Tag Archives: grad school

Should I Stay or Should I Go?: How I Came to My Final Decision to Leave My Full-time Job to Pursue Full-time School

by Ebony Davis

Happy spring semester to all of you GOATs out there on a journey to pursuing higher education! Whether it is a master’s or a Ph.D. program you are in, welcome to the chat. Over my winter break, I spent a lot of time pondering, questioning, reassuring myself, affirming myself, challenging my thoughts and habits all while in the midst of getting some serious well-needed rest (I literally drooled on my pillows every night) and catering to my inner adventurous self by having a little fun. The last two weeks of winter break consisted of me overthinking one plan of action: whether I should stay at my current full-time job or leave.

I currently work full-time at a social service agency in Chicago. The agency is a non-profit and is contracted through the Department of Children and Families (DCFS) here. My undergraduate degree is in Social Work and my graduate degree will be in Social Work as well. I have been working in the field for a little over a year now and my master’s degree program entails two full-time internships at two social service agencies all while spending time in class unpacking more layers of the field and what it means to be a social worker and working. All in all, my life is social work piled on top of social work piled on top of more social work and it has been that way for a while. Last semester, when my last class of the night was over, I was going home to prep and gear myself up to go to work.

Oh, did I mention I work during the day and overnights? My work schedule is pretty jam packed. I spend most of my time at work with the children I serve.

Well, over winter break, I started thinking to myself how different I wanted my spring semester to be.

First of all, I knew I wanted to switch over to being a full-time student, and I knew full-time work would not mesh with the demands of being enrolled full-time. This commitment resulted in me having to make a decision. A hard one. If I did not want to be exhausted, I knew I had to give up working in order to pursue and focus on school but my decision boiled down to a few things:

  1. I knew I was never happy with where I was. The pay this place started me off at was terrible. I literally had money to pay ONE bill a month, which was rent. Aside from that, it was just me consistently living check to check for the first five months I lived in Chicago. That feeling was miserable. Having to divide up my check to see which bills were going to get paid in a month and which were not was probably one of THE most humiliating things I have ever experienced. Do not be like me and settle for something like this.
  2. The work environment was extremely toxic, distracting and unhealthy. You all don’t know, but my friends heard how much I wanted to leave every single day. It was so hard trying to ‘do the right thing’ and serve a vulnerable population in the midst of unwarranted chaos. Drama between staff unfolded every day and some of the employees were borderline verbally abusive to the youth at this agency. It started to become concerning, and no one seemed to see that there was anything wrong.
  3. The final reason why I decided to leave and knew that it was time to go is because I never felt supported at my job. Yes, there were good days, but I took it hard when I was not receiving adequate supervision and support from my team. It’s like everyone was just stuck on ‘DUH’ and did not care about growth and the effectiveness of how the agency is run.

Even with these reasons in mind, it STILL was hard to leave the job. I felt so much resistance and through myself for a loop every time I got ready to submit my formal notice. A lot swayed my decision. I thought about that flow of income I would be cutting myself away from, I thought about my bills, I thought about what would happen to the children I served and worked with and how my decision to leave would affect them, and I thought about what people would say about me.

When my mind started to become heavy, I prayed and asked God to send me a sign or vision that would reveal the best decision for me. I prayed over my sanity and mental wellness and asked God to remove resistance and remind my mind and body that I am okay currently, and I am going to be okay in the future. I prayed about the contemplation and unrest the decision to stay or go was causing me.

Ultimately, God gave me a sign. He gave me a sign a long time ago and He is giving me another sign now. I am writing this because this is your sign. If you are not well because of a job, leave. If you are pursuing school and work full-time and cannot seem to find time for yourself, your children, your family or your partner, leave. If you have been putting off taking care of yourself for a job, leave. If the work environment is toxic and you do not see growth, leave. Because 1) the work you are putting in now, while in school, is going to create and expand opportunity for you. 2) Work will always be there, for all of us. Our peace, sanity and joy are things you and I cannot afford to sacrifice anymore.

You are still a Queen if you choose to leave. It’s going to be okay.


download (2)Ebony Davis is a 23-year-old from Kansas City, KS. She recently relocated to Chicago, IL to embark on her graduate school journey, and pursue some dreams she has had in mind for herself. She attends Loyola University Chicago, and is in school for her master’s degree in Social Work. She has been working in the social service field for a total of four years now, and she feels like she right where she needs to be.

