How a high school dropout became the first in her family to earn a master’s degree—and changed the future for her children.
Graduation ceremonies always stir something deep in me—even when the cap and gown aren’t my own.
This past weekend, I attended my bonus daughter’s college graduation—the biggest I’ve ever been to. Held inside a packed convention center, we were shoulder-to-shoulder, squeezed into rows beside other proud families, each of us buzzing with anticipation. Despite the crowd and the noise, I found myself in a quiet moment of reflection.
As I watched her walk across the stage, cap, and gown in place, smiling ear to ear, a realization washed over me:
My children have college-educated parents.
And that thought—so simple and yet so deeply profound—hit me like a wave.
Because I didn’t.
I never had that growing up.
My parents barely finished high school. There were no college tours. No FAFSA talks. No late-night study sessions modeled for me at the kitchen table. Education wasn’t a goal—it was a luxury. Something distant, reserved for other people with different lives.
And for a time, I followed that path.
I dropped out of high school.
It’s still hard to say that out loud sometimes.
Not because I lacked the intelligence or will—but because life had been unstable for so long. Trauma and dysfunction were my normal. I wasn’t trying to plan for the future—I was trying to survive the present.
Eventually, I enrolled in a program offered through my city that allowed me to finish high school. I chose it over getting a GED because I wanted a graduation. I wanted to walk across that stage. I felt like I owed that moment to myself.
And it mattered.
It was the first time I truly tasted what it felt like to reclaim something.
Starting college felt surreal.
I remember moving into my dorm and carrying bins by myself while other students had parents helping them settle in. I was the only one standing alone. It was a quiet reminder that people like me don’t usually end up here.
Everything about the process felt foreign: financial aid forms, meal plans, and navigating class schedules. I didn’t have a blueprint, but I had a deep, driving belief: where there’s a will, there’s a way.
At the time, I wouldn’t have called that faith, but now I know it was. God was with me even when I wanted nothing to do with Him. Even when I felt alone, He aligned people and moments to carry me forward.
Advisors and mentors appeared at just the right times, guiding me and helping me see beyond the moment. One conversation led to an opportunity, and after graduation, I landed a job at a college. That position made me eligible for tuition remission—which is how I earned my master’s degree.
Let me tell you—earning that degree felt like more than I bargained for.
The work was intense, and the hours were long. I often questioned whether I was in over my head. In my final semester, I had to take a comprehensive exam—a high-stakes test that determined whether I could graduate.
I failed.
I remember staring at the results in disbelief, my heart sinking. The little girl’s voice inside me whispered, “You’re not meant to be here. You never were.”
But I refused to let that voice win. I retook the exam. And I passed.
On the day of my graduate graduation, I stood in the mirror getting dressed. I placed the academic hood over my gown, and for the first time in a long time, I felt something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel fully:
Triumph.
That same little girl—the one who had gaps in her learning, who grew up believing education was for “other people”—was now walking across that stage.
During the ceremony, the speaker asked anyone who was the first in their family to earn a graduate degree to stand. I stood slowly and looked around.
There weren’t many of us.
And the weight of what I’d overcome finally hit me.
This wasn’t just a degree.
It was a declaration: the story changes here.
Today, I’m a mother of a toddler and pregnant with our next child. My children are still small, but I already see the impact of this shift. My son’s curiosity is radiant—he wants to know everything, and I indulge those questions with joy. He will grow up surrounded by books, encouragement, and belief.
He will never have to unlearn what I did.
He will never doubt that education is within reach.
And he will never question if he belongs.
Because he will have seen it—through me.
Looking back on my journey now, I see God’s fingerprints everywhere. He was there through every step, in the solitude of my dorm room, in the people He placed in my path, and in the quiet moments of strength I didn’t know I had. He was aligning my steps so I could become the woman He designed me to be—for today and for the legacy to come.
So to anyone reading this who feels too far behind, too broken, too tired—it’s not too late.
You don’t have to come from a legacy to create one.
You don’t have to feel ready to begin.
You just have to believe that your story isn’t over yet.
Because I am living proof that even a broken beginning can lead to a beautiful legacy.
Their story—my children’s story—will be different.
Not because life will be easier for them, but because I chose to rise.
I chose to rewrite the narrative.
I chose to keep going.
And by the grace of God, they’ll dream even wilder dreams because of it.