It was a kind of crazy idea.
Three years ago, our children hadn’t even gone back to school in person yet, and my work life was in no way balanced. In the chaos that was my life, I decided I was going to get a master’s degree. I felt like the moment was right—or at least it wasn’t terribly wrong. There might never be a better time.
The people who care about me had mixed feelings about it—and rightly so. I have a very full life. I didn’t really need a hobby or a side hustle. At this point in my career, I didn’t need to get a master’s degree. No one was insisting on it—or even suggesting it. I already had so much going on. It would be a tremendous amount of work.
But I liked the idea of doing something for myself. My undergraduate years were so many years ago, and I had this chance to learn and to invest in me—and in my future. Besides, education is always good. It always opens doors. We should never stop learning and growing. And coming out of the pandemic, I felt like I owed it to myself to reclaim a little bit of time to do something for me.
I could also get a master’s degree for free, thanks to tuition remission through my job at Loyola University Maryland. And they had this master’s in emerging media program I had been curious about for years. For whatever reason, this seemed like my chance.
I floated the idea. My friend, neighbor, and pandemic walking buddy Kathy thought it was great. My closest colleagues encouraged me to try. And my family—especially my husband—was on board.
Our teens in particular supported me. When I needed someone to give an interview for a video project, my younger son sat down and talked to the camera about finches—and so did Kathy. He also solved one of my biggest problems, advising me to listen to my textbooks as audiobooks so I could fit them into my day. My older son gave me some technology tips that helped me navigate some of the new tools I learned to use, and he and I discussed some of the topics I was learning about in class together.
Somehow, even though I didn’t think I had any extra time in my day, I managed to carve out time specifically to focus on my classes. Many of my colleagues didn’t know I was in grad school—and that was fine. I didn’t want grad school to be an excuse for not doing excellent work. That doesn’t mean everything was smooth. One semester I dropped my class three days into the course. I could see I just couldn’t pull it off. After that I made myself wait a couple weeks before dropping a class. I discovered that somehow I could find my rhythm. Dinner might be late, the house might be a wreck, and I might not get much sleep, but the life of a working parent is always a balancing act. This was just another chapter in the story.
Along the way, I was inspired by my fellow grad students—and those who had gone on this path before. At some point, I remembered that my grandmother—my namesake Rita—had also earned a graduate degree through Loyola. Hers came 30 years after her bachelor’s. My master’s came 26 years after my undergrad degree. I loved knowing that I was on a parallel journey—and that we had something else in common.
I was sure the faculty would grant me extensions if I asked. They knew my work, and this was during a particularly full time for me professionally. But I asked for an extension only once when I was hit with the flu—and then ended up turning that assignment in on time anyway. I’m no hero. It’s just that I know myself. I have to stick to deadlines, or I will never get anything accomplished.
Today, as I look back on the past three years, I still don’t know exactly how I did it with our family’s full schedule of band and baseball and robotics. I just kept going. I took it one step at a time. I leaned on people around me for support and encouragement. No one ever complained when dinner was late (or not made by me). I focused more on the journey than the finish line. I didn’t do any of it alone. I was surrounded by people who wanted me to succeed. And God was with me every step of the way.
Earlier this week, I arrived at my office and found that my colleagues had decorated my door to celebrate my graduation. The commencement ceremony itself last week was so incredible—and I felt so well-celebrated—that I truly didn’t expect anything more. But my marketing and communications team had flowers, a gift, and a poem for me, along with a beautiful card that everyone had signed. Later in the day, my vice president presented me with a frame for my new diploma. I am grateful and overwhelmed—in the best possible way.
I love that the day that my colleagues celebrated my new degree happened to be May 22, the feast of St. Rita. She is my patron, and this year when I used a random saint generator to pick a saint for the year, St. Rita popped up as my saint. St. Rita is patron saint of the impossible, and I have turned to her many times over the years. It makes sense to me that she would have been part of this journey, one that I completed as a wife and mother of two teens at 47.
We live in a world where so much is impossible—and so much is possible. I love knowing that we can pray for solutions to impossible situations. Prayer is incredibly powerful. And nothing is impossible with God.
How wonderful it is to realize that what seems impossible might actually be possible—whether through divine intervention or by picking up the pieces every day and taking another step on the journey of life.
As St. Francis of Assisi says, “Start by doing what’s necessary, then do what’s possible, and suddenly you are doing the impossible.” Or, to quote Nelson Mandela, “It always seems impossible until it’s done.”
I believe that is often true. God makes the impossible possible. He invites us to be part of that miracle, trusting that we have the strength, the courage, the creativity, and the faith to achieve what seems impossible.
No idea is too crazy for God.
Photo by Sid Keiser/Courtesy of Loyola University Maryland
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