I felt I blinked, and those nine
months were up.
When you decide to have a baby, you don’t realize all the sacrifices
you will make. Sure, you have the financial conversation: calculating diapers,
clothes, doctor’s co pays, furniture, eventual college, child care, etc. At a
certain point, somewhere around the fifth figure, you stop and know it’s going
to be a long time before you get comfortable. Then the physical sacrifice – at least
for mom. My body doesn’t resemble anything like pre-pregnancy, and I wouldn’t
change that. I love my scar. It’s a physical reminder of my experience. Besides
the financial and physical sacrifices, there are the emotional sacrifices. No
one told me I wouldn’t be able to hear a story about a child’s death without
feeling physically ill. I did not expect to cry at every stupid Mother’s Day or
Father’s Day card I read.
And no one told me how comfortable I would become with urine. It’s
sterile, right?
Earlier this month another nine
months came to a close. No, we haven’t added a new addition to the family that
I can blog about over at my other writing post AllMommyFail. Last Spring, we sat down to calculate the
sacrifices it would mean for me to go back to school. Cancel the house phone,
downgrade the car, re-assess our insurance, cut fun-money and vacations…the
financial sacrifices go on. Looking back, some of it makes sense since neither
of us have time for fun, phone calls, or vacations. We asked for help when we
needed it – a scholarship to the Y to continue our membership, student loans
(ugh). In the short-term, it’ll suck. But much like having a child, in the
long-term, we’ll be better off, right?
I was not prepared for the physical sacrifice. Ever since I could
remember, I can function on 5-6hrs of sleep. If I get more, I’m off. Once Autumn
Quarter started, I was lucky to get 3hrs per night. Less than 30hrs of sleep
per week is just not healthy. I see pictures of me from Halloween,
Thanksgiving, Christmas and I would have been worried about me if I were my
friend. Grayish complexion, carry-on luggage under my eyes, dust collecting on
the gym bag, the pounds creeping back on the scale. No sleep, no exercise, no
downtime = incredibly grumpy me. Okay, let’s be honest. I was a bitch to my
family from September through…let’s say January?
That wasn’t in the orientation materials.
There were emotional sacrifices as well. In the past decade, I have
enjoyed a certain comfort in being good at anything that was thrown at me. I
have been very fortunate to have been employed consistently since entering the
workforce, usually in fields that related to psychology: research assistant,
control coordinator, clinical interviewer, grant/program coordinator, research
coordinator. My best skill was taking someone’s problem and saying, “I can do
that.” And then do it! I knew what I was talking about, I was confident. Then I got some crazy idea that I should go
into a field I thought I knew nothing about.
In our first class, the professor had each student in the room describe
where they came from (institution), background in communications, and research
interests. It was probably the fourth time we each had done this, so it was a
well-honed speech at this point. Each student was able to drop a name, an
institution, a project related to communications, besides a few of us. They
were all SO YOUNG!
What the hell did I get myself into?
I don’t think anyone has any idea of how mentally exhausting my brain
can be. I would perseverate on everything someone said in class, how they said
it, what I said, how people reacted non-verbally to my comments, the professor’s
nonverbal and verbal response, was I right, was I wrong, was that stupid, oh
god I shouldn’t have said that, now I have to make up for it, please don’t talk
so fast I need to get this down because I’ve never heard of what everyone else
is nodding their heads to, wait I didn’t read that article I didn’t think we
had to, what was that analysis, we have an exam TOMORROW? All this would go
through my head every 2min or so.
If anyone actually recorded my thoughts, I’d sound like a crazy person. No, I’d sound like three crazy people.
My first quarter was wicked rough. I questioned everything I ever said,
wrote, thought. I feel graduate programs really must do a better job warning
students, especially older students, of the imposter
syndrome we all will encounter at some point. It takes a lot to counteract
the effects of imposter syndrome. Intense, tenured professors who aim to push
students as hard as possible are not the anecdote. Surrounding yourself 24/7
with others experiencing the same symptoms attempting to counteract with MORE
fervor and knowledge is worse. The icing on the cake is those financial and
physical sacrifices you’ve made while trying to understand what the hell is
happening.
