I just published my first article on LinkedIn, which is based on my capstone. Please read it, if you feel so inclined.
I DID IT!
On December 31, a Master of Science in Marketing and Communication will be conferred upon me.
On January 12, my diploma will be mailed to me. I assume this is also when my regalia will be sent.
On January 29, my graduation ceremony will stream online.
I have been encouraged to continue the work I started in my capstone. It is an issue that is incredibly important to me, so I will start thinking about it next week.
This week, I take a break. And breathe.
And now, a poem that inspires my cap decoration (yes, I am doing it still, despite not having an in-person ceremony). After my previous, failed attempt at earning my master’s, it seems appropriate.
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
— William Ernest Henley
Two weeks from this evening, it’s all done.
I will get my final grades within the following week. And soon, I will be able to put an M.S. after my name on my LinkedIn profile.
It’s getting real.
I’ve spent the evening making some updates to my portfolio. I wanted to add what I feel are the highlights from my program. I’ll slowly be adding more things in the coming weeks.
Capstone, week 1. SIX WEEKS LEFT OF MY MASTER’S DEGREE PROGRAM.
I set up a separate blog to document my capstone research. If you feel so inclined, you can follow it here.
Also, I got professional headshots done a couple weeks ago. The photo shoot was at the Park of Roses, and it was super fun. I got my final headshot back today.
If you live in Central Ohio, I highly recommend Headshots Columbus if you need a headshot.
As of today, I have seven weeks left of grad school.
It’s crazy to me. I remember the first day of class very clearly. It was October 1 of last year, so it really wasn’t so long ago. But it felt like such a mountain to climb at the time. My first instructor, Ted, said the program would fly by. He wasn’t kidding.
This is the final week of my Marketing Communication Management and Leadership course. Next week, I start the capstone. Six weeks. One research project. I think I’ve decided on my topic, but I have to look at the research that’s already been published about my topic in order to refine it.
I hope to document that process here.
Commencement is scheduled for January 10. I am a little disappointed it’s in 2021. This year could use a positive ending. But it’s likely going to be virtual anyway. I’ll get my cap, gown, hood, and diploma before then.
A friend of mine proposed a Zoom graduation party – fancy headwear required. Naturally, I will be there in full graduate regalia. I think I need to do it. Bring your own cocktails.
I needed to get out this morning for a little garden therapy. Maybe you could use some, too.
Last week, I applied to graduate during the fall 2020 commencement with a Master of Science in Marketing and Communication. Earning a master’s degree is a significant achievement, but for me, it’s also closing a painful chapter in my life.
This is the narrative I needed to write for over 17 years. It’s also one of the most difficult. But given the milestone I’m about to achieve, I feel like I’m in a good place now to talk about this painful part of my past.
My current graduate program is my second attempt at grad school. My first attempt was from 2001-2003 in a Master of Arts in English program.
For two years, I devoted most of my waking hours either to my own classes or to teaching classes. I ate, slept, and breathed my graduate program and my role as an undergraduate composition instructor.
I was a good student — maybe not the best in the program, but good enough to earn an academic scholarship. And I was, so far as I know, well respected among my fellow grad students and most of the faculty I worked with.
Was I a good instructor? Well, that depends on the individual student, I suppose. I didn’t please everyone. But I also learned during these two years that teaching was not for me. And for the most part, you don’t go to grad school in a discipline like English unless your intent is to work in academia. (For the record, I love the academic environment. I just didn’t love teaching.)
During this time, I was with the man who is now my husband. He was stationed in Georgia while I was in Ohio, so we carried on a long-distance relationship this entire time. I mostly only saw him during breaks and long weekends.
All these things I’m mentioning matter because they factored into what finally happened.
Now, in my program, there were two options for finishing the master’s degree:
Option 1: Write a thesis.
Option 2: Take a comprehensive exam.
After several conversations with my graduate advisor, I opted for the exam. This was the recommended option for those who did not intend to pursue a Ph.D. The exam process took pretty much the entire final semester of the program. I had to choose two literary periods to focus on, create a reading list from these periods, put together an exam committee of three faculty members (one specializing in each of my chosen periods, and another to be the committee chair), and get my reading list approved. The exam itself consisted of a written component first, followed by an oral component with my committee.
