I wasn’t expecting this feeling.

I thought applying to finish my bachelor’s degree would feel exciting, empowering, maybe even victorious. Instead, after I submitted my ASU application, something completely different rose up inside me.

I felt ashamed.

It stunned me. I’ve done hard things. I’ve rebuilt myself repeatedly over the last few years. But this? This small, hopeful step toward a degree I’ve always wanted… felt heavy in a way I didn’t understand at first.

So I sat with it. And the truth came:

I’m ashamed that I don’t already have a degree.
Ashamed because I was so close once.
Ashamed because I “should have” finished it.
Ashamed because the life I lived — the life I was taught to live — told me loudly and consistently that a woman’s education was secondary to her divine roles.

And when I looked even deeper, I realized something that brought me to tears:

This shame isn’t mine.
It’s inherited.
It’s taught.
It’s conditioned.

For most of my life, I lived in a world where women were encouraged to pursue education… but only up to the point where it didn’t interfere with marriage, motherhood, or church service. Ambition was supported, as long as it was contained. Dreams were acceptable, as long as they were small.

I internalized that message so deeply that even now, decades later, it still whispers inside me.

And ironically, these whispers grew louder over the last year — a year when I did something incredibly hard, incredibly demanding, and incredibly fulfilling: I took 45 credits in the paralegal program. I worked nonstop. I earned a 4.0 GPA. I proved to myself — again — that I can do hard academic work. I can excel. I can thrive.

These classes lit something in me that had been dim for too long. They reminded me that learning isn’t selfish. It isn’t indulgent. It isn’t a distraction from my purpose.

Learning is part of my purpose.

So you’d think that after a year like this — after proving myself in every way — applying to ASU would feel like the next natural step. You’d think it would feel triumphant. You’d think it would feel easy.

Instead, it was made with trepidation.

Because deep down, I was still carrying the old rule:

“A woman’s ambition is fine as a backup plan… not the plan.”

And nowhere did I feel that contradiction more sharply than a few years ago, when Dallin Oaks publicly praised the General Relief Society President — a lawyer, a mother, a leader — for having “done it all.”

He applauded her ability to balance her career, children, and callings. He celebrated the very path that so many of us were told not to pursue.

I remember reading it and being stunned.

I had been taught the opposite.
I had been told to choose family over degree.
Motherhood over ambition.
Church service over personal goals.
I had been instructed that working outside the home was a fallback, not a dream. That my worth was in sacrifice, not self-development.

And now the message had changed — but I had already lived the consequence of the old one.

That moment cracked something in me. It illuminated a double standard that many women quietly swallowed:

Certain women are applauded for pursuing everything.
The rest of us were told pursuing “everything” meant we wanted too much.

So yes — applying to ASU was emotional. It stirred up old beliefs, old sentences, old rules that never should have applied to me in the first place.

But here is the deeper truth I’m learning:

Starting now is not something to be ashamed of.
Starting now means I finally get to choose my own path — not the one handed to me.

I am not late.
I am not behind.
I am not trying to fix a past mistake.

I am finally becoming the woman I always was — before the expectations, before the pressure, before the narrative that narrowed my world.

And if you’re reading this and feeling that familiar ache — the one that says you “should have” done more, finished sooner, dreamed bigger, or believed in yourself earlier — I want you to know:

You’re not alone.
You’re not behind.
And you’re not wrong for wanting more now.

Our stories don’t expire.
Our dreams don’t diminish with time.
Our worth does not depend on whether we followed someone else’s script.

If you’ve ever gone back to school later in life, changed your path, or reclaimed a part of yourself that was once discouraged or dismissed — I would love to hear your story. Share it with me. Share it with others. Share it for the women who are still carrying rules that were never meant to define them.

Because the truth is this:
We don’t start over because we failed.
We start over because we finally can.