Working in this field is her calling. Ebony enjoys being a source of support to other people, and she loves challenging and uprooting individuals into the very best version of themselves. Aside from all the social work she does, Ebony also writes and has been writing since she can remember. She enjoys journaling in her free time, and is working toward being a freelancer all 2020.

Doubt, Failure and Rejection

If you follow me on Twitter, or even here on Black Girl Does Grad School, it’s evident that I’ve been in a bit of a funk for a little while. Okay, a lot of a funk and for a long while.

The truth is, it happens and it happens frequently. Grad school is just like that: some weeks you are fine, you feel like you are killing the game, you’re writing, you’re reading, your productivity is through the roof. And some weeks (or several of them…in a row) are about opening rejection emails before you’ve even left your bed in the morning, blank word documents, institutional drama, and the increasingly depressing feeling of trying to keep afloat in the middle of the ocean, knowing that any moment it could swallow you whole.

In particular, rejection letters really have the ability to drown me when I’m already barely afloat. On a day when I’m balanced, feeling healthy and whole, surrounded by love and support, rejections barely cross my radar. On a day where I’m already irritated and isolated (often self-imposed) due to circumstances outside of my control, rejections take me out. Negative self talk is already the soundtrack of my day, I’m feeling like my writing is particularly weak, and then bam– the worst sort of confirmation.

I sort of came to an understanding with myself. I stopped trying to fight the labels that academics were using to make me legible. I instead focused on simply doing work that fed my soul and that I felt was a direct expression of me walking in my purpose, worrying less about categorizing it and making it marketable, and more on making my words fly. This mental shift helped me prioritize, focus on and execute my work in a way that was meaningful to me.

And it worked.

Until it didn’t.

I now believed in my capacity to produce substantive, rigorous and complex work; I was focused enough to write it; I was becoming brave enough to submit it but nobody seemed to believe in me as much as I now believed in myself. It was enough to crack even the strongest of foundations and then the doubts seeped in. The worries that I had finally managed to shake reached through those cracks, grabbed ahold of my soul and squeezed. As often as I jokingly recount the tale of how I became Peanut Festival Queen of Suffolk, Virginia, the nagging thought that follows like a bad aftertaste is, Did I peak in high school? It seemed that making your dreams come true was a concoction of ambition, consistent hard work and a dreamer’s heart, but I lacked that dash of magic that seemed to be the key.

When all is said and done, I know I usually like to end my blog posts with a neat bow. I am nothing if not a (somewhat performative) optimist. I like to believe that even if I haven’t yet, I will overcome adversity and the fruits of my labor will be rewarded. And while I do have faith that everything will work out for me, I’m still living in a moment in which I am constantly stewing in a stale pot of doubt, failure and rejection, instead of perfecting my recipe for Black Girl Magic. I’m learning to live in the space between my imperfections and my potential, coming to embrace the harmony that failure and resiliency produces. Practically speaking, it means I honor my feelings, because even if I know that my future is bright, today’s forecast is overcast and rainy. It means that I take a moment to be transparent in my writing about what this moment is for me, instead of hiding from it, as if it doesn’t exist.

And perhaps…the answers that I have been hearing are not a no.

It’s an implied not yet.

Misadventures in TA’ing

One of the things I most looked forward to when I found out I was going to grad school was teaching. After spending my last semester of undergrad at UVA teaching my own self-designed course, I was eager to get back to the front of a classroom, maybe breaking down some literature with first year students or offering writing support during office hours.

But my dream situation got put on hold. There were several factors: I was now at a relatively small(ish) liberal arts university with overall tiny class sizes, which reduced the need for Teaching Assistants (TA’s). While we were guaranteed to teach at some point, if we wanted, TA-ships were not as easy to come by as I had originally imagined in this setting. Then there was the unspoken understanding that often times, first year students weren’t always placed in TA-ships. In terms of the content I wanted to focus on in the classroom, my university didn’t have graduate programs in English or Africana Studies; so in addition to the small class sizes, I wouldn’t really have an opportunity to TA where my heart was (unless, of course, I managed to snag a course cross-listed with English, which were few and far between).

