for only one week?”

“Umm, I don’t know—anybody. I haven’t thought that far yet,” I said. “But I’m sure people will be open to the idea.”

“I don’t know, man, seems pretty … ” He paused, then smiled. “But hey, why not, right? Go for it.”

For years I’d gone to Ian with my ideas for various adventures, yet I’d never had the courage to pursue any of them. I had always wanted Ian to say, “Great idea, Sean. Let’s do it together.” I was on my own with this one, but just knowing that I had Ian’s support was enough to help me move forward.

Over the next couple of weeks I went to the local library with my laptop every day to prepare content for the website. I composed my résumé and background information, including my motivation behind the project and how employers could offer me a job.

I wasn’t doing the project for money, but for the experience. I wondered how I could use my journey to help others at the same time.

I decided that I’d ask my employers to make a donation to ONE, a campaign I support that fights extreme poverty by advocating policy reform. It just felt right. I’d help raise money and awareness for a great campaign, the company that employed me would get a tax receipt for their donation, and I’d embark on a yearlong internship in which I could try out fifty-two different professions with no commitment to stay at the job.

I didn’t know how I could finance the whole thing, but I wanted to take the first step. I had a few hundred dollars in my savings to get me started. However, if I wanted to keep it up for the year, I’d need to somehow find a way to support myself.

Part of me questioned whether the project made sense—wasn’t it just another prescription for avoidance (albeit a more creative one)? After all I’d eventually have to get a real job once I quit my daydream. Still, I was happy to stay busy planning.

The following weekend I went to Ian’s apartment.

“So, what are you going to call this project?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe … Job-a-Week?”

“Hmm. How about … One-Week Job?”

“Yeah. I like that,” I said. “One-Week Job it is.”

Ian’s fiancée, Karen, purchased the domain name www.OneWeekJob.com, and Ian and I began to design the website. I felt a little guilty taking up Ian’s time to design a website that I wasn’t convinced I’d use. But I kept moving forward, step by step, refusing to acknowledge my doubting inner voice.

By late February, my website was complete. I’d reached the final step—I needed to tell people about One-Week Job in order to get job offers. I composed an email to friends and family explaining the project:

Hey Everyone! I wanted to let you know about a project that I’m starting. Basically, any individual or company can offer me a job for one week. The job can be absolutely anything, anywhere. I will then travel to the city, work the job offered for the week, blog about my experience, and any proceeds that my employer is willing to pay me, they donate to the ONE campaign.

I don’t know what I want to do for a career, so this is my way of figuring it out. I would really appreciate your support to get the project off the ground. If you have a blog, personal website, or use MySpace or Facebook, it would be great if you could post a link to: www.OneWeekJob.com. Thanks!—Sean

Stalling, I reread the email several times. Then I stared at the screen a while longer with my mouse hovering over the Send button. Once I sent this email, there would be no turning back.

One tap of the index finger and it was off. Now I needed to find myself a job. Monday was a workday.