How To Quit Grad School and Still Feel Beautiful



Me: Yeah! Like he would have died many times
Austin: Or he would have died once and that would've been the end of it

In high school, Hermione was a sort of talisman for me. I considered myself the "plain" friend, the one who would rather stay at home with a book than go out. But I was certain, remembering Hermione, that being smart was better. I expect it is natural for teenagers, in those years before we really know who we are, to select a persona and cling to it desperately. I chose the Hermione persona, and, since I never thought I was pretty, made being intelligent my aim. 

I was good at it, and I liked it. I love reading and learning, and a streak of perfectionism makes me a great, if perpetually dissatisfied, student. I loved college, even as I felt a growing need for every paper to be better than the last. I'm not sure anyone really doubted I would go on to graduate school and do well there. I liked the idea of being an example of a strong, independent woman with a PhD and a family. My professors at LaGrange wrote what must have been glowing recommendations and the French history professors at Auburn advocated to have me accepted and fully funded.

I loved the program the first time I met my fellow graduate students. Everyone had such passion, such curiosity, and finally here was a place where being clever was cool. I still love and admire them. By December, however, I had developed a perpetual ache in my chest that only went away when watching mindless television. I couldn't bring myself even to read novels. My parents said I could choose not to return to school if I didn't want to. But what would I do? Though it strikes me as ridiculous now, I couldn't imagine telling my former coworkers at the LaGrange library who sent me off to grad school with an Auburn cake and orange and blue wash cloths.  

Over the spring semester, I spent a small fortune on doctor's visits and anti-anxiety medication. I probably would not have finished the semester, but my advisor sat me down and helped me make a detailed calendar that made everything less overwhelming. She forced me into a regular exercise and meal routine that worked for a few weeks. I knew by the end of my first year that I wasn't happy, but I had defined myself as "the smart girl" for so long that it felt like a weakness to admit it. My parents and Austin said if I decided not to finish the program, they would support me completely, but I knew they thought finishing was the logical thing to do. I was halfway through a master's program that I wasn't paying for, and I'd be more marketable on the other side of it.

So I complained and cried a lot, but I simply didn't respond when they gave me that choice. It's not just that grad school is hard, though it is. It was a perpetual feeling of uselessness and powerlessness. There was no time for extra-curricular activity outside a trip to the gym, no time for volunteer work. I would get flashes of inspiration for charitable projects, but the first ended in disaster. I got the idea to crochet blankets for nursing home residents without families in the area. Even with my mother's help, it took us until Christmas Eve to crochet ten blankets. I spent as much time crocheting as I spent on homework, which simply added to my stress. Every time I encountered something or someone sad, I wanted desperately to find a way to fix it, and I thought I probably could if I wasn't neck-deep in historiography.

I don't wish to suggest there is something wrong with history as a discipline or my program. I had the best advisor imaginable (really, I dare you to imagine someone better) and good, supportive friends who love what they do. But I quickly tired of the perpetual reading, writing about what I'd read, and talking about what I'd written. I felt like stagnant water. I needed to DO something, needed desperately to feel useful. Which is probably why, in the early days of summer vacation, I started this blog. It was my way to feel that I was encouraging others in the midst of what felt like pointless research.

   

I spent a lot of time over breaks talking to my parents about career options. I decided, once I'd finished my MA in history, I'd probably go back to school for social work, counseling, or library science. It felt like a sort of betrayal because I'd always been a history major, and the idea of pursuing another field frightened me. As a naturally empathetic and sensitive person I feared a more service-oriented career would only depress me.

Then something strange happened. I was at work on July 31st when someone mentioned, conversationally, "I can't believe tomorrow is August," and I started to panic. The end of July meant that school would start back in 22 days. I spent the next several days in a state of depression. A person who has not experienced depression often cannot understand it. Depression is not sadness. Depression is a general lack of feeling: not caring what I ate for dinner or what movie Austin picked to watch. Depression was my defense against my rising panic about the impending start of school, but it didn't last. In the midst of a few panic attacks, my parents and Austin continued to tell me I could choose to leave school if I wished.

But I knew it wasn't what they thought best, and I didn't trust my own feelings about it. I even asked my mother to make the decision for me, telling her I didn't feel emotionally able to be reasonable. Then I realized that I was being an idiot.

I thought I was being brave, being strong, sucking it up and finishing what I'd started. Actually, I knew exactly what I wanted. I just didn't want to be the one to say it. I was waiting for someone to tell me, "Don't go back to school. It's not for you." Because I was too ashamed to make that choice for myself. That, I realized, is not courage. That is merely being passive. I have always had a habit of doing things for the approval of others rather than myself, of trusting the opinions of others over my own. It was past time to trust myself.

Showing off my "power colors"

When I finally expressed what I really wanted to my family and Austin, they agreed it was best. I won't say there was immediate relief as the idea of telling my advisor terrified me. I wanted to wear my "power colors" and scoured my closet for something red. But what I found was even better: a navy blue t-shirt with a picture of the TARDIS that my friend April gave me on my last birthday. My terror was in vain. My advisor is truly a beautiful woman. She told me such a high level of physical or emotional distress was not worth finishing a degree. It was simply my body's way of telling me that this wasn't my path, and I was right to listen to that. I still felt guilty about waiting until two weeks before the start of term to reach the decision, but, with typical wisdom, she said that was just part of the process. I needed the relaxation of the summer and the anxiety related to school starting back to realize what I wanted. See what I mean - the best advisor.

I thought about not posting this. Everyone I love has been informed of my decision and it isn't pleasant to think about those few bad days. But I decided to write it simply because, as weird as it sounds, I decided to quit grad school even though those I trusted most did not think it the most logical choice. And now I feel a sense of relief and peace but also so much stronger as a person. I chose and I was right, and whatever lies before me excites me where it used to frighten me. I look forward to new experiences and new knowledge. I imagine it feels a bit like having all of time and space before me.