So I pouted, but in spite of all of that, the prospect of TA-ing still appealed to me. I was placed in a programmatic graduate assistantship my first year with the Omohundro Institute; then with the Lemon Project, which I stayed with for my third year as well, much to my surprise. I loved working for the Lemon Project, but my desire to teach was flaring up, as well as my concern that it was getting to be so late in my graduate career and I hadn’t had any formal teaching experience, aside from leading workshops with Lemon and Course Instructing for Keio.

By the time I actually got a TA assignment, I was headed into my fourth year, almost formally dissertating. With only the prospectus standing in my way, I had moved past wanting to TA, and was ready to teach my own course, for which I had created a well-developed and, frankly, exciting, syllabus. However, due to an undocumented “policy,” I was denied my course and placed in a TAship that I had spent my first three years daydreaming about.

The circumstances under which I was placed in this position certainly marred my enthusiasm, but even so, as I gathered my thoughts about my teaching philosophy, and grand ideas for my first discussion sections, I was inflated by the prospect of being surrounded by gifted thinkers whom I got to help guide.

My cute little bubble of hope and optimism slowly deflated as I attended meetings and prepared for the start of the semester. Things were not shaking out as I had expected and, most importantly for me, I was already feeling like I couldn’t make my own decisions about how I wanted my classrooms to run, and by extension, feel. I was confined by more limitations than I had anticipated. The inability to put my own personal stamp on the two little classes I could call my own, and really express the fullest version of myself as an educator had me feeling claustrophobic and honestly, jaded.

There’s a part of me that understands this is part of the process. You learn to follow the rules before you can make your own.

But there’s another, much larger part of me, that has never particularly subscribed to this manner of thinking.

When the first day of discussion sections rolled around, I was even more nervous than I had reason to be. The professor for whom I was TA-ing would be there on the first day, mostly to talk about the syllabus, but also to lead the class in an exercise.

It felt strange, not being able to set the tone the way I wanted on the first day, and I felt myself shrinking, trying to take up the least amount of space possible. I left after my first set of classes, relieved that they were over, but also feeling an undeniable urge to cry. It had been so long since I had actively attempted to make myself small. I hated the feeling, but more than that, I hated myself for complying.

I wanted badly to get back in the classroom this week to restart, but due to the hurricane (which was more like a very windy drizzle), the school was closed and the students, and I, were off the hook.

I find myself deeply conflicted, but also very aware that it’s only been two weeks and I have plenty of time to turn this experience around. I’m conflicted because I finally get the opportunity to do what I’ve always wanted to do, but it seems like I keep stepping into one misadventure after the next. I love teaching– I always have. I very rarely played with my cousins on Sundays and holidays in the backroom at my grandparents’, preferring to read on the floor at my mother’s knees, but when I did, it was guaranteed to be a game of school, in which I got to be the teacher. It was an easy enough role to slide into, when most of the adults you knew intimately were educators. My mother was a fifth grade teacher, two of her sisters were teachers, her friends were teachers. I grew up drenched in questions of pedagogy and learning what was good practice based on which teaching policies my mother fumed about or praised while trading war stories with her sisters on the phone after school each night.

I knew from listening in on those conversations that teaching was not easy. It was a headache and it drove you crazy, but as I grew older, I realized that those conversations would not have been so heated if they were not fueled by a love of their job and their mission. My mom, her sisters, and their friends took educating seriously. Educating and education mattered. And I knew it was worth it every time she ran into a former student in the local Wal-Mart. She may not remember their name, but she remembered their face– a feat I’ve always found astounding given how much people change from when they’re ten to when they’re, say, twenty. The former students always want to stop my mom to show her they turned out okay; that they’re in college, or they have a family, or they have a great job.

Over my life, watching my mom and her sisters not only teach, but also care for students, has given me a model for how I want to approach teaching. Educating is as important to me as researching.

I think it’s important to remind myself of that from time to time, especially when I feel like my first experience TA-ing has been nothing but a series of misadventures. It may not have been the perfect timing for me, but who knows? Maybe there’s a student that will change my life. Maybe I’ll change one of theirs. Whatever comes next, I’m going to try to write as much of the story as I can.