Between Two Worlds

A long journey is finally nearing its most defining chapter. After all the coursework, sacrifices, and silent struggles, I am now standing at the threshold of the dissertation phase—a moment both thrilling and terrifying. This stage comes in two parts: the first, crucial and meticulous, is the design of the study. The second, its actual implementation, is filled with uncertainty. Nothing is guaranteed until the final defense.

I’ve been carrying thoughts about this phase for a long time—too many, in fact. They swirl endlessly in my mind, and breaking them into something clear and purposive has been a real challenge. Now that July is ending, I feel a quiet excitement building for August. It marks the beginning of the first semester—a new chapter for both my academic pursuit and professional responsibility.

This time, I’m walking the path alone. I don’t have the circle of friends I once had—no more laughter after classes, no more vibrant, intellectual debates that left us energized instead of divided. I miss those days when life felt simpler, when running after deadlines was just part of the thrill. I truly enjoyed schooling; it was never a burden to me. It was, in fact, one of the best times of my life.

But now, things are different. Alongside my dissertation, I am stepping into yet another demanding role—teaching. Initially, I had no plans to teach this semester. I wanted to focus solely on research. But something happened last term that I just couldn't ignore.

Students began using AI not just for support, but to the extent of simulating interviews with social workers. That struck me deeply. I couldn’t let it pass without consequence. I told them the truth—that one day, they would suffer the consequences of cutting corners. And that moment lit something in me. I realized: if not me, then who will teach them properly, with discipline and integrity?

I know I can’t save the world. But I believe I can make a difference, no matter how small. That belief pushes me to give my best—to keep going even when it’s tough. I know I’ll need to carve out at least three hours daily for reading and research just to keep up with my dissertation. Add to that the time and energy required to prepare meaningful lessons. It’s a lot.

Some may say it’s not worth it—that students aren’t even grateful. Maybe that’s true. But still, I want to try. I want to give until I no longer can. Maybe this is a risk. Maybe I’ll burn out. But maybe, just maybe, I’ll discover something more about myself—my limits, my purpose, and how deeply I care.

Let’s see what’s coming. I’m here for it—all of it.

The Weight of Waiting

I’ve been anxiously waiting for the results of my comprehensive exam. It’s been almost a month since they were supposedly released, and the wait has been exhausting. To cope, I found myself downloading hundreds of books—knowing full well I wouldn’t be able to read them all—just to distract my mind. I made self-care a routine every Saturday, went out more than usual, and tried everything I could to ease the overwhelming uncertainty.

When I took my board exam, I only had to wait three days, but even then, the stress gave me a fever. This, though—this wait for the comprehensive exam results—has drained me in a different way. I couldn't sleep. I didn’t even admit to myself how badly I wanted to know the results. It wasn’t just about proving my capability—I wanted clarity about what to do next. What if I failed? How do I start again?

I’ve faced many failures in life—so many that I thought I’d grown used to them. But this one felt different. This one felt like a personal validation that despite the setbacks and delays, I was still pushing forward. Maybe, just maybe, it would prove to me that I’m still capable of something great. That even if I’ve stumbled many times, I’m still someone who can achieve something meaningful.

I hate that I feel like I always need to prove something—to stand out, to do what others can't. Maybe it’s because of the high standards my mother set for me. So high that I’ve broken down more than once trying to reach them. I don’t even know what I’m trying to prove anymore. Or to whom.

My anxiety got worse every day. I was checking our school’s Facebook page every five minutes. And then, ironically, on a busy afternoon when I wasn’t checking, I saw a “Congratulations” message in one of my group chats. I didn’t process it at first until a friend called and said, “Congratulations, Larrahbells!” I was stunned. I had been so consumed with worry that I forgot this moment could actually be good news.

When I finally checked, I found out that only four of us out of twelve had passed. I was one of them. And deep down, I knew—God made it happen. I wouldn’t have survived that waiting period without my constant prayers for mental strength.

This has been a journey I’ll always look back on. The stops and starts, the mental health battles, the unresolved heartbreak, and my ongoing health struggles—all of it. These were the reasons I kept restarting. It was never easy, but I truly gave it my best. And now, I’m on to the next chapter: writing.

I’m both excited and scared. Can I really do this alone now, without my friends around? Maybe. Maybe not. But I’m holding on to one dream—that one day, I’ll be walking across that stage wearing my doctoral gown.