Proof It's Never Too Late to Return to School

At 61, I returned to get my Master's degree.

By

Lisa K. Friedman

 
Published May 07, 2026
Several younger classmates looking at an older woman in classroom
Amber Day

It was my first day of class on The Foundations of Fiction, and I was surprisingly nervous. I’d prepared everything in advance: I made dinner for my family and reconfirmed with my husband that he’d be home in time to eat with our kids. I’d put gas in the car and a banana in my purse. I was totally ready. And then the phone rang. My backyard neighbor screamed into the phone. “Water is pouring into my basement and it’s coming from your house. Go shut off the water!”

We were having a heavy rainstorm. I put on my raincoat, stepped into my son’s rubber boots stationed near the back door and went outside to find the source of the water. I had no idea what I was looking for as I tromped around the back of my house with rain pelting my hood. We live at the top of a cliffside. I could barely see the outline of his house through the pouring rain.

I paused, hoping he’d see me, thinking he’d be grateful for the effort I was making, when my foot slipped and I landed butt-first in a ditch full of quicksand, which turned out to be mud. Cloying oozing mud. It took me three tries to get onto my feet. I went back inside and called the plumber who could come within the hour as long, as I was willing to pay the emergency rate.

I ignored the angry messages left by the neighbor. My husband would have to deal with that. I had a class to attend. I wiped my hands and dashed to the car without glancing at myself. Who would care what I look like? I drove fast, my nerves sizzling almost audibly.

I was late. There was only one seat left in the classroom, and I slid in as quietly as I could before looking around the room at 25 very curious expressions. To say they were young was a gross understatement. They were children. One was wearing bedroom slippers. Another was dressed like an anime character.

At the break, a young man/boy introduced me to the pet ferret he had hidden in the pocket of his hoodie. A ferret!

I was suddenly painfully aware of my own attire: my pants were wet from the thighs down, denim clung to my calves like compression socks. My feet swam inside the rubber boots I’d forgotten to take off. My blouse was untucked; the buttons failed to meet in the middle. I felt utterly exposed and old, a beaten-down woman in a room full of pink and optimistic youth.

I’d been writing professionally for 20 years when I decided to go back to school at the age of 61. I was eager to hone my skills, learn some techniques and meet new people in my field. It never occurred to me that the other students in the graduate program would be straight out of college. We went around the room and introduced ourselves, noting our literary aspirations and writing credits. I was the only one old enough to have either. Yet, I was determined to blend in, chatting easily and laughing at the students’ comments I didn’t understand.

At the end of the class, the instructor made an announcement. There had been some street violence recently, and he recommended we walk to the parking area in groups. We packed up our things and filed out. I went into the restroom opposite the elevators and came to a dead stop in front of the mirror. I looked like I’d been electrocuted.

My hair appeared to have been spun by a tornado. It stood high and woolly on top of my head and lay flat as sod on the sides. A glob of black mascara had dislodged from my lashes and smeared into a swath of what looked like dirt across my cheek. On the side of one nostril, a wide, sooty smear darkened my nose.

At the elevator, a group of young women were gathered as I opened the restroom door.

Someone said, “That’s her.”

“Can we walk with you to the parking area? We’re afraid to walk alone.”

I smiled, but my heart was crying. I hadn’t blended into the student body at all. They had recognized me for what I am. A mother. In truth, I was honored to walk with them, but I also realized I had done myself a disservice. I had not presented myself in my best light. I had been careless with my appearance, something that highlighted my regular life as a suburban homemaker, wife, mother and writer. I could do better.

After that first class, I made more of an effort to fix myself up. I bought a Wonder Bra (don’t scoff, it helped). I wore cowboy boots and got a great haircut. And while it sounds superficial, I felt better about myself. I became part of the class. One of the gang. I blended in. Sort of.

On the last day of class, we had a party and everyone brought something. The guy with the ferret tossed an open, half-full bag of Oreos onto the party table. Another brought a six-pack of Coke, with one can missing. I brought a fruit platter, paper plates, napkins, serving tongs and wet wipes.

Someone laughed. You’re such a mom.

I am! I’m a mom with 25 new colleagues to call friends, a graduate degree to hang over my washing machine and a new attitude. That’s worth every ounce of effort.

Lisa K. Friedman is an award-winning essayist, author, and educator whose work appears in newspapers and magazines in print and online, including the New York Times, Smithsonian, and the Huffington Post, where she maintained a humor column for several years. Lisa holds a master’s degree in Fiction from Johns Hopkins University. Her latest novel, Hello Wife, was published in September 2025. Visit Lisa at lisakfriedman.com.