4 months of practicum, 3 months of classes, and for the love of God what feels like a lifetime later... I'm done with my first semester of graduate school. I don't know how to feel, so please don't ask me. All the things. Every single one.
This semester was challenging in ways I never imagined, but damn. It was also the most fun I've ever had. Being a social work graduate student is a very strange experience, or at least it has been. Some days I felt like a helpless baby, other days I felt like a superhero. It all depended on the client, the circumstances, and the vibes. Most importantly the vibes, let's be real.
What I didn't realize when I applied for an advanced degree in social science was that it would require an unreal amount of vulnerability and discomfort. I didn't expect so many conversations about the political climate, or the obscene number of Discord notifications blowing up my phone at midnight, or the willingness of professors to meet my classmates and I at the intersection of our growth and shortcomings. I did expect the fatigue. That was very real, and sometimes it genuinely felt like I was barely holding my head above water.
The 6 a.m. alarms hurt, especially given my days tended to not end until around 10:30 at night and that was BEFORE laundry got started. The rinse and drain cycles held me hostage in my own home more than enough times, keeping me at a steady 4-5 hours of sleep on the average night. My mornings consisted of coffee, throwing on mismatched socks in the dark, and running out the door ready to take on a 16-hour day like it was an extreme sport.
There weren't breaks. Work-life balance took a major hit. I had to sacrifice seeing my family just so I could squeeze in a couple hours of rest, and that was hard on them and on me. It took about three months before I had the energy to meet my parents for lunch, and I'm a family person. As it turns out, working 12-16 hour days every day for months on end is rough as f^*&, even when you absolutely love what you're doing. I had to become okay with saying no to things, even when everything in me wanted to do them. The social isolation that happens in graduate school is no joke. To the friends I didn't respond to for days at a time, to the family that I've missed milestones with, to the people who love me but I haven't been around... I'm sorry for that. I need you to understand that that's been harder for me to handle than any of the ridiculous papers I've had to fumble my way through or exams I've had to take.
Graduate school has taken a lot from me, but it also has spoon-fed me so much. This time a year ago, I couldn't text my advisor and ask for help. I didn't have the connections I have. Nobody took me seriously in my work, in my social life, in my relationships, in anything. And honestly? I'm including myself in that. I didn't understand what I was capable of. I underestimated the space I take up, and the value I hold in other lives. I had to meet my own traumas face-to-face in order to succeed in school and I was willing to do that. I had to write about things that I'd tried to bury. I had to become comfortable in discomfort, and in answering with "I don't know" and sitting quietly as tears rolled, whether those tears belonged to my clients or to myself.
I'm not the same person I was when I applied to the social work program, and for that... I am endlessly grateful. I now have a network of friends I can reach out to at 3 a.m. if I need to. My name and my voice is out there. My advisors know who I am. My clients and I can laugh over french toast dippers in the mornings and to me, that is everything. They're willing to share parts of themselves with me that I hold close to my heart because in trusting me, they're helping me trust myself. I wouldn't have ever had that opportunity if it weren't for the impulsive part of myself that enrolled in graduate classes with a blind hope that I would grow from the experience. Working with unhoused young adults gave me a chance to see the world through other eyes and that was what I wanted, but it wasn't easy. There were days I left with shaking hands and fear in my soul. There were also days when I came into work that same way, but left with a smile and a sense of safety. I don't think that part of social work gets talked about enough.
This time three years ago I woke up bleeding in the surgical ICU. They had to snake my IV line after it burst in my arm, and visiting hours were over which meant I was alone. I had to drink viscous Lidocaine before I could even swallow water, and if you're wondering what viscous lidocaine is... just imagine what it would be like to drink a syrup that tastes like burning plastic. Then multiply that times 1000. Yes it was that bad. I mean I'm dramatic but, real talk. That stuff was the worst.
The hospital social worker sat with me for three hours in the middle of the night, putting my hair in a ponytail for me and listening to me vent. She didn't force me to talk, but she listened when I wanted to. She held my hair when I got sick and she was there when the surgeon came in to tell me they were going to keep me longer. When I cried so hard I couldn't breathe, she let me feel that. She didn't tell me to think of good things or to focus on the positive- and that was everything. She validated the tough shit. The things I hadn't been ready to tell anyone else. The things I didn't let my family in on because they felt a little too... real.
Had it not been for the night that I passed out in my bathroom and had to call 911 for myself, I'm not sure I would've ended up where I am today. And at the time, EVERYTHING was terrifying and it all sucked. My family was together, enjoying the holiday season together and laughing over dessert while I was fighting nausea with everything in me and being woken up every hour on the hour for IV flushes under fluorescent lights that made me tear up. (Okay, maybe that was the needles, but still.) That social worker saved me, in so many ways, and I hope she knows it.
I checked my grades a week ago and found out that I ended up scoring a 100% on a 20-page policy paper that has stressed me out since August. If you know anything about me you know how hard on myself I am when it comes to writing, and especially when it comes to academia. I was so mean to myself in the process of writing that paper, and I bullied my own brain way too hard... but the pride I felt when I saw that score was worth it.
Today is my birthday, and I finished the semester with A's. My day off consists of margaritas, movies, a chance to catch up on sleep, candles that smell like comfort, peace of mind, starting some of the books I ordered weeks ago, and most importantly... the chance to let myself breathe. I've been working non-stop since August and right now, nothing sounds better than rest. That rest is gonna look different in the coming weeks. It'll look like dinners with the friends I haven't seen, game nights with my family, sleeping through my weekends, and maybe finally painting the guest room. MAYBE. ;)
Again, I feel like lifetimes have passed since I've been able to write and especially since I've been able to just be. Being able to write again feels like freedom. The semester was rough. And wild. But...
In the words of Taylor Swift,
"Long story short, I survived."
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