Graduate Student Blogs

It is Christmastime, and already I am thinking about New Year’s. Only this year have I realized how strongly I prefer New Year’s to Christmas, and that it might just be my favorite holiday. This doesn’t exactly come as a surprise, given that I am a counseling student—a pursuit that includes constantly striving for greater insight and self-awareness; dedicating my life’s work to helping others (and myself) reach their potential and be their best selves. The celebration of the New Year, with its focuses on self-improvement, leaving behind negative behaviors, and embracing positive changes, is practically the poster holiday for the helping professions. 

Like many people, every year around this time I think toward the future, taking time to revisit my dreams and goals, and identifying what obstacles are in the way. Then I craft those obstacles into concrete resolutions that I can actively work on. I also look back over the past year and make a list of its highlights, as well as things that I’d like to change or leave behind. Sometimes friends and I do rituals, ranging from visioning boards to cleansing yoga to “In vs Out” lists, to mark these processes and help kick off a fresh start. It is a time to take stock, to learn from the past in the name of productively moving forward.

But what happens if we don’t keep our resolutions and meet our goals, at least not in the immediate time frame we’d hoped for? What happens when we invariably mess up, get off-track, fail at something? Far too often, people have an all-too-easy default response of guilt, self-blame, and criticism. We are hard on ourselves, and we hold ourselves to sky-high standards. In many cases there is no room built in to reevaluate, compromise, or celebrate the smaller, slower gains being made and micro-victories won—let alone work through the notion of failure and transform it into anything other than a punitive judgment on our broader self-worth and capabilities.

            This semester, I am taking a fascinating class called “Discrimination and Health.” It explores the myriad ways in which experiencing unequal or biased treatment in society can have direct negative impact on both mental and physical health. The course examines this phenomenon on multiple levels, from individual interactions (i.e. a doctor improperly treating a patient based on stereotypes; the effects of experiencing daily racism, sexism, or homophobia on one’s wellbeing), to broader systemic manifestations of bias (i.e. physical and mental tolls of living in the unsafe neighborhoods that low-income families and people of color are frequently relegated to; hospital policies that subtly exclude the needs of culturally-diverse families.) Each week we read and discuss several research articles clustered around a particular topic; my brain has come to eagerly anticipate chewing through the banquet of food for thought that is always provided.

I have found the material nothing short of electrifying and perspective-shifting: a revolutionary validation of some things I felt I’d “known”, intuitively, for years, and yet so much more to this particular puzzle than I could have imagined before. Although it’s obvious to me now that scientists, psychologists and scholars have focused on this for years, amassed a good body of research, and organized professionally in the name of advocacy and public health, I had no idea that all of this existed, formally, prior to taking the course. As a budding mental health counselor who’s been engaged in anti-oppression and social justice work for years, I’m shocked that it took me so long to locate this body of work; yet this reaffirms to me just how far out of general public consciousness these notions are. Much of our class discussions have come back around to why this is: the slow reluctance of society to change; innate aspects of human nature; dominant group members’ fears and perceptions of “losing” power? Does it have to do with various groups’ financial/political interests at stake, or a de-prioritization of ethics? Are we merely overwhelmed by the magnitude of systemic and institutional change required to address the many-pronged and deep-rooted manifestations of social discrimination?

Such questions-- getting at why people, society, and the world are as they are— can also quickly become much larger questions of meaning and existential concern. I know that being able to participate in these rewarding discussions hinges on my ability to suspend and reevaluate my own beliefs: a willingness to accept others’ experiences as real even when they appear to contradict what I’ve known to be true, and to expand my conceptualizations to accommodate both of our realities. To all of these big questions, I don’t have The Answer, nor will I learn it in this class. There is not one easy, apparent answer to be had. But what we can do in the meantime, as classmates and as human beings, is to learn from each other and learn to love the process, as opposed to fretting about finding the perfect solution. We are learning to tolerate the anxiety of not knowing for sure, of not having one end-all-and-be-all correct answer. This requires certain qualities of openness and flexibility, as well enough self-security to not view others’ perspectives and experiences as threats. Surrendering belief in the absolute, sole right-ness of one’s own perspective requires bravery, but by respectfully allowing space for others’ full realities to exist alongside our own, we are all strengthened, and we become connected as humanity.