I felt in the first three months, much like when you’re pregnant, you
have to give your everything. Most women get really sick in their first
trimester, and have to adjust to a changing body. It’s really hard NOT to get
swept up in every twinge, pull, queasiness. You worry because in those first
three months is where stuff goes horribly, horribly wrong. I’ve experienced
that loss, and once you have, you’re terrified until you feel your baby kick or
see a head on an ultrasound that you’ll experience it again. The first three
months of graduate school isn’t much different. You worry that everything you’ve
worked so hard for: the studying for the GREs, the personal statement, the
grades during undergrad, the letters of the people you don’t want to let down –
will all be pulled out from under you. Once you’re dumped, can you ever go
back? What about those sacrifices I made? My family? I don’t have a job to go
back to. I can’t be a failure to my family? Everyone KNOWS I’m doing this – I CANNOT
FAIL. No pressure.
Pregnancy can break bodies and leaves scars. Graduate school can break
spirits and leaves equally noticeable scars.
But there was light. In January I got to take a class of MY choosing –
not a mandated. It wasn’t perfect, and I still felt like I had no idea what I
was doing. But in that class were different people. These second and third
years were just more comfortable in their skins. They survived their first
year, I could too, right? And we were talking about stuff I give a shit about. I
found my voice with my advisor; I figured what to take and what to leave in
comments from what professors. I listened more. And I began to find balance. My
computer didn’t come out of the car until the kids were asleep. I didn’t get
there much, but I did see the gym a few times. Eric and I finally figured out
what our shifts looked like together and we felt more comfortable with the
arrangements. Much like pregnancy, the middle three months of your first year
in graduate school is the most comfortable. Sure, there was stress and a few
all nighters. But they weren’t nearly as painful as the first three months. It
was as if that horrible-no-good-marathon sprint of the first three months
prepared me for the less-steep-incline of Winter Quarter. Still a hike, but a
doable hike.
During the last three months of any nine month journey like this you
have the finish line on your horizon. Your due date is on the calendar, you
visit the hospital, you have the baby shower, and you prepare the nursery. You
know the end is near, so everything is a little more tolerable. My last three
months of my first year of graduate school was similar. I was pretty damned
snarky in my last few months. I stopped giving a shit what other students (not
in my program) thought of what I had to say. I wasn’t there for them, I was
there for me. The best part was getting to do research that I designed. Research
surveys and projects other people were excited about, that was sexy, and
successful. I got to frame what I wanted my future to look like, and then I got
to sell it to others. When the lead is let out of the leash a little bit, the
thinker in me goes nuts. That’s where I’m comfortable. Not constantly comparing
to what I should know or should care about, which is mostly in
the past? But preparing for the future.
My research program is like my birth plan – how will I bring into my
present that future I’ve incubated?
I know my first year wasn’t perfect and I know I won’t have another
opportunity to experience or do it over. I would need a thick book to write
down all the mistakes I made: emotionally, socially, financially, academically,
professionally, and with my family. But I’ll learn from them. I now understand
why those second and third years seemed so comfortable in their bodies. Scars
and all, they were still here. They could laugh about missteps and stumbles.
The fourth years remind me that on job talks or interviews, no one asks how
much your classmates liked your comments in your first seminar or what grades
you got on unassigned yet graded homeworks. It’s the JOURNEY. It’s what you did
with your time while you were learning.
I remember my maternity time with each of my kids. I adored that time,
sleepless nights and all. Actually, the first kid was really easy – slept through
the night at like week 5. We bonded as a family, being together. I know how
incredibly fortunate and blessed I am for having that time. I feel like I’m on
maternity leave all over again, bonding with my data sets. Taking the time,
unrushed, to be creative. I’m preparing for the next step, in three months
(okay 8wks) to move to the next platform. It will be challenging, difficult,
stressful, for sure. But as long as I keep the scars I have from the first
year, I’ll understand how to keep from others marking my spirit.