Why It Matters
I stared, horrified at the graded rubric on my screen. F. How was that possible? I’d poured hours of hard work and research into writing that linguistics paper. I painstakingly searched for academic sources to cite and agonized for days over language analytics. I had given it my very best effort. For the last thirteen classes, my best had consistently earned me an A. So what happened? How did I miss the mark by a mile? Panic set in. If my very best was an F, how could I ever hope to pass this class? My stomach felt sick the rest of the day as I spiraled into anxiety. My overall grade had dropped by a whole letter as a result of this failed paper. I still had at least four more critical assignments left in the term, all worth a significant number of points. If I fumbled as much on those as I had on this paper, I thought, I could fail the class entirely, and if I didn’t pass, I’d forgo my graduation.
When I began the journey of completing my degree last January, there were fourteen classes between me and the finish line. This linguistics course that I was clearly struggling in, was number fourteen. The thought of making it this far only to fall one class short, was enough to send me into a shame spiral. I started to imagine the conversations I’d have to have with my husband, my children, my parents, my friends, all of whom were joyfully anticipating the completion of my degree. It would be mortifying to tell them I wasn’t able to finish. Again. For hours I kept the news of my failed paper to myself. I let it slowly eat away at me, embracing that old, familiar feeling of keeping a discreditable secret.
I was taking some deep breaths and blowing my nose for the dozenth time when I remembered speaking as a guest on a podcast a few weeks earlier; the topic was dealing with stress and anxiety. When asked how I cope, I said I enlisted my community to pray and support me when I was overcome with worry. Why wasn’t I doing that now? I realized I had slipped back into my old habit of hiding my failures and trying to deal with them alone. It was precisely the thing that kept me from completing my degree the first time around. I chided myself. I knew I had to rally some help.
When I saw my husband standing over me I buried my face in my hands and told him about my grade. Through my tears, I asked him, “You don’t think God brought me this far only to let me fail, do you? Why would He do that? I’m doing this for Him.” As soon as the words escaped my lips I felt a twinge in my spirit. I was still doing this for God, right? I’d been asking for His help an awful lot over the last few hours, but had I been including Him much before now? I’d been pretty prideful about achieving straight A’s, chalking them up to my hard work and natural adeptness in English. Had I shown Him any gratitude for bringing me this far? Had I thanked Him for providing the finances for my tuition? Had I praised Him for blessing me with a family who supported me even when I was less available to them? Had I expressed my appreciation to Him for sustaining me on hard days? Had I acknowledged Him for giving me the courage to revisit my failures and claim them as opportunities for redemption? Had I recognized His hand in any of it lately?
Perhaps I needed to be shaken up a little. Perhaps the F I received was a gentle reminder that I couldn’t cross the finish line on my strengths alone; I needed to lean on the One who gave me those strengths to begin with. Only God’s voice in the crowd could drown out the voice of the enemy. My own voice wasn’t powerful enough. Upon seeing my failure I had been so quick to lose my confidence in Christ. I immediately believed the lie that I would never make it to the end, that once again I would be forced to shamefully admit I couldn’t finish. The fear and humiliation I had released years ago made a sudden reappearance and were taunting me mercilessly. I closed my eyes and humbly prayed: I can’t do this without You. I’m so sorry for ever thinking I could. I know You love me. I know You won’t fail me, even when I fail myself. I trust You. I know You’re going to see me through to the finish line. Keep me from stumbling across it. Help me finish strong.
Immediately a peace that surpassed my understanding washed over me. I pulled back my shoulders and straightened my resolve. I sent an email to my professor requesting a Zoom call to work through the components of my paper. I emailed a copy of my failed paper to a friend who majored in English and had a particular love for linguistics asking her for feedback. I sent a group text to my trusted circle of friends requesting prayer for my anxious heart. I was already beginning to feel better. I told my kids the truth about why I’d been crying, deciding to make it a teachable moment about asking for help when you’re struggling and not letting one hard moment discourage you from carrying on.