What an incredible difference a year makes.  When I began this master’s program last fall I felt as if I was staring up the side of an impossibly high mountain, about to spend the next two-and-a-half years trying to climb it. Yet now here I am with three semesters and 33 credits under my belt, good friends in my cohort, enough new knowledge (and general food for thought) to sink a ship (or at least my happily-overloaded brain), five mentees in the incoming counseling class, and fresh inspiration propelling my budding career in completely unforeseen directions. I’ll begin putting it all to use in a mere three months when I begin the internship portion of my program in January. Suddenly, I can already see my graduation day shining in the not-so-far distance… a bittersweet notion that now makes returning for a doctorate someday seem completely attainable.

As I move closer to embarking on my new professional path, I’ve been thinking quite a bit about the oft-meandering route I took to get here (and not just because I’m studying Career Counseling this semester).  My pre-grad school work life was marked by numerous transitions and interruptions, and my career aspirations have adjusted multiple times to reflect my evolving identity and values.  The overarching question I’ve wrestled with over the years is this: will my functional, paying career and my passionate, meaningful “life’s work” ever be one and the same? Or, is it possible to make a secure living doing what one truly loves and finds inspiring?

As a child, my career objectives were largely motivated by the idea of being around things I wanted access to, such as candy (candy store owner) or animals (marine biologist, dogsled racer, veterinarian).  This pattern became increasingly interspersed with career interests involving creative activities that I found enjoyable (artist, writer, actress).  In sixth grade I saw the musical “The Phantom of the Opera”, an experience which catalyzed in me a 10-year obsession with becoming a singer-actress. After graduating from Syracuse University with a degree in Drama and a minor in Music Industry, I interned within the latter field, and then began approximately a decade of working in various unfulfilling jobs.  Some of these I took simply to pay the bills (reception and administrative positions); some of them I found enjoyment in, at least for awhile (singing waitress, caring for animals at a shelter).  Still other jobs were at least within environments that aligned with my values (arts education, social justice), but my actual job responsibilities were not what I wished to be doing. This went on until I was able to gain and clarify enough life experiences in order to return to graduate school with certainty and confidence.  By this time, I had semi-coherently synthesized my passions for the creative arts, social justice, and helping others, especially marginalized youth.

Several times now in my counseling classes the diagnosis debate has come up: should we counselors confer diagnoses on clients? The concept of diagnosing is for sure a delicate one, full of complex ethical tangents, power dynamics, emotions and potential lifelong impact, let alone permanent records. Of course, as counselors, we will assess our clients, form hypotheses and at least make working diagnoses, in order to conceptualize clients’ challenges and plan treatment within the framework of a universal language. Sometimes—depending on the healthcare provider or the necessity of obtaining insurance coverage— diagnoses are mandated, and this question becomes moot. But for the sake of debate, let’s leave these instances out and consider an uncomplicated, ideal scenario: what are the benefits of giving a client a diagnosis, face to face, versus the risks?

             A diagnosis could come as a huge relief to a client. It might assuage feelings of “just being crazy” or somehow at fault for the struggles in one’s life, erasing damaging layers of guilt and self-blame.  It might be a desirable revelation to some clients to simply have a concrete answer to questions like “why do I feel like this?” or “what’s wrong with me?”  A diagnosis could provide hope for greater self-understanding, more resources to explore, and structured, tried-and-true ideas for improvement-- now that a standard, publicly-recognized problem has been identified and named. Getting a diagnosis might even give some clients a sense of community or shared support, knowing that there are others out there with the same issue and that, therefore, they are not alone or “abnormal”. Such clients may come to truly “own” their diagnosis, coming to terms with it, knowing its familiar manifestations in their life, and integrating it as part of their identity.

            On the other hand, though, at what point does a diagnosis become a confinement, a restriction of the client’s potential, a ceiling that can’t be moved beyond due to self-perceived expectations of the label, or a distorted reevaluation of one’s own abilities? Will some clients cease to push themselves, or put less energy into doing the intense personal work of therapy, now that they’ve settled into a “known quantity” identity?  Would they feel defective, damaged, or less-than, by having the label of a diagnosis placed on them?  Would they place limits on the dreams or ideals they are working toward, because those things aren’t within the description of their condition?  As counselors we exist to help individuals reach their potential, working toward meaningful life goals and surpassing obstacles along the way. We must be careful that conferring a diagnosis on someone does not become another obstacle in their path, or—like so many assigned labels in life-- a self-fulfilling and limiting prophecy.

