Mary Mba, Ph.D.
Graduation season is here again.
There’s a special kind of energy that sweeps across campuses this time of year – an energy that carries with it the weight of late-night studying, years of perseverance, deep friendships, and silent sacrifices. Caps are tossed, gowns flutter in the spring breeze, and the air hums with the anticipation of what’s next. Beneath the surface is a tangle of emotions: the joy of completion, the anxiety of change, the thrill of achievement, and the quiet dread of the unknown.
I know these feelings well.
Over the years, I’ve celebrated three graduations for three different degrees – my bachelor’s, master’s, and doctoral. Except for my undergraduate graduation, my children were present for each of those moments. They didn’t just witness my academic journey – they lived it with me. Through my studies, deadlines, and moments of doubt, they were there. And I always made sure they were there for the celebration too. My success was – and is – our success.
For many years, I’ve also celebrated my students’ graduations. I used to host an annual graduation party for international African students and their families. What began in the modest space of my home eventually grew so large that we had to reserve entire halls. I would cook Nigerian and other African dishes, we’d play music, dance, laugh, and build a sense of community that transcended borders. It wasn’t long before it wasn’t just for international students – anyone who wanted to celebrate joined in.
But this year is different.
This year, I’m not just a scholar, a mentor, or a host. I am the mother of a graduate. My own daughter is graduating – with both her bachelor’s and master’s degrees, completed in just four years. I find myself filled with awe, unsure how to fully express what this moment means to me. Do I dance and shout in celebration? Do I sit in quiet reflection? Do I plan a party or simply hold her and whisper, “Well done”?
As I watch my students walk across their stages this season, I find tears welling up – not just for their journeys, but for hers. For mine. For all the roads that led us here. I say silent prayers: that their futures are steady, their paths meaningful, and that the education they’ve fought for is a strong enough foundation for all that lies ahead.
Graduation is not just an ending. It is a threshold. A rebirth.
And in this sacred season of endings and beginnings, I hold space – for the joy, the uncertainty, the pride, and the ever-present hope that tomorrow will be kind to my daughter and to all those graduating in this graduation season.