It is sort of interesting, and a little unsettling, to look at a picture of my five-year old self. I don't remember participating in a kindergarten graduation ceremony. In fact, I don't actually remember being five-years old, although I'm sure I was. I have this photo to prove it. Contrary to what those who know me might believe, the one thing I do recall is that I was a rather shy and timid child. Hence the small and reserved smile. Sadly, no one knows exactly know where that child went.
Fast forward a few decades to the day I received my doctoral degree. My siblings and I worked diligently to recreate the kindergarten photo as closely as possible, just for the fun of it. Admittedly, the hardest part to match was the shy little grin. I'm not exactly known for having a subtle smile.
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And that diploma I'm holding, it is the real deal. In exchange for an absurd amout of work and a ridiculous number of years, they handed me my very own diploma with my very own name on it. Spelled right and everything.
And it feels oh-so-good to have earned it.
Except, if I'm being honest, there are a lot of other names that should have been added to that diploma. Names of family and friends, the people who love me and helped me earn that degree, their names should be included as well. It would make for a very large diploma, to be sure, but it would be more accurate.
Yes, I'm the one who took all the classes, and I'm the one who fumbled around for a long time trying to design and conduct meaningful research. Yes, I'm the one who painstakingly wrote every word of the dissertation and then rewrote them all about 12,000 times. Yes, I'm the one who did that part.
But, I didn't earn the degree entirely by myself, because I didn't live in isolation. I lived among people and our messy, awkward, turbulent lives entwined in that earthy way humans have, that creates relationships, and makes life worth living. Throughout the process of writing a dissertation, I rarely cried alone because other people cared to cry with me. I didn't have to rejoice alone because my cheering squad was always at the ready. And never, never ever, did someone say to me, "Yeah, you're right. This is too hard. You should quit." Never.
And, I didn't quit.
I didn't quit because the people who love me were alongside me the entire time. From start to finish. They encouraged and supported me. They put up with me and listened when I whined. Sometimes they gave me food. They celebrated the victories and bouyed me up during the disappointments. When I needed space they kept their distance and when I needed to be held closely, they were always nearby.
We all like to receive accolades when we accomplish something big but the idea that any one of us does anything of value singlehandedly is not only a little crazy but a whole lot arrogant. We don't do things entirely on our own because we not supposed to do things entirely on our own. We are meant to be in the messy engagement of relationships. We are meant to be in communities. Our lives are meant to be braided into the lives of others. Sometimes loosly. Sometimes tightly. But always intersecting and connecting in meaningful ways. No one lives in a vacuum and no accomplishment, big or small, is done without the love, support, and encouragement of others.
The joy of the accomplishment is not that I did it alone, but that I did it. And as cliche as it may sound, it is because others believed in me even when I didn't believe in myself.
On that bright, sunny, graduation morning when my name was called and I walked across the stage to receive my diploma, there was a small outburst of cheers and hoots and, "Go Mom." But that kerfuffle wasn't just for me, it was for everyone who had helped me get to that point. It was the beautiful sound of relationship. And at that moment, life seemed almost perfect.
If only I'd been rockin' the Mary Janes.
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