On summers and holiday breaks during my undergrad years, I worked at a large record store near my home in Annapolis, MD, and became lifelong friends with some of my coworkers there (yes, if you’ve seen the movie “Empire Records”, it actually was a lot like that).  One year for Christmas, a friend who was an artist gave me a beautiful framed collage that she had made.  It had dozens of images of butterflies pasted together over the backdrop of a blue sky, and was decorated with tiny sparkling stones.  Toward the bottom, in small letters, were the words “let me really live.”  I liked it a lot, thanked her, and hung it on my wall without thinking too much about its meaning.  In retrospect, I feel that she chose to give me this piece out of a sense that something was holding me back, and she was right.  At that time in my life I didn’t realize just how restricted I was by others’ expectations; by feeling like there were certain things I should be doing, as opposed to discovering and listening to myself.

More than a decade later, I have now officially survived my first semester of graduate school.  Overall it was pretty incredible—not to say that there weren’t a few minor, even major, bumps along the road and adjustments to be made.  I encountered a vast amount of new ideas and experiences-- both formally in the classroom, and informally throughout the whole process—and incorporated bits and pieces of those things into myself along the way, sifting through it all and taking the relevant parts with me.  I feel that much of what I gained this semester was only able to occur because I managed to remain open to experience and change, and relied on my own intuition.

 We all came to our graduate studies from different backgrounds and locations, each of us a unique set of life and work experiences, and each from our own communities and little corner of the world that feels like home.

When I started the Clinical Mental Health Counseling program earlier this fall, I remember feeling like my brain was a dried-out sponge that had suddenly been dropped into an ocean, frantically absorbing everything it could possibly hold, and more, until it had expanded and entirely changed shape.  Now, a little more than two months into the semester (and, unbelievably, already through more of it than remains), I find that my focus is shifting from simply absorbing new knowledge to really integrating it-- considering how these new theories and concepts mesh with who I am and where I’ve come from, and with the work that I’ll do after graduation.

As Graduate School of Education and Human Development (GSEHD) students, we are in the unique position of being people whose fields of study are also about people.  Most, if not all, of our professions involve either working directly with other human beings, or studying them in some capacity or stage of the lifespan.  It is part of anyone’s learning to mull over the theories and new ideas that one encounters, personalizing them and contemplating how they apply to one’s own life.  But it makes sense to me that there is an extra-personal aspect to this process among GSEHD students: we are studying the intimacies and intricacies of humankind, and therefore, ourselves.  I find myself feeling like I need to read each homework assignment three times: once briefly for an overview of the material, then again, in depth, to grasp all of the details—and finally, a "reflection round" to relate the concepts to my own life, assess how that particular new information resonates with my experiences (or not), and consider if it’s something that I will keep and incorporate into my theoretical orientation and practices as a counselor.

It’s been exactly one month since I started graduate studies here at GWU, in the Clinical Mental Health Counseling program, and it’s only recently that I’ve begun to really feel adjusted and settled in to this new way of life. 

I didn’t know quite what to expect, but it soon became clear that my last semi-foggy memories of being on a college campus were not going to help.  Grad school is nothing like undergrad, at least not in my experience.  Classes are (understandably) held in the evenings, not the daytime.  After class, your commute home likely does not consist of skipping two blocks over to a dorm that you share with thirty of your new closest friends.  You resent interruptions to your precious study time—especially when they come from sources like That Pesky Full-Time Job You Had To Keep, And Other Adult Responsibilities — when it used to be that having to study was more like an interruption to your precious social life.  But it’s also a good bet that you’ve gotten some thinking and life experience under your belt since going for your Bachelor’s, and might be here now with a lot more clarity and drive than the last time you were in school.  You’re here because you truly want to be here, and you are more in charge of your own experience in every way.

With that in mind, here are a few things that I’ve learned this far into my second student-hood: