You gotta look within yourself to see what you enjoy, what you believe in, what you want out of life. Some people think it’s money that’ll make them happy. I believe that people who join the park service believe there’s a bigger calling—whether it’s for sharing the environment with the public or protecting fragile ecosystems.

—TALMADGE, chief park ranger, Hawaii Volcanoes National Park

HAWAII VOLCANOES NATIONAL Park was founded in 1916, though native Hawaiians have enjoyed the land for centuries. They regard the park as a sacred place where the deity Pele—the goddess of fire—lives. A recognized World Heritage Site, the park extends from sea level to 13,677 feet and encompasses the summits and rift zones of two of the world’s most active volcanoes, Kilauea and Mauna Loa.

I spent most of my time this week with Rob, a park ranger since 2001. Rob must have been in his late fifties, but he was in great shape and could no doubt have outhiked me at the height of my varsity sports days. He was never in a rush, constantly joking—he seemed to have an infinite supply of slow-delivered, perfectly timed one-liners.

On Thursday afternoon, Ian and I accompanied Rob on a hike to survey trail conditions. The landscape at the park has a vastness that’s difficult to fully take in. The dark lava rock stretches to the edge of the ocean, then drops off in a sharp cliff toward the bright blue water below. Looking back at the gradually tiered mountainside, you get the incredible view of the various lava flows throughout the years and the path they took, revealed by the sparse trees they left behind and differing types of lava.

In some places during our hike with Rob, there were lava rocks as far as we could see. Then, in the middle of what seemed like a barren landscape, we’d encounter a rain forest of lush vegetation—a remnant of the former landscape before any of the eruptions. We came upon one such patch of forest and ducked under the trees to escape the rain and eat lunch. Rob pulled a tarp from his sack for all of us to sit on, while Ian and I dug out our respective Lunchables kits.

“Lunchables again, eh, guys?” said Rob.

“We’re on a budget,” joked Ian, assembling his first cheese-and-cracker sandwich. Between bites, he admired the beauty of the landscape and the vitality in the air. “I could see myself as a park ranger,” he said, crumbs spilling onto his jacket.

During lunch, I asked Rob about his time in the navy and the years leading up to being a park ranger. Reflecting back, he said there were things that he’d change if he’d known then what he knew now, but he was quick to offer his perception on our tendency to be critical of past decisions. “I see life as if it were one continuous trail,” he said. “There’s no use thinking about what you should have done or what would have happened if you had chosen another trail. The best you can do is cope with the conditions in front of you. And if you’re lucky, you’ve come well enough prepared.”

Many jobs require that you invest in years of training to build expertise and professional standing. While much job satisfaction can come from that, Rob reminded me that a career choice is not necessarily a life sentence. I found comfort in that. If I don’t like a certain career, I can always move on, try something else. It’s my choice. As I get older, the challenge will be to preserve this choice to choose, even in the face of factors beyond my control—a house foreclosure, or a struggling economy. For my part, I can always ensure that I’m responsible with my finances and that I build the relevant skills so that I never feel trapped in a situation.

I think that as my generation enters the workforce, having a single career for one’s entire life will be less and less common. Perhaps the word career will take on a new meaning as we do more independently and start to incorporate a healthy balance of work experiences, training, and education as well as family and community involvement, interests, and hobbies. Maybe it will be perceived as a series of mini life experiences, understood collectively as our “career path”—not clearly defined or requiring a predetermined destination.

Rob assured me I can have many “careers” in my life, and can commit to each one fully, see where it leads, have fun, develop my skills, then confidently look forward, excited, to the next trailhead.

Back on Kilauea Volcano, even though I was very wet and cold, I found a sense of calm, sitting sheltered beneath the lush vegetation, watching the rain gather and stream off the vibrant greenery, our chosen trail fixed before us.

I finished my last cheese-and-cracker sandwich, stuffed my garbage into the backpack, and headed out into the dripping jungle.

The day before we left Hawaii, I received a phone call from New York City.

