How a trip to tanzania changed my pursuit of a phd in clinical psychology

As I sat watching a new episode of Law and Order: SVU on the DVR with my family, my phone chimed with a notification from my priority email account. It was a Friday evening. There were several email responses I had been waiting for. When I opened my inbox, my heart jumped when I saw the sender being one of those emails on my “waiting for” list.

Howard University. The historically Black university hadn’t been on my radar long, but once it found its way, it wouldn’t let me be. The email contained my fate for the next five years. Could I soon be packing for a move to Washington D.C.? Or would I be scrutinizing where I went wrong in my academic life?

Let’s rewind.

I wasn’t a traditional student. I attended community college for the umpteenth time late in life. In my mid-thirties I decided maybe now is the time. I went from taking one class for the first summer session to two the next. That fall, I enrolled in four classes. Playtime was over. I knew that if I took a class here, a class there, I would never get a degree. From the time I graduated high school to that point, obtaining a degree wasn’t a priority, nor was it something I felt I wanted nor needed.

Then something changed.

Earning an associate degree was as far as I saw myself going. Just something to say I did it. However, in the middle of a philosophy class, I heard “Dr. Blues” filter rough my ear canals. My professor—a big fan of Doctor Who—often went on tangents about the character and show. It’s possible he did so during a zoning out session I had, which could explain hearing Dr. Blues when maybe he’d said Dr. Who. Either way, I went home that night researching psychology programs on local university websites.

One school caught my interest. Some months prior, I had a short tour of the school from an alumnus. The private liberal arts university sat atop a hill overlooking downtown Austin. I remembered the feeling that washed over me as I stood there admiring the view. A feeling that made me want to go back to school, to hold the feeling of accomplishment and pride as the person who stood next to me had. After looking over their program, my decision was made. I started and submitted the application the same night.

After completing two summer sessions, a fall and spring semester, and two more summer sessions at Austin Community College, I finally entered a four-year institution. From my transcripts in the military, completing the criminal justice academy for corrections, coursework in esthetics, and other college courses taken over the years, I entered St. Edward’s University as a junior.

Dr. Blues continued to ring in my ears.

So many times, I wanted to pack it up and go home and never return to the classroom. I had written and published two novels after all. Why did I need a degree? But I kept going back to the reason that led me there. I wanted to become a psychologist of bettering lives univer(soul)ly every story. I wanted to help people beyond writing books. I wanted to help people reframe their narrative from a clinical perspective. I wanted to provide them with tools that would help them dig deep, dig beyond the last page of a novel. I had to keep going. I knew no other option. Two months before my 40th birthday, I walked across the stage with one hand lifted in praise, because after all, it was nobody but God who got me to the finish line, as my other hand received my Bachelor of Arts in Psychology degree.

I’d last walked across a stage when receiving my esthetics certificate. I remember at that graduation being slightly jealous of the other students in their caps and gowns who were graduating with associate degrees. They endured all the tests and trails that came with higher education. But so had I. I shouldn’t’ve diminished my accomplishment because at the end of the night, I, too, accomplished a great feat.

And I did it again, bypassing an AA and going straight for the BA. Next, a PhD was in my sight.

As my dad fast-forwarded through the commercials, I opened the awaiting email from Howard. They would not offer me admission to their Fall 2024 Clinical Psychology PhD Program. The rejection jolted me. I truly believed it would be a yes. I did the work. I did everything that was required of me. I went above and beyond my own threshold of comfortability and limitations. In the end, it wasn’t a fit. To make it worse, that was the second “no” from them.

My first application went unresponded to. It took weeks to get an answer on the phone, only to learn the Personality Psychology Program—the one I truly wanted—had closed due to funding. They weren’t accepting applications even though it remained open on their website and the PSYCAS application system website. Even after being CCd and referred to other faculty, I was met again with silence. So, after doing ALL the work to apply the second time and ending up with the same result, I felt defeated. Not enough to keep me from a third attempt, however.

One faculty member—who I mentioned wanting to match with in my application—discussed an opportunity to work on research together to help my chances for the future. Either at Howard or another institution. For months, we met via Zoom delving deeper into our research subject. Our meetings made me excited, and I looked forward to working on my first journal in hopes of publication and improving my chances of acceptance into grad school. After our April meeting, I printed all my research, spread it out on my desk, and began making notes of importance. We wouldn’t meet again until after I returned from my trip to Africa—a trip planned while still reeling from the rejection and disappointment of not getting into my program of choice. Still, I remained hopeful.

The day after Mother’s Day, I boarded a plane with an itinerary set for Tanzania, Africa. The island of Zanzibar to be exact. It would be my first time on the continent. After less than two months of planning, my feet finally landed on the land my ancestors were forced to leave. My soul had returned to the soil it originated from. I had no idea how much my life would change.

My luggage didn’t arrive when I did. It took two days for one suitcase to make it and the other one, which was actually my carryon (we’ll save that for another story), arrived the next day. I refused the lack of things to sour my mood or discourage me. As our taxi drove us on rocky, pot-holed-filled roads, through villages of trees and houses scattered about made with blocks of concrete, I noticed how content people looked. Many of the homes only had screens or bars for windows, allowing for anything and everything to creep and crawl into their living spaces. The pathways to entrances of the homes and shops were paved with dirt and debris, yet women would be sweeping with straw brooms, taking pride in their spaces, even if that meant dirt would find its way back inside five minutes later. Kids ran around kicking up clouds of dust, sand covered their legs and soiled the backsides of cloth pampers on babies after sitting in the dirt. People walked to and fro, for miles and miles, under the heat of the sun with no shade to be found. No matter the circumstances, everyone looked like there was nowhere else they’d rather be. There was no rush, no complaints, no curses, no envy.

I admired the peace everyone held.

Back in the US, there’s this spirit of having, doing, obtaining that doesn’t make room for peace. Always striving for next instead of celebrating now or appreciating what was. For me, I had a constant nudge that I needed to do something. Even after having major surgery, I barely allowed myself to rest a couple of days before I was up writing the next story for my blog. I felt like if I wasn’t doing something, I was wasting my life.

How unfair and ridiculous.

As the days went on, the exploration of Tanzania continued. We went on a four-day safari through Lake Manyara, the Serengeti National Park, and the Ngorongoro Crater. The wildlife, the people, the mountains, the culture. I captured it all with the lenses of my cameras and was captivated by what my own eyes beheld. Years ago, I filmed my parents over the course of several years for a documentary about their marriage. At the time, they had been married for over forty years when I completed filming. On December 14, 2025, they celebrated 51 years of marriage. As I hit record on my camera driving through Tanzania, hearing conversations in foreign tongue, seeing the beauty in desolate spaces, feeling the breeze through every type of tree, bumping around on unpaved roads, eating foods my palate never tasted, hearing the roar of the Indian Ocean during high tide, I knew that was what I wanted to be doing, not spending five plus years with my head in academic books or writing research papers. I wanted to document life and tell stories about the human condition as I saw it.

I wanted more of my experience in Tanzania.

When I returned to the US, to those printed papers of research, I thought about my life. I was in my mid forties at the time. That would put me over fifty by the time I finished a PhD program. Where in those years would I have time for the things that filled me with joy? Between studying, internships, conducting research, there wouldn’t be time to write novels, gather footage for documentaries, or pursue what set my soul on fire. Even after graduation, I would obtain a professor position, guiding students on their academic journeys. Yes, those are things I planned to enjoy; however, when I compared how I felt