Two years ago I began a Masters degree. I was 35, divorced, had two kids and hadn’t been a student in nearly 15 years.
Back then, I’m not sure I owned a cell phone, and a notebook was literally a book filled with blank pages rather than a computer. So much had changed since I’d done my undergraduate degree, and now I felt out of my league. In fact, I was terrified.
How would I balance motherhood and school? What if I didn’t do well or couldn’t keep up? On top of that, the program I chose—a Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Nonfiction—required me to leave my kids and live in a dorm in Halifax for two weeks, two summers in a row.
Leaving my boys was torture. (My dorm room had it’s challenges, too.) I didn’t think I could do it.
But I did. It was stressful. It required hard work and dedication. But I did it. This week I’m graduating from my program with my MFA degree. I made wonderful friends along the way, learned more than I ever could have otherwise, expanded my writing portfolio and wrote a book. More than that, I fulfilled a lifelong dream of going back to school to earn my Masters.
When I don my gown and cap one last time at my graduation ceremony in Halifax, my parents and fiancé will be watching me from the stands. I will be surrounded by my friends and mentors.
It is such an accomplishment—one that I never thought I’d have the confidence to achieve. I hope I’ve made my kids proud by showing them I can do anything I put my mind to, even if it’s scary. I’ve definitely made myself proud.
I wonder what I’ll set my sights on next . . .