Beginning Again, Again.

Back in 1985, 42 was considered on the old side, especially as a recently admitted graduate student. Not only didn’t I know much about my major—English Lit—but most of my fellow students were half my age. Plus, there was over 15 years separating my B.A. in psychology from this latest academic adventure.

Of course, I’ve written about the whole experience of earning a master’s degree at 45 years old, even read my piece, “Happy Accident,” at a live lit event in 2015. In truth, those three years of reading and writing were among the happiest of my life; they also set me on a path that I still travel today: writer and teacher.

All of which I thought about when reading Anne Rudig’s opinion piece in the March 12 issue of the New York Times: “Back in School, at 64.”

I’ve selected out portions of her essay that especially resonated with me, including how I quit my job to return to school; how much I respected my professors, a good number of them younger than I; what I learned from sharing a classroom with all those twenty-somethings; and, finally, how my studies, as Rudig so aptly put it, “enriched [me] beyond measure.

Here are the excerpts, with the link to the whole article following. I hope that both her story and mine encourage you to take a similar journey. No time like the present to begin, eh?

I was 64 when I entered graduate school. I had just left the work force — not retired, just tired. Tired of hitting the glass ceiling and of policies that failed to protect employees from abuse. As disenchantment with my job grew, writing became a healthy distraction.

I sat in workshops and seminars during my first semester at Columbia, ashamed of my age and surrounded by brilliant young people.

Some of my instructors were close in age to me, winners of Pulitzers with decades of writing and publishing experience. Some were just a little older than my children. I wondered, was it too late for me to do this?

Despite the age difference, [the students and I have] fed one another in many ways — emotionally, intellectually and literally (I’ve brought tomatoes from my garden, while another student brought freshly baked bread).

I’ve been warned by my professors that a degree in writing is unlikely to bring riches. That’s okay. I’ve been enriched beyond measure.

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/03/12/opinion/back-to-school-at-64.html?em_pos=small&emc=edit_ty_20180312&nl=opinion-today&nl_art=7&nlid=57296981&ref=headline&te=1