The night I hugged my youngest daughter goodbye and left her in her college dorm, I walked into a quiet house for the first time in nearly three decades. Instead of silence, I felt possibility. That same night, I opened my graduate school acceptance letter again and thought: this is my season to learn, design, and grow.
Of course, this dream didn’t appear overnight. Since immersing myself in undergraduate work in Education over 30 years ago, I’ve carried the vision of returning to graduate school. Its shape has shifted with each season of life—at times I even considered medicine—but my commitment to my children always came first, so I chose patience.
Over time, I realized it wasn’t medicine I was drawn to—it was the part of me that wanted to help people grow into who they could be. Once I saw that, the path looked different. I could have followed the more typical education route and earned a curriculum and instruction degree, but what I wanted went beyond a credential or classroom focus.
I wanted tools that would stretch me—helping me design, innovate, and create lasting change in my school community and beyond. At the heart of that choice is my belief that love and kindness are transformative forces. I’ve learned that love and kindness can mend hurts and bring people closer. That’s how I try to live—choosing compassion in hopes it allows others to lean into empathy too. It doesn’t take grand gestures; even small choices can ripple out in ways we may never see, and right now the world needs more of that than ever.
As I stepped into leadership as a school support lead, I discovered how much I thrive in spaces where I can guide, design, and inspire. Last spring, I sat with an overwhelmed parent trying to support her child’s literacy at home. We came up with a few simple things she could try—listening to audiobooks in the car, putting word walls on the fridge, and setting aside just five minutes for reading together at night. About a month later, she sent me an email that brought me to tears: her child was reading aloud confidently. That experience reminded me why I care so much about learning design—when you put the right supports in place, you don’t just change one student’s experience, you can change the rhythm of a whole family.
When I think about who has shaped my approach to learning and design, it’s not always the big names or published experts. More often, it’s the mentors, colleagues, and teachers I’ve worked alongside—those who show up for English learners, Title 1 students, and families every day. Their creativity, willingness to try new approaches, and deep commitment to equity have taught me more than any textbook. I see them as the true innovators: the ones who adapt, listen, and believe in the possibility of every learner. While I’m excited to learn from established thought leaders as I move through this program, I know that the “everyday” educators in my own community have already given me a powerful foundation in what it means to design for growth, inclusion, and lasting change.
Over the summer, I also finished drafting a memoir about unraveling and reconstruction—threading journal entries, blog posts, and memories to tell the story of losing and finding myself again through faith, motherhood, love, and the slow, sacred work of becoming whole. Writing demanded the same skills I now see in learning design—clarity, intentional structure, empathy for the reader, and a sense of transformation at the end. Storytelling, whether on the page or in a learning environment, is what moves people forward.
That’s what drew me to Learning Design and Technologies. LDT feels like the future of learning—one that values creativity, flexibility, and impact. This program will give me the tools to continue growing in my current role, prepare me for senior leadership, and open doors to other possibilities, whether in corporate learning or nonprofit work.
I may not know the exact title I’ll hold two years from now, but I do know I want to be in a space where learning is designed with purpose—where systems adapt to people, not the other way around. I see myself using what I learn here to make learning spaces more equitable and human-centered. Whether that means reimagining professional development for teachers, building training that actually sticks in the corporate world, or shaping systems that give learners more agency, I want to carry these skills into places where they can make a difference.
I’m especially curious about how technology can expand access and create new possibilities in Education. I’ve learned that real change in learning doesn’t come from ticking boxes or clicking through a program. It comes from how people feel in the process—when they feel seen, supported, and capable, the experience lasts. Technology can set the canvas, but the human connection brings the picture to life.
I’m bringing my whole self into this program—the mom of six who has learned to keep many plates spinning, the storyteller shaped by the power of narrative, the designer who thrives on turning ideas into something tangible, and the educator whose belief in growth has never wavered.
This fall, my partner and I are both stepping into graduate school—he with an Executive MBA and me with Learning Design and Technologies. Our programs may differ, but the rhythm is the same: late nights with assignments on Canvas, projects to tackle, and new ideas to wrestle with. Around the dinner table, our conversations have already shifted toward research articles and deadlines, and we joke about quizzing each other across disciplines. Mostly, though, we’re just grateful to be in this season of learning side by side, cheering each other on.
If nothing else, it’s proof that I don’t take this season of learning too seriously to have fun along the way. Just as I felt possibility open up when I hugged my daughter goodbye, I feel it now as I step into this program. In many ways, this step feels less like starting over and more like continuing a lifelong pattern of growth. Each season of my life has taught me something new about resilience, creativity, and connection, and graduate school is simply the next way I’m choosing to continue becoming.
I acknowledge the use of my assigned ASU AI mentor, Carlos Mendoza, to help me reflect on one particular experience and clarify one particular idea. All reflections and final writing are my own.