Putting One Foot in Front of the Other

Walk: to move forward by putting one foot in front of the other.

“I don’t know how you do it. I had a hard time juggling college with an active dog.” My friend had just graduated with a master’s degree, and I’d just walked across a stage in recognition of completing my bachelor’s. Now we were on her back deck, in the midst of a party with a keg, barbeque, and many people flooding into the backyard with bottles of booze. I sat, 36 weeks pregnant, in a chair that required a somewhat comical ordeal to get out of. My 7-year-old daughter was off camping for the night. And all I wanted to do was go home, get into pajama pants, and watch episodes on Netflix with some Kozyshack pudding.

The aftermath of graduation wasn’t coming in overwhelming happiness and celebration and pride. Maybe it was from being pregnant, but there seemed to be some truth to the nagging thoughts. What had I done? I’d put myself in a greater amount of debt than I’d possibly ever be able to afford to pay off. I’d finished without any help, cards, or even a text message from my family to congratulate me. I wanted to attend the ceremony so my daughter could see her mom graduate from college, but I feared I’d ruined her for wanting the same. I’d sacrificed so many weekends for four years to wind up unemployed, unable to pay all my bills, and with a so-called useless bachelor’s degree in English.

A couple of weeks earlier, my daughter had received the award of “Student of the Month” in her kindergarten class. She’d worked hard for this, and she knew it. We’d spent hours in weekly therapy appointments in addition to having long conversations about her days at school. Mia’s an active, persistent, strong-willed kid who hardly ever stops talking, and public school wasn’t always the best place for her. She struggled with boredom in class, and it got her into trouble sometimes. Getting recognized at a school assembly and holding a certificate with her name on it gave her reason to puff up her chest, hold her head up high, and skip to our truck. I let her pick where we’d get dinner. I took a bunch of pictures of her holding up her award. We went out for ice cream. “I’m so happy, Mom!” she said over and over.

When my row stood to get in line and walk across the stage, my gown stuck to my backside. I thought for sure I’d pass out or throw up from the sweltering heat. I was already 10 years older and assumed nine months more pregnant than most of my graduating class. The last thing I wanted was to draw any more attention to myself.

Most of my instructors and professors had lined up to congratulate the graduates. A few of the women had tears in their eyes. I’m sure I did, too. They knew me, they knew my story, they knew what it’d taken for me to get there. I hugged them all, absorbing their bright smiles and words of happiness in seeing me. When the department chairperson got up to send us off, I felt a burning, aching pain begin in my hands, travel to my wrists, and intensify as it worked its way up to my shoulders before it released. A sort of euphoria came over me for a moment or two. The weight of homework, the stress of assignments, the task of sitting through hours of classes, all left me in an unexplainable physical phenomenon.

I stood out in the lobby, waiting for my two close friends who’d come to cheer me on, and searching for a little girl in a pink dress. She found me and hugged my rounded waist the best she could. I bent over awkwardly to give her a kiss, missing being able to scoop her up and feel her arms on my neck.

I’d been close to not attending the ceremony. It felt like one more thing I had to do on campus before being officially done. I didn’t want to see the other graduates with their parents, and feel the sting of my decision to no longer speak to mine. But taking pictures outside with friends, holding a cover for a degree I’d soon get in the mail, I puffed out my chest, and held my head high.

Later that night, home from the party, I set my cap, gown, and diploma cover in the bassinet by my bed. I smiled at its contrast next to the teething rings, tiny knitted hats, and multi-colored stuffed animals that rattle. I thought back to getting my acceptance letter in the mail a few years ago with the same emblem on the front, before I’d moved us to Missoula, a place I’d only visited once, because I had a feeling we’d find our people here. We’d relocated, started a new life, found a community that embraced us, and I’d now finished my degree. It’d been a hair-brained journey from a whim that I wasn’t really sure would work the way I envisioned. But it did in its own way, with determination and the help of a makeshift group of friends who are now like family. Though, like my friend, I wasn’t sure how I did it, either.

I got a message from a distant, old friend the next morning that said, “I’m proud of you. Not for dealing with adversity, but for undertaking a monumental challenge with full awareness of the difficulty and seeing it through to the end.” True, I’d finished. I got my college degree. My first degree. In my mind, I’m only getting started.

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Hear Stephanie Land in The Mamalode Podcast, Episode 1, from March 2016