By CRYSTAL HOOTEN
Guest Columnist
Graduating from college at 44 is not the norm.
By this age, most people are settled into their careers, raising families or watching their own children prepare for college.
For me, this degree was never just about the career opportunities it might bring—because, let’s be honest, those are slim at my age.
Instead, it was about something bigger: honoring my past, my family, and proving to myself that I could finish what I started.
This journey was never just mine.
It belonged to the people who came before me.
It belonged to my mother, who once had to watch her niece graduate while knowing that her own daughter had quit high school in the middle of senior year. I robbed her of that moment.
When I walked across the stage at my high school graduation, she should have been there, clapping, feeling the pride she deserved to feel. But I wasn’t there. I had given up. Now, my mother is gone, and she won’t physically be there to watch me graduate from college.
But I know she will be there in spirit. I know she would be proud. And I know this moment is about so much more than just a diploma—it’s about redemption, fulfillment, and proving that it’s never too late to chase something that matters.
She was the sweetest mother with the best intentions. She had the biggest heart but was a bit of a dingbat.
But one thing I can say with certainty—my brother and I never doubted her love for us. When our children, her grandchildren, were born, it was like a love we had never known but were lucky enough to witness in them.
On my father’s side, no one has ever graduated from college. But now, here I am, standing on that stage, showing my family that it’s possible.
Their pride means the world to me, and knowing that I get to be that example is something I’ll cherish forever.
My grandfather, my dad’s dad, was my hero.
He would watch TV on a tiny screen just so I could enjoy my Care Bears on the big 65-inch. Everything he did reflected his love for me. And then there was his wife, my grandmother. She always scared me a little, but the way she beamed with pride when bringing me into the local diner amongst her friends spoke volumes.
She is still alive, in her 80s, and will get to see me graduate in May.
I truly feel like that will be her greatest accomplishment. I can already feel her love and pride swelling up for me.
Then, there is my uncle—my dad’s brother. I struggle to put into words just how much admiration I have for him.
A military veteran who actively fought in combat, he then dedicated his life to being a firefighter. He got married and raised a child who wasn’t his by blood, but you would never be able to tell. He was always there, alongside my grandfather, picking up the broken pieces left behind. His strength and unwavering love have shaped me more than I can say.
For so many of us who return to college later in life, the reasons go beyond careers and salaries.
Some of us do it to check an item off our bucket list.
Others do it to fulfill a dream for our parents, for our children, or for the people who never got the chance. Sometimes, we do it just to remind ourselves that we are still here—that we are not standing on the brink of irrelevance.
That even with student loans and late-night studying, this moment, this validation, is worth it. College is often seen as a young person’s game, but for those of us in our 40s, it’s an entirely different experience.
We don’t always fit in with our classmates.
We’re juggling responsibilities they can’t yet imagine.
But we push through anyway, because we know that finishing something—really finishing it—means more than just a piece of paper.
I’ve always been the person who starts things and doesn’t finish. I’ve always lived in the past, letting regrets and what-ifs take up too much space in my life.
But this time, I am finishing. And I want future students—young and old—to know that they can finish, too. Life is unpredictable. It doesn’t come with a handbook. The people you think will always be there eventually fade away.
In the end, what really matters is the impact you leave behind.
One day, I hope people will look back and say, “You know, Crystal was a good person. She loved with all her heart. She wasn’t a thief or a liar. And I am so glad we were friends.” Because in the end, that’s what truly matters.
To anyone out there thinking it’s too late, that the window has closed, that the time has passed—hear me when I say this: It is never too late to do the impossible. If I can do it, so can you.