“Hi, Sean, my name is Paul. I’m a production assistant at the Rachael Ray show. How’s work going?”

“I can’t complain. Right now I’m in Hawaii.”

“Yeah, I saw that on your website. I’m jealous. February isn’t the warmest month to be in New York City.”

Turned out they wanted to film a segment with me trying out different jobs at their studio. Then I’d walk out in front of the live studio audience, sit on the couch, and chat with Rachael about my previous forty-six weeks.

From Hawaii, we had a flight to Los Angeles (with the help of Tammy, our Hawaiian host, and her travel points), but I hadn’t figured out how we’d get to my next job in Florida. Paul said that the show would pay for my flight to New York City, then, after the interview, the flight to Florida. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

There was a time when I would have been happy for the Rachael Ray stamp of approval implied by the invitation. But now I saw it as a chance to share my story and send out some positive ripples, an opportunity to experience something cool that not a lot of people get to do, and of course, free transportation to my next job.

At LAX, the ticket agent handed me my boarding pass for my flight to JFK. It had a shiny gold strip at the top that caused me to take a closer look. Elite class, baby!

I walked past the long lineup at security. When I reached the departure gate, I noticed two paths designated to enter into the tunnel, separated by two aluminum poles connected with a single rope. On one side, just carpet. But on the other side, the elite-class side, a red-carpet mat was neatly placed to protect us elite-class passengers from the dingy carpet below.

I boarded the plane and passed the first few big comfy-looking seats where people seemed so relaxed, already with drinks in their hands. In a short couple of minutes, I’d be in my big comfy-looking seat, sipping on my glass of hand-squeezed pulp-extracted organic orange juice with a splash of champagne. I walked down the aisle, glancing at my ticket, then back up at the seat numbers, and tried to guess which one was my big comfy-looking seat. Only a few rows remained. Then I passed the last row, wondering what happened to my elite-class status. Seemed that elite class didn’t mean first class. I took my middle seat in economy just in time to hear the young girl sitting in front of me ask her mom, “Mommy, what are those seats up there for?”

“Oh, that’s where the important people sit, honey.” Touché.

Shortly after I arrived in Manhattan, my cellphone rang. It was my sister, Natalie. Even though we’re close, I found myself not wanting to answer. We hadn’t spoken since we’d found out about Mom.

“Hey, Nats.”

“How’s it goin’, little brother?”

“Not too bad.” Knowing we had a heavy topic to discuss, I attempted to get in a moment of lightness. “I’d be better if I was sipping on a glass of hand-squeezed pulp-extracted organic orange juice with a splash of champagne.”

“What?”

“Never mind. How are things going with Mom?”

“She’s been very strong, staying positive. You know Mom—she’s not one to look for sympathy.”

“And what about Dad?” I asked.

“What about Dad?”

“Well, has he been there for her?” I felt a familiar pang of resentment toward my dad, and for some reason I couldn’t get rid of it.

“Of course, Sean. You know Dad has always been there for us,” she said. “He’s being very supportive.”

“Oh, yeah? How so?”

“How so?” In her tone, I could hear her questioning why I’d ask such a thing.

“Yeah. Like what’s he doing?” I asked.

“Well, he takes her to all the appointments, he’s helping out around the house, and he’s just being very positive about everything.”

“Hmm. Well, that’s good,” I said, not fully convinced.

Two days later it was time for my interview on Rachael Ray.

As I waited backstage, I couldn’t help but fidget with everything in front of me. I peeked around the set. A large studio audience anxiously awaited their first glimpse of Rachael and her introduction.

“Relax,” said Ian, seated confidently in the other chair. “It’s only broadcast to millions of people.”

He was always there to boost my confidence.