My husband reminded me that I only needed a passing grade. “I know you’ve had straight A’s up to this point, but some subjects just don’t come as easy, and this is clearly one of them. You may need to lower your bar a bit and just focus on passing. Remember, C’s get degrees.” I rolled my eyes. That mantra may have worked for him in college, but I wasn’t willing to settle for it. Not yet. A close friend of mine had often spoken the same gentle truth as she encouraged me through my more difficult classes: “I graduated at the top of my class in college. Ask me how much it matters. Ask me how many times it’s come up in conversation. Ask me if it’s made any difference in who I’ve become.” I would shake off her words: “It matters to me.”
It wasn’t because I wanted bragging rights. It wasn’t because I thought I’d ever need to put my GPA on a resume or that it would boost my writer biography page. The A’s I’d earned in previous classes proved what I was capable of. For me those A’s represented redemption. They were so much more than a grade; they were affirmation that my belief of the enemy’s biggest lies could be reclaimed for God’s glory. I failed many classes in my first attempt at pursuing my degree twenty-three years ago. For years the enemy told me it was because I wasn’t smart enough, disciplined enough, or motivated enough. I know now none of that was true.
My intense battle with depression and social anxiety often kept me from attending classes. Consistent absences made it so that when I did attend, I was unprepared. This is what led to my academic downfall. I was placed on academic probation and eventually dismissed. My inability to understand or explain my illness is what kept me from seeking help. If I didn’t understand it myself, I feared no one else would understand it either. This led me to feel ashamed of my failures and hide them away. When I reached a breaking point and could no longer keep my failures a secret, I admitted to my husband and parents that I had not completed my degree as I had led them to believe. Though they graciously forgave me, I carried around the leaden weight of their disappointment for years. Any time I considered an attempt to try again, it was only to make myself worthy in their eyes. I desperately wanted them to be proud of me, to believe I wasn’t a lost cause. I was sure they all saw me as a failure and a disappointment, that I had wasted my potential. I know now they never believed any of those things. I only believed them about myself.
Whenever I’d meet someone new I dreaded the questions, “Where did you go to college?” or “What’s your degree in?” I would immediately feel inferior and unaccomplished. I often worried about what I would tell my kids when they were old enough to ask about my college experience. How could I tell them a college education was paramount when I wasted the opportunities I was given? I worried too about what would happen if my husband ever lost his job and I had to return to work. Without a degree my options were limited. How could I ever provide for our family if I needed to? For so long I beat myself up over the mess I had made. I was convinced my lack of a college degree made me less valuable.
It took years of saturating myself in God’s truth to gain my confidence back. Through prayer, community, and time in His word, I began to understand that my failures did not define me; God did. It didn’t matter if I had my degree; that’s not where He placed my worth. I was enough, whether or not I received a diploma. But I knew God specialized in making beauty from ashes. For me, my incomplete college degree represented a season of my life that was lost to sin, shame, and illness. I humbly offered it to God and asked Him to redeem it. I was desperate to change the storyline of my life, not because it would add to my worth, but because it could add to the kingdom of heaven. I didn’t want my story to stop in the past, lost to the shadows of regret. I wanted it to be a story of recovery and salvation. I asked God to change the ending. That was twenty months ago.
Last Thursday at 11:36 am I FaceTimed my mom. When her face appeared on my screen I began with, “Guess what?”
“What?” she asked.
“I just submitted my last assignment.” My voice cracked unexpectedly as I continued, “I’m done. I did it. I finished.”
Before I could stop them the tears flowed from my eyes. I covered my mouth as I gave in to great, heaping sobs. The breath I’d been holding since last January finally released. The dam had broken and relief came flooding out. I was free from the weight of the unfinished. God faithfully completed the good work in me He started not just twenty months ago, but twenty-three years ago. And by His grace, I am graduating with a perfect academic record.
The diploma I’m receiving matters, maybe not to anyone but me, but it matters all the same. When I look at it hanging on my wall, I will be reminded of God’s redemptive work in my life. I will point to it with confidence and say, “Look what God can do. Look what He made from the mess I made of myself. Look what I was capable of through God’s sustaining strength. This is the power of Christ in me. It’s all that matters.”
I bought this shirt months ago in anticipation of completing my degree. I hung it in a visible space in my closet to help motivate me. This is the first time I allowed myself to wear it.