Spring 2003 was my final semester. I got engaged in January 2003 — just a few months before my then-fiance (now husband) moved from Georgia to Germany (where I was, of course, also going to live once we got married). So, that was already a major adjustment to process before diving into my final semester.
However, I checked all the boxes for the exam. Literary periods, check. Reading list, check. Committee, check. Reading list approval, check.
And so, I began the arduous process of preparing for the exam. And taking my final classes. And teaching. And planning a wedding. And preparing to move overseas.
You’d think I would get some support from the English Department during this time. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. No. Two of the three members of my committee took off for most of the semester because they had gotten jobs at an out-of-state university and were preparing to move. So they were unavailable when I had questions. The remaining professor wasn’t really able to answer any questions I had. It was always, “I don’t know.” I’m not sure any of them really understood a thing about the exam process. That should have been a red flag for me, but I pressed onward and continued studying.
At the same time, a few of the other grad students were also preparing for exams. Their committees seemed to have a better understanding of what was going on, so I basically used what they were doing and how they were doing it as a guideline to help me prepare.
My committee did answer at least one question for me, though — and this I remember vividly. They told me I did not have to recite poetry from memory during my oral exam.
I went into my exam feeling as ready as I could be under the circumstances. The written portion was tough and took a few excruciating days. I don’t remember much about it. It was the oral portion that turned my world upside down.
I walked to campus that day to take the edge off. It was a good 20-minute walk, which I thought would clear my head. I was called into the exam room, where I sat across the table from the three professors on my committee.
The exam began.
They asked questions about literature that was not on my reading list.
They asked questions about time periods that were not my area of focus.
They asked me to recite poetry from memory.
At times it seemed I was taking someone else’s exam. However, enough of the exam was tailored to my reading list to know it was MY exam and not someone else’s.
The exam ended, and I was told to sit in the student lounge and wait for their decision. I didn’t need to wait. The second I closed the exam room door, I started sobbing. I knew exactly what the outcome would be.
No master’s degree.
Two years of my life wasted.
Student loan debt with nothing to show for it.
The only saving grace of that day was a friend of mine, a Ph.D. student, who was in the student lounge at the time. She stayed with me and made sure I got home later on. She also told me to eat all the chocolates I brought with me to give to my committee as a thank you gift. And I did.
I cried all day. I called my mom, and she cried with me. I can’t begin to describe the devastation of something like this.
A few days later, I moved back home with my parents. I was a couple weeks from flying to Germany to help get settled into our rental house. Before I left town, I met with the dean of the graduate program. He was, shall we say, unsympathetic. He told me I could put together another committee and try again, but it was obvious he thought I was wasting his time.
When I was back in Columbus, I started hearing from some of the grad students. More than one person said I was deliberately set up to fail, and that’s why the exam had questions that did not match my preparations. The faculty had apparently decided they were dissatisfied with the overall performance of the graduate students, so they wanted to make an example of someone to scare everyone else.
I wasn’t planning to move on to a Ph.D. program. I was also one of the first to take the exam. And I guess they figured that failing the exam wasn’t going to destroy the trajectory of my life. (Which is true.) I was, in other words, the perfect scapegoat.
I wrestled with whether to believe any of this or not. I wanted to put the whole mess behind me and try to focus on the rest of my life. But too many people said things like this to me (including a faculty member), and academics from other institutions told me this wasn’t a unique situation, and I fell prey to academic politics.
I tried to move on. I spent the rest of 2003 focusing on the wedding and Germany.
In 2004, I tried again. I checked in with the English Department, and they told me to start the process. However, I only found one faculty member for my committee. I was a pariah. No one else wanted to work with me.
And so, the specter of this unfinished business has haunted me since then. I successfully completed all the required coursework. It was that damn exam that kept me from getting the diploma. I spent a lot of time being angry … with myself … with the English Department … with the faculty members involved.
To this day, failing that exam is my measuring stick for anything bad that happens in my life. Only the deaths of dearly beloved family members have been worse. Everything else? I can survive and move on.
