I just… I can’t even believe I’m typing this. Like, who even cares, right? But I’m still here, in this stupid bathroom stall, hiding. Like a goddamn teenager. And I’m 52. Fifty-two years old and I’m crying in a public restroom because some snot-nosed professor half my age told me my thesis proposal was “lacking rigor.” Lacking rigor. What even IS rigor anymore? Is it the same as having a full night’s sleep? Because I haven’t had one of those in… well, a long time. He said it right there, in front of everyone. “You seem to be missing the foundational theoretical frameworks.” And then he looked at me, this little smirk. Like I’m some dummy. Like I don’t know what a theoretical framework is. I just… I couldn’t even look at anyone else. I felt my face get hot and I just kept nodding, trying to look professional. Like I wasn’t about to burst into tears. And then as soon as it was over, I just bolted. Straight for the women’s room. Lucky for me it’s a single stall, so at least I don’t have to pretend to be peeing while I’m trying to keep it together. My knee is still knocking against the door. So stupid. My mom called me right before it started, too. Said she couldn’t find her glasses again. I told her I’d call her back. She probably thinks I’m ignoring her now. Or maybe she’s already called my sister, complaining about me. You know how that goes. It’s always me who has to find her damn glasses. It’s always me who has to pick up the meds. And then my son called me asking for money for gas. For his stupid band practice. He’s 24. Twenty-four and still needs me to pay for his gas. I swear to god. And here I am, trying to get this degree. This stupid degree that’s supposed to make me feel… smarter? More complete? More than just ‘Mom’ and ‘Daughter’ and ‘Person Who Figures Everything Out’? But all it’s doing is making me feel like a bigger idiot. And now I’m worried someone’s gonna hear me sniffling in here. Or that they’ll see my puffy eyes when I finally come out. What will they think? That I’m not cut out for this? That I’m too old? Probably. I just want to go home. But home means more phone calls, more demands. My husband will ask what’s for dinner. My mom will call again about her glasses. And my son will text me from his “gig” needing money for a beer. And I’m supposed to just… keep going. Keep being the one. Keep pushing through. But sometimes… sometimes I just want to sit here in this gross bathroom stall and just… not. For five minutes. Just not. Is that too much to ask? Seems like it. Always.