Rachael stepped onstage. “Sean Aiken can’t hold a job for more than one week, and he likes it that way … ”

The day before when I was backstage, I hadn’t felt nervous. I’d felt like a television host. The producers had sent me around with a director, a camera operator, and a sound technician to shoot the job-sampling segment. I’d tried different jobs on set, asked questions of the employees, and reported what goes on behind the scenes. I’d chopped onions in Rachael’s prep kitchen, organized tapes in the production department, helped decorate the set. For my most prestigious job, as a production assistant, I chose the “snack of the day”—a nicely decorated package of pecan brittle. A high-end, especially-elite-class version of the more traditional peanut brittle.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Sean, it’s time.”

The crowd clapped as the show returned from commercial break. Rachael introduced me, and I took a seat on the couch across from her. We dove into a conversation about my previous forty-six jobs, my experience sampling different jobs behind the scenes at the show. Then she asked the big question: “Have you decided what you’re going to do when this whole process is over?”

“I’m getting closer,” I said. “It’s funny, when I started the project, a small part of me hoped that I’d find that one perfect career. But I’ve realized over the course of the experience that what makes me happy at the end of fifty-two weeks is not necessarily going to be the same thing five years down the road.”

“That’s very wise,” she said with a wink to the audience.

“Me going out and searching for my passion has kinda grown, and evolved into motivating others to go out there and take some time to think about ‘What do I really want to do with my career? And what’s going to make me happy?’”

At the end of the interview, I was glad to see that all the onions I’d cut the day before went to good use. Rachael cheerfully broke the news to the audience: “And, because he was so fabulous at chopping onions, there’s”—she paused, then sniffed the air—“French onion soup! And it’s for everyone!”

The audience shouted and clapped enthusiastically. I sat up a little taller in my chair and grinned proudly. That is, until, Rachael followed up the soup by gifting every audience member with an all-in-one printer, scanner, and copier.

After the interview, Ian and I went back to our hotel (paid for by the show). I sat down at the table to check my emails. There was one from my mom.

It read, “Call me please.”

I dialed the number on the suite phone. As soon as she heard my voice, she cried. I started crying too. She finally told me that the doctors had found something on her pancreas that would need to be biopsied, and that she also had polyps (abnormal tissue growth) in her stomach.

“Now, I don’t want you to come home now, you hear?” she said through tears. “I told Dad today that I’ll be here to welcome you home after Week fifty-two.”

I cried harder.

When I got off the phone, Ian was at the door with his shoes and coat on. We were meeting Mercedes, the fashion buyer from Week 35, for dinner. And we were late.

“Doesn’t sound like good news,” he said.

I said nothing and aimlessly moved around the room trying to locate my stuff and get ready to go.

I should be there, I thought. Why am I not there? I’m so selfish.

I looked around the room. “Where’s my hair elastic?” I put on my coat and stood still. My back to Ian, I continued to look hard at the exact same spot on the carpet next to the bed as if my hair elastic would magically appear.

Fighting hard to keep it together, I pulled my jacket up over my head.

She doesn’t want me there. She’d feel bad. It would only make things worse. Wouldn’t it?

Ian stood silently at the door. I wanted him to come over and put a hand on my shoulder, but it probably would’ve just made things worse.

“Where’s my freakin’ hair elastic!?”

Suddenly, it became obvious—the resentment I’d felt toward my dad was completely misdirected. It had nothing to do with him or his ability to be there. In reality, he was there. I wasn’t.

Death scares me. Gone, finished, no more. Forever. For-ev-er. I wish I could always keep the thought close with me, but not too close. Close enough so that I’m continually reminded of the fragility of life and how I must make the most of it. That my time here is finite. With the knowledge comes a certain sense of urgency. Things are quickly put into perspective, I have more energy, am more willing to say yes. It becomes easier to be the person I want to be.

I thought back to sitting across from Eric, the motivational speaker, in his office. He was right—life isn’t always what we make of it. Inevitably I will be challenged by things that are beyond my control. And that’s okay. But I can’t live my life expecting that things will go wrong. I must be grateful when things do work out and, when they don’t, always remember that I can still control how I respond.

I located my hair elastic on top of a pile of clothes and reached for it.

“Okay, let’s go,” I said resolutely.

We headed out the door and made our way to the subway. The next day we were off to Florida.