If not finishing that degree has altered anything about my trajectory in life, it’s only made me hungrier to succeed. Earning a master’s degree has remained on my bucket list since then, and I have had a fire within me to get it done and kick ass while doing it.
So, here I am — twelve weeks away from completing all my coursework. I’m in a program that is nothing at all like my previous experience. Everyone is invested in student success. Everyone is supportive and available to answer questions. This program is for working adults, and we aren’t expected to eat, sleep, and breathe grad school.
I am excelling in all my classes. And I finish off with a six-week capstone — an independent study project supervised by the lead faculty of the program.
I got this.
Gardening at my house looks a little different this year. At a time when seemingly everyone has a sudden interest in growing their own food, I opted to cover my vegetable bed with a plastic tarp to smother all the weeds. This has been my plan since last gardening season for two reasons:
- I needed to get the weeds under control — they were bad enough to actually impact the growth of some of my vegetables.
- I am too busy with grad school to devote the time and energy it takes to tend a decent-sized vegetable garden.
I decided to try containers this year so I could still grow some things. It’s just easier and far less time-consuming. I planted two containers of Contender bush beans, two containers of San Marzano tomatoes, and a container of strawberry plants.
Well, the strawberries aren’t really going to produce this year. I’ve gotten two berries so far. Mostly the plants are just spreading. This is fine, and I expected it. The last time I planted strawberries, I didn’t get a decent crop until the second year. I think they will be in good shape for next year.
The San Marzanos are coming in, but I’m picking and tossing a lot of them due to blossom-end rot. I’m trying to diagnose what’s causing that so I can at least salvage some of my tomatoes.
Finally, the Contenders. This is my first time growing bush beans. My husband, who is not a fan of vegetables in general, likes green beans. But I honestly thought he only liked canned green beans (store-bought, that is, not home-canned). He actually encouraged me to grow these and said he would eat them.
They are easy to grow, and the plants are producing well. I’ve picked enough over the past three days to prepare some for dinner tonight. So I have them simmering away in the slow cooker in some vegetable broth, seasoned with a bit of sea salt and fresh cracked pepper.
To me, this is a victory. It may not look like the gardens I’ve had the past few years. And I’m certainly not getting the same yield. But I’ll take any success I can get in 2020.
I’ll definitely be growing these Contenders every year.
The moment the realization struck me is still vivid in my memory – much like any other life-changing moment.
It was the summer of 2003, and I was in Germany. My fiancé (now husband) was stationed there and had just moved there a couple months prior. Instead of planning a wedding, I was there preparing for married life. I wasn’t just marrying someone. I was moving to another country. I was leaving my life behind for something new and unknown. I was there to test the waters. To help set up the house. To basically get everything ready for me to move there for good.
We were at a party. The weather was beautiful. Everyone was outside, enjoying food and conversation and laughter. And here I was, playing with the hosts’ new puppy. Avoiding people. Especially children. The kids were loud, screaming, getting on my nerves.
It occurred to me, then. I’m happier with dogs. I don’t want children of my own.
L found me, then. I realized I had to tell him. We never discussed having kids, to be honest. It’s so much part of the status quo … it’s just expected. So, I actually never knew his honest feelings about having children. How had we never discussed it?
I just took a deep breath. A lot was riding on it. And then I told him the truth. “I really don’t want to have kids. I want dogs instead.” He didn’t even hesitate. He told me that he didn’t see himself having kids either.
It was decided, then. We were not having kids.
We told our families just so there wouldn’t be any questions after the wedding about when we were going to start a family. Regardless, I still got a lot of criticism, especially among the other military wives.
“You’re not a real woman unless you’re a mother.”
“How can you be so selfish?”
“It’s different when it’s your own.”
Etcetera, etcetera …
I think I’ve won this childfree BINGO game several times over.
I had a difficult time making friends once I knew my own mind. I was a pariah among most military spouses. (There were a few who had interests outside of their children and would deign to socialize with me.) I can’t tell you how many times I would meet a spouse, and the first question she would ask is, “Do you have kids?” Once I said no, she would end the conversation right then and there and have nothing more to do with me.
