The text came on a Tuesday morning, May 3rd, 2022, at 9:47 a.m. I was sitting in my campus apartment, reviewing my dissertation one final time before my PhD defense the next day. Eight years of research on renewable energy applications in developing nations.
Eight years of late nights, failed experiments, breakthroughs, setbacks, and finally, finally, success. My phone buzzed. I smiled, thinking she was texting to wish me luck on my defense. Maybe to confirm their flight details for my graduation ceremony on Saturday.
Instead, I read: “Sarah, your father and I have decided not to attend your graduation. We need to be honest. We think you’ve wasted eight years on something impractical. Your brother’s MBA graduation is in two years, and that actually matters for his career.
We’re saving our time and money for that. Hope you understand.” I stared at the screen for a full minute, then another text came in. “Also, we told everyone you’re finally finishing school. They all asked what took so long. It’s embarrassing explaining you’re still a student at thirty.”
I set the phone down carefully. My hands were shaking. Eight years. I’d spent eight years pursuing this degree while working as a research assistant, scraping by on a stipend that barely covered rent. Eight years of telling my family about my research, my publications, my progress. They had never asked a single question about my actual work.
My younger brother, Derek, had graduated from undergrad two years earlier and immediately started working at a consulting firm. He was now enrolled in a prestigious executive MBA program, doing it part-time while working full-time. My parents talked about him constantly. Derek’s MBA will set him up for life. Derek’s company is paying for his degree. Derek will be making six figures by thirty.
Meanwhile, I was the embarrassment, the one who kept going to school instead of getting a real job. I called my mom. She answered on the fourth ring.
“Hi, honey. Did you get my text?”
“Mom, my graduation is in four days. You’re really not coming?”
“So, we explained this. Your father has a golf tournament that weekend. And honestly, we’ve already been to your undergrad graduation. How many graduations does one person need?”
“This is my PhD, Mom. It’s different.”
“It’s another degree that won’t help you get a job,” she interrupted. “Sweetheart, we love you, but we’re worried. You’re thirty years old with no career, no savings, no real prospects. Derek is buying a condo. What are you doing?”
“I’m about to defend my dissertation. I’m about to become Dr. Sarah Mitchell.”
“And then what?” she asked. “Who’s going to hire you? What are you going to do with a PhD in… what is it again?”
“Environmental engineering, with a focus on renewable energy systems.”
“Right. And how many jobs are there in that?”
I closed my eyes. “Mom, I have a job lined up. I told you about it.”
“That postdoc position, Sarah? That’s not a real job. That’s more school.”
“It’s a research position at Stanford. It pays sixty-eight thousand dollars a year.”
“Derek makes ninety-five thousand plus bonuses,” she said. “And he’s only been working for two years.”
There it was. Everything always came back to Derek.
“I have to go,” I said. “My defense is tomorrow.”
“Good luck, honey. We do love you. We just want you to be practical.”
She hung up. I sat there in my empty apartment, staring at my dissertation. Scalable Solar Microgrids for Rural Electrification in Sub-Saharan Africa. Three hundred and forty-seven pages. Four years of field research. Published findings in three major journals. Useless, according to my mother.