Wow! I’ve just submitted an application for a PhD programme. That’s just crazy!
I mean, I’m the girl who suffered years of speech therapy—and the mocking that goes along with having speech problems.
I’m the girl they wanted to put into special education classes because I was stupid. Or, rather, I was (well, am) dyslexic.
I’m the girl who didn’t go to university at the bright, young age of 18.
I’m the girl who everyone thought would just muddle through life as average-at-best.
Yet here I am, pouring myself a wee dram of whisky to celebrate this latest step toward a bright future.
Here I am, this girl who speaks with such enunciated skill that people often remark about how nice my voice is.
Here I am, this girl who has such a grasp of the English language that I get paid to write and edit things for public enjoyment.
Here I am, this girl who many thought would drop out (flunk out, even) of high school, yet I possess an academic record that is worthy of distinction.
So, will I get accepted for this PhD programme? Or any other programmes I apply to? I don’t know for sure, but I am fairly confident that someone will want me. And if I don’t get accepted, at least I know that I’ve tried—and that I’ve already succeeded far beyond what anyone ever would have guessed.
Yes, I am very pleased with myself for getting this far—and for striving to go even further.
And if (when!) I get accepted on a programme, I just need to hope and pray that I can find the funding to pay for it all!
Oh! And a great big thank you to my Daddy for taking the time to give a last minute review of my proposal before sending it off. I guess that I should give him more than five minutes notice when I want favours like this …