Katherine’s Story:
From the time I was in kindergarten, being a student defined me. After high school and college, I taught for a year, then jumped right into my master’s program. Immediately after graduating with my master’s, I dove into a doctoral program, expecting the same success I had always had as a student.
As I began my doctoral program, I had just moved to Houston and begun teaching a new grade level at a new district. I chose a church and joined a women’s group. I was excited about all God had planned for me.
My life consisted of teaching, doctoral classes, and homework. On the weekends, I attended church and occasionally went out to dinner with friends, but otherwise weekends were blocked for grad school. My social, physical, and mental health were deteriorating. But I just told myself to push through to the other side for those coveted letters after my name.
Then COVID-19 happened. While trying to deal with the pandemic and teaching my students online, I also had to persevere with my doctoral program.
Finally, it was time to submit my dissertation proposal. Our program used a color scale to determine our standing. Red meant nowhere close; you’ll have to start over. Orange meant on the right track, but you’ve got a lot of work to do. Yellow, only a few tweaks needed. Green, go pursue your research—rock on!
I knew my submission was not my absolute best work. But based on feedback throughout the semester, I felt confident I would get yellow or orange. As I hit refresh on my email over and over, I felt tension in my neck. When I finally heard the familiar ding, I raced back to my computer and opened the email.
Red! No way, red?! I was stunned. My hands went numb and the kitchen around me blurred. Surely this is a mistake, I thought. But the word RED screamed at me from the email. Why did my advisor give me a red?
I spent the rest of the day in bed sobbing and crying out to God, “Why did this happen?” I cried so hard my face was swollen and my head pounded. Though I tried to calm down—after all, it wasn’t a death sentence—I couldn’t shake off my devastation. How could I fail so miserably? I would have to repeat the entire semester. All that hard work was not enough.
After several days of heartbreak and prayer, I chose to start over the following semester. I would tackle this dissertation head on and succeed.
Again I put my wellness aside. I spent many 12-hour days reading, researching and churning out my dissertation submission. The day before my deadline I spent over 16 hours finishing my proposal. This submission was all or nothing. Either a yellow or green rating would allow me to move on, or I would be released from the program and would have to reapply next year. I felt nervous but euphoric—proud of my work and ready to catch up to my classmates.
I waited again for that fateful email. Refresh. Refresh. Ding!
Red.
This time I froze in shock. Did this really happen again? I thought.
All those hours and so much of my life—gone. Only to be rejected again. Why, God?
I began reaching out to my parents and my close friends, talking and praying about what to do next. It was time to step away, so I declared a one-year leave of absence to think over my situation.
Though I was embarrassed and ashamed, God continued to whisper to me in little ways that I was making the right decision.
As my eyes continued to open over the next year, I saw for the first time how much time and energy I had poured into grad school. My entire identity had become wrapped up in proving myself with a degree. I had become a shell, showing up at work but not giving my best to my students and not caring for myself and the others in my life.
Feelings of failure gradually gave way to feeling free and experiencing God’s refreshing. I enjoyed the extra time with my friends, helped lead my women’s community group and energized my teaching. People began making comments:
“You just look so happy!”
“You seem more rested lately.”
As my one-year leave of absence ended, I dodged calls from my advisor and ignored emails about registration and classes. Just the idea of going back to the doctoral program stirred up anxieties from the year before. When I finally opened a registration email, I had an anxiety attack. My hands were shaking, and tears were streaming down my face.
In that very moment, I sensed God whispering to me, “Daughter, you are enough. You can let this go.”
Somehow, I knew it was time to really and truly quit. But I was terrified and ashamed to tell my parents. What would everyone say about me? How could I become part of the dropout statistic for doctoral programs?
But God was there. And to my surprise, everyone who knew me supported my decision 100 percent. Family and friends poured out love and support, confirming my decision. I knew it wasn’t a choice just to quit a program; it was a choice to trust and listen to my Savior.
In the year since I left my doctoral program behind, I have seen God change my mindset and use me to serve, lead and volunteer with Get Your Teach On (an educator conference). I have loved students, coworkers and friends well. I have soaked in God’s Word. I have even found a new gym!
God has used my journey to remind me that I am far more than letters behind my name and an expensive piece of paper in a frame. My identity is not in my title; it’s in Christ. With him, I am enough.
What to Read Next …
About Teachers and Faith: Pursuer of My Soul and Friends May Fail but God Stays
About Personal Identity: Food Freedom
About Struggling with Feelings of Failure: Staying in the Race
