In exactly 10 days, I’ll be 23 years old.  And, in a way that number makes me incredibly uncomfortable.  But, why?  It’s nowhere close to middle-age (not even half way), I have at least 17 good years for the child-bearing age range, and I’m still on the “lower end” of the 20s.  So, what gives?

Lurking in the back of my brain is a thought – a thought that shouldn’t even be there.  At 20, I chose to drop out of college – take a break – call it what you will.  I had just gotten married and my husband was about to be deployed and with the guidance of the school’s academic counselors, I chose to get out while the getting was good.  I had never gone through a deployment before, especially with me being the spouse (we had just gotten married), and I was terrified.  I wasn’t sure what sort of last minute details would have to be taken care of, or if I would need to go out of town – and I had no idea how this would play out in regards to my emotions.  To put it quite simply, I was afraid I would run my high grades into the dirt and lose my President’s List standing.

So, much to my parents’ and family’s chagrin, I canceled my classes and left with a decent GPA.  I figured it was the right choice, anyhow -  After all, I wanted to be a stay at home mom if we could afford it.  I didn’t want to waste more money on a degree that I would never use – not when that money could go towards other things.  Like car payments.  I left college with only 1.5-2 semesters to go, whether I chose Psychology or Education.  Even faster, if I booked my time carefully.  I reveled in the fact that I knew I could go back to college and still finish up with my peers, as if I’d never left (thanks to my high school college credits).

To this day, I feel like I made the right decision for me at that time.  At this point in my life, that little piece of paper means nothing to me.  As much as I love to teach, I really don’t want to be stuck in a classroom with kids whose parents I cannot choose (I absolutely hate when parents choose to be inactive in kids’ lives).  I don’t want to get every cold or flu that comes through the school.  And, to be honest – I feel like what I’d be getting paid wouldn’t be worth it for me.  Not as something I CHOSE.  Psychology – my love – well, I originally wanted to get my Doctorate.  I wanted to become a psychiatrist and open up my own clinic, and possibly even my own ward.  I wanted to help troubled young people.  I wanted to build a safe haven.  Then, I got married and had a beautiful daughter, and a career in psychology in a tiny town seems a little more dangerous.  Everyone knows where you live.  I would never forgive myself if I were the reason something happened to my family.

And yet, why does this still bug me?  I know that a degree for me would be just a piece of paper that I bought with my own money.  I know that these degrees no longer hold the importance as they once did – now, you need a Masters or Doctorate.  Regardless, thoughts creep into the back of my brain and I feel almost like I’m “behind” my peers.  I know that some of them are graduating (or just graduated) with that piece of paper and are on their ways to becoming something else.  In the back of my head, I feel like I have let those who know me down.  Because to them, a degree translated into success – and I forfeited mine.

Sometimes, I even think that a degree may make me feel safer at the end of the day.  I’ve lost the naivety that once told me that things would always be as they are.  It was replaced with the desire to be able to totally self-sufficient, and in the back of my head I know this.  I know that if I were to rejoin the “rat race,” I would need that little piece of paper to get me in the door just to prove that I was “worthy” of a job I really didn’t want, anyways.

I’ll be 23 soon, and while I may seem “behind” my peers, I’m not.  I just joined a different race.  My race, where the outcome is nothing but a world of possibilities.

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