By the time I settled into my job at the nonprofit, a quiet but persistent thought began to form at the back of my mind—an ache, a longing for something more. I loved the work I did, but the limitations of my role weighed on me. I watched licensed clinicians move through the office with more tools, more authority, more opportunity. They could offer deeper care, better pay, real change. I wanted that.
I wanted the training. The skills. The chance to lift others in ways I had never been lifted.
And, if I was honest with myself, I wanted the stability. The kind of financial security that had always slipped through my fingers like water.
So, during a late night shift at the office, I opened my laptop and began researching master’s programs in clinical social work. MSWs. Boston had some of the best in the country.
When I told my parents I was applying, the reaction was instant—sharp, like I’d touched a hot pan.
“More school?” Dad scoffed. “Why don’t you focus on working? The family needs you. Your sister is still trying to find her footing.”
“A master’s isn’t cheap, Olivia,” Mom added. “We can’t help you. You know that.”
The implication was clear. Anything that didn’t directly benefit them was selfish. I was supposed to help, support, fill in gaps. Not grow.
But something in me refused to shrink this time. Maybe it was the Boston air—colder, clearer than Pennsylvania’s. Maybe it was the teenagers I worked with, the ones who said they wished they had someone like me. Maybe it was just exhaustion. Of being used. Of giving away pieces of myself like pocket change.
So, I applied to three programs. I didn’t tell my parents until I was accepted.
The financial aid package was tight but manageable. A partial scholarship. Permission to work while studying. Loans I could take out in my name. It wasn’t easy, but it was possible.
And for once, possible felt like enough.
My father didn’t congratulate me. He didn’t even pause.
“So you’re taking out loans now?” he said. “Great. More debt. What if something happens to us? What if your sister needs help?”
Mom chimed in like she was reading from a script. “This is a lot, Olivia. Are you sure you’re not doing too much?”
I wanted to laugh. If only they knew how often I asked myself the same thing.
But I simply said, “Yes. I’m sure.”
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