Grace, Grit & Sarcasm

I have one class left and a GPA of 3.87.

One.

After that, I will have finished my bachelor’s degree.

Sometimes I type that sentence and just stare at it because there is a version of me from ten years ago—heck, even five years ago—who would never have believed we would end up here.

There has been a lot of hard work getting to this point. Blood, sweat, and tears.

Okay, there wasn’t actually any blood. Unless you count the occasional paper cut.

But sweat? Absolutely.

And tears? Oh, those were real. Especially during my statistics course! There were frustrated tears, exhausted tears, “I cannot write one more discussion post” tears, and probably a few “What the hell was I thinking?” tears mixed in for good measure.

I did this while working full time, managing a team, handling responsibilities that didn’t disappear just because I had homework, taking care of a home, dealing with life, and trying to remember that apparently human beings are also supposed to sleep occasionally.

And now I have one class left.

What makes this accomplishment mean even more to me is where I started.

I grew up in an emotionally abusive home where I was told throughout my childhood and teenage years that I would never accomplish anything. When you hear something often enough—especially from the people who are supposed to build you up—it doesn’t magically disappear when you become an adult.

Those words followed me.

They became that little voice that sometimes whispers, “Who do you think you are?”

Even now, after everything I have accomplished, there are moments when I struggle to believe I deserve the life I have built. Sometimes I look at my career, my education, my home, my family, and everything I have worked for and feel like I somehow snuck into a life that belongs to somebody else.

Trauma is funny that way.

Actually, no. Trauma isn’t funny at all. It’s an asshole.

It can make you question accomplishments you worked your butt off to earn. It can give you Imposter Syndrome. It can make you minimize your successes and magnify every mistake. It can make you think you have to continually prove your worth when the truth is that you never should have had to prove it in the first place.

For a long time, I measured success mostly by my professional accomplishments. My career mattered enormously to me, and it still does. I wanted to grow, lead, mentor people, take on more responsibility, and prove that I was capable. I still have aspirations to grow in the company I work for.

But somewhere along the way, something changed.

My personal goals became just as important to me.

And I’ve become just as proud of them.

Going back to school wasn’t about checking a box. It became something I was doing for me. Every class I completed was another little piece of evidence that maybe the voice from my childhood was wrong.

Actually, let’s correct that.

It was wrong.

I was never incapable.

I was never destined to accomplish nothing.

I just spent a lot of years believing someone else’s assessment of my potential.

Now, in my 50s, I’m learning to write my own.

I’m almost finished with my bachelor’s degree, and I am incredibly proud of that. But here’s the thing:

I’m not finished.

Not even close.

There are still goals I want to reach. There are still things I want to learn. There are still ways I want to grow as a woman, a leader, a mother, a grandmother, a student and simply as a human being.

I spent too many years believing there were limits on what I could become.

I’m done with that.

I don’t know if that little voice of self-doubt will ever disappear completely. Maybe healing isn’t about making it disappear. Maybe it’s about hearing it and saying, “Yeah, I know you’re there. I’m doing it anyway.”

Because I’ve learned something important about myself over these past few years:

I can do hard things.

I can start over.

I can change direction.

I can set ridiculously ambitious goals and chase them.

I can be terrified and still move forward.

And I can be proud of myself without apologizing for it.

So here I am.

In my 50s.

One class away from a bachelor’s degree.

Still carrying a few scars.

Still occasionally questioning myself.

Still learning.

Still growing.

And still reaching for the next version of me.

To the younger version of myself who believed she would never accomplish anything:

You should see us now.

And sweetheart, we’re not done yet.