Then the pandemic struck.
With my official graduation canceled, it felt like I'd be making my victory lap with no cheers -- just the echo of my feet crossing the finish line. Of course, if I'd had my moment to walk across the stage in front of thousands of people, it would have been embarrassing. I would have broken down crying; I just know it.
And yet I mourned the loss. More than anything, I wanted to leave my two adult children with a powerful impression of their mother, who against all odds, finally succeeded in completing her education -- and, in doing so, reclaimed her story.
Money changes everything -- or does it?
In 1965, when I was three, my biological father disappeared. My mother, though never officially diagnosed with a mental illness, was a recluse. As my siblings and I grew older, our lives were about surviving her abusive episodes and dreaming of escape. Traumatized, without a support network, I knew my only way out was education.
Fourteen years later, when I was just 17, my mother dropped me off at a bible college in Oklahoma with a suitcase, $100 and a note to never return home. Without a means to pay for my education, I lasted a year.
In need of safety and stability, I married a devout Southern Baptist and returned to Texas, my home state, and then college at age 20. While studying interior design, I began designing custom homes. One project quickly blossomed to more than two dozen.
Three years later, I left my marriage.
At that point, entrepreneurial success felt like the ultimate measure of self-worth, so I dropped out of college and expanded my interior design business, designing hotels and working internationally. I didn't need a psychiatrist to tell me that there'd never be enough designer luxury goods to erase my pain, yet I kept shopping, addicted to the thrill of acquisition. And, for a while, making and spending lots of money filled the void.