Whatever. I don’t want to waste my time with people who don’t care to know me for me.
It even impacted choices I tried to make over my own body. Male doctors would never entertain the notion of me getting my tubes tied because “that’s not fair to your husband.” Nice of them to assume he wanted kids and I was a selfish bitch depriving him of fatherhood.
Anyway, I’ll be 45 next month. It’s actually been a really long time since anyone harassed me about not having kids. I guess that’s one of the delightful perks of getting older.
So, do I regret not having kids?
No. I don’t. Despite numerous people telling me that I would. They were all wrong. L is also perfectly happy not to have kids. We often discuss how content we are with our life just as it is, and we don’t feel like we’re missing anything.
That said, we love being an aunt and uncle. We don’t hate kids (as many people wrongly assume). We just don’t want any of our own.
Since I’m writing about this subject, I want to thank everyone I’ve known on my journey through this life who has been understanding and accepting of our decision. For some reason (even though it is nobody’s business but ours), I’ve been judged (way more than my husband has), and some people have been really offended by our choice not to have kids. This has always baffled me.
I guess the takeaway from this is live life on YOUR terms. Who cares what the status quo is … what culture and society expect from you? You are the one living your life, and you need to live YOUR truth. You will get pushback if you go against expectations. If people are offended by your life choices, that is THEIR problem, not yours.
Just remember that when things get difficult. Take a deep breath and be grateful that you are being honest with yourself.
I evidently was born not to look on the bright side of life. Critical, cynical, pessimistic … glass half empty. I can’t tell you how many friends I lost over the years because, at different points in my life, I became toxic.
“This is just who I am,” I would tell myself. And if people couldn’t accept that, fuck ’em.
Until I couldn’t accept myself. Though honestly, maybe I never accepted myself. I didn’t love myself for most of my life. I’m not going to get into the years of emotional abuse I endured. I’ve alluded to it before. And I think that’s largely responsible for how I felt about myself growing up.
And then, once I rid myself of the source of that abuse, not liking myself was basically a habit. (Depression and anxiety don’t help either, but that’s beside the point.)
I’ve been on a journey since then (late 2011, in case you’re wondering) to turn myself around. To find gratitude and joy in my daily life. I will never be Susie Sunshine — I am too much of a realist for that. But I am learning to love myself, warts and all. And now I think my default font is set to upbeat.
(If that’s not a real font, it should be.) (HA! It is!)
That’s not to say I don’t slip up. I was in a really dark place two years ago, primarily because I was in a horrible job at an office with a toxic culture. It drained me. I relapsed into negativity and became as toxic as my environment.
Since I left that place, I’ve been doing better. I practice mindfulness (including meditation), which helps tremendously. I try — as advised in mindfulness practices — to let go of things that no longer serve me. Doing this has helped so much with my depression. And I still get anxious, but I think I have a better handle on it than I did before.
This current global crisis has been a true test for me. Do I give in to despair, as I see so many others doing? Do I freak out and start hoarding everything in sight in case this really is the apocalypse? (I don’t believe it is, but clearly, a lot of people do.)
I’m fine. Really. I’m calm.
I’m working from home. I’m avoiding going out, except for walks through my neighborhood because I need fresh air. There is still the occasional trip to the store or getting carry-out from a restaurant — I want to continue supporting local businesses because they need it right now. But I’m careful and following the CDC recommendations.
I still have a job, and so does my husband, so we are truly fortunate right now compared to so many others. And even if the worst-case scenario occurs, we’ve been prepared for it financially for some time. (People have actually accused me of being negative because I think about the worst-case scenario, but honestly, it’s just good sense!)
We still have our health. Our families are still in good health. I am doing what I can to help out — I donated blood last week because there is a critical need for it, among other things. (Please consider donating blood if you can. It’s badly needed.)
I am grateful. And blessed.
When things get back to “normal,” it will be a different kind of normal. Some things may be better, and some things may be worse. But this isn’t the first time there has been a monumental shift in normal, and it won’t be the last. Humans are resilient. We will adapt.
And on that note, I hope, dear reader, that you are well. Both physically and emotionally. If not, I send you light and wish you peace.