The Scholar I Thought I Would Become
Last week I celebrated my 59th birthday. I took the day off from work—not because I had somewhere I needed to be or something I needed to accomplish, but simply to “celebrate me.” At this stage of my life, that felt like something worth doing. Just the day before, I had returned from western Massachusetts, where I had helped my oldest son move to Williamstown to spend the year as a visiting assistant professor. Williamstown isn't home, but being back in New England was a literal breath of fresh air. It made me miss Maine.
There are things about the Indianapolis area I like a lot - the diversity of the people and cultures, the access to a variety of stores (especially thrift shops) and cool restaurants, and , the area sports. But being back in New England reminded me of the things I love most about Northern New England: the trees and the feeling of being surrounded by nature when I walk out the door; the communities, neighborhoods, and slower pace of life; and, most importantly, my family and friends. There is a certain comfort in being around people who know you—and love you—without explanation. But being in Williamstown stirred something else in me. As I helped my son move into his new academic life, I found myself thinking about the academic life I once imagined for myself—and wondering what it means that I never quite arrived there.
More than a decade ago, I realized I wanted to be part of the academy. It was early October 2012, and it was the perfect autumn day in Maine. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, and the leaves had changed color but were still clinging to the trees, displaying all the beauty Maine has to offer. I was walking across the University of Maine campus to host a bidders’ conference for the foundation where I worked. The campus was abuzz with people moving toward their various destinations, entering and exiting the picturesque academic buildings surrounding me. As I searched for the location of my meeting, I felt that familiar tug at my heart reminding me, once again, of a dream I had carried for years: I wanted to teach at the college level.
Pursuing a Ph.D. had been a dream of mine since completing my MBA in 2008. The idea of being in an academic setting, engaging in intellectual coursework, and researching a subject I was passionate about excited me. More than that, I felt called to do it. But maybe it was too late.
I had entered the philanthropic sector nearly twenty years earlier without a true understanding of what philanthropy was. I had worked at a nonprofit organization, which gave me an understanding of philanthropy from the grantee’s perspective. Working at a private foundation gave me an entirely different view—the grantmaker’s perspective—and introduced me to the privileged side of philanthropy.
I was proud of my career and grateful for the opportunities I had been afforded at the foundation. There were many things I loved about my role, particularly the foundation’s mission and the work we were doing. But something had changed. I no longer felt the same passion and inspiration I once had. I was beginning to feel as though I had overstayed my welcome.
The thought of earning a Ph.D. and teaching remained in the back of my mind. At the same time, I felt a growing desire to contribute to a broader vision of philanthropy—to think more deeply about the field, to ask questions, and perhaps to help shape how philanthropy could better serve communities. Still, the dream remained just that: a dream.
Six years passed. In the fall of 2018, my youngest son began his senior year of college, and something inside me shifted. I decided it was time to stop wondering and finally find out whether I could do it. It was “now or never.” Once again, I searched the internet for a doctoral program that might be a good fit for me. When I discovered the Philanthropy School, I knew I had found the program I wanted. In fact, it was the only program I applied to.
The months that followed were challenging. I questioned my decision almost daily. I was preparing to leave a job that had provided stability for my family and me, and I knew there was no guarantee that this new path would work out. Many of my friends thought I was making a mistake. Some family members accused me of deserting them. And, if I am honest, there were plenty of moments when I wondered if they were right. But I also knew something else: if I didn't try, I would regret it. I had allowed fear of failure to defeat me before, and I wasn't willing to let it happen again.
It may seem strange for someone my age to decide to pursue a Ph.D. But I was finally at a place in my life where I had both the freedom and the courage to pursue a dream that had been quietly following me for years. I remember asking my husband, “Do you think this is crazy?” He nervously replied, “Yes, a little bit.” I agreed, and then I told him that I needed to take this risk for myself—for my own peace of mind. I waited for what seemed like forever for his response. Then he said, “I’m all in. Let’s do it.”
And so we did.
The next few months were challenging and scary. Studying for and taking the GMAT. Being vulnerable enough to ask colleagues to write references for me. Completing the application. Writing my statement of purpose. Each step pushed me outside my comfort zone. But the process also gave me something I hadn't felt in a long time: hope. I knew I might fail. In fact, I thought I would most likely fail! But I also knew there was a possibility I might not.
When I received my acceptance offer, it was one of the most exciting days of my life. I did it! I actually did it! I was proud—not simply because I had been accepted, but because I had finally faced my fears and followed a dream I had carried for a decade. And for a while, I believed I had finally found where I belonged. I loved learning. I loved asking questions. I loved wrestling with complicated ideas and thinking deeply about philanthropy. I discovered that what I had thought was a desire to teach was, in many ways, a desire to be a scholar.
But somewhere along the way, the story became more complicated. I did not finish my Ph.D. That is a difficult sentence for me to write. For so long, I had defined this journey by the destination. The degree was the goal. The Ph.D. was the evidence that I had succeeded—that I had overcome my fears, made the difficult choice, and finally become the person I had imagined I could be. Without the degree, I have sometimes wondered what all of it means.
For the past two years, I have been trying to find myself again. I have been asking questions I thought I had already answered. What do I want to do? What am I good at? What kind of work gives me energy? What kind of contribution do I want to make? And perhaps the hardest question of all: Who am I when I am no longer pursuing the thing I once believed would define me? I wish I could say I have figured it all out, but I haven't!
There are days when I feel confident about what comes next and days when I feel completely lost. There are moments when I look back at my decision to pursue the Ph.D. and feel like I made a terrible mistake. And there are other moments when I realize that the person who made that decision in 2018 could not have known what the journey would teach her.
Maybe that is the part of the story I wasn't expecting. I thought following my dream would lead me to an answer. Instead, it led me to more questions. And perhaps that isn't failure. Maybe the purpose of following a dream isn't always to arrive exactly where you thought you would. Sometimes the journey changes you. Sometimes you discover that the thing you thought you wanted was actually pointing you toward something else. I still don't know exactly what that something else is. But I know more about myself than I did in 2012 when I walked across that beautiful Maine campus.
I know that I am curious. I know that I need meaningful work. I know that I want to contribute to something larger than myself. I know that I love learning, asking questions, and thinking deeply about the issues that matter to me. And I know that pursuing my Ph.D., even though I did not earn the degree, was not a waste. (Actually, I’m not sure I believe that – I still have major regrets and am trying to figure out how to make up financially for lost time.) It gave me something the credential never could have: a deeper understanding of who I am, what matters to me, and what I am capable of.
Maybe I didn't fail to become the person I wanted to be. Maybe I became someone different. Perhaps the hardest part of getting older isn't accepting that some dreams won't happen exactly as we imagined. Perhaps it is learning to separate who we are from the titles, accomplishments, and identities we thought would define us. At 59, I am beginning to understand that a life doesn't have to follow a straight line to have meaning. I don't have a new title or a five-year plan or a neat ending to this story. I have questions. I have uncertainty. I have a lot of experience, a little more wisdom, and hopefully enough courage to keep going. And maybe, for now, that's enough.
