THE PUBLIC SHELF
Open when I finish the degree
You did it. You actually did it.
Night classes. Two kids. One laptop that died at the worst possible moment, every single semester, like it knew. Papers written at the kitchen table at midnight while the dishwasher ran. Flashcards taped inside the bathroom cabinet. Reading chapters out loud in the car at pickup while the kids argued in the back.
I'm writing this at the start of the first semester, and I want you to remember something.
Remember the night in October, the one coming up, the one I can feel already. You're going to sit in the car in the parking lot outside the school for twenty minutes with the engine off, telling yourself you're too old, too tired, too far behind, that everyone in there is twenty and you're forty one and what are you doing.
And then you're going to get out of the car and go inside.
I want you to be proud of that version of you. Not the one holding the diploma. The one in the parking lot. She was exhausted, she was scared, she was sure she'd fail. And she went in anyway.
She's the reason you're reading this.
Now go put the diploma somewhere the kids can see it every day.
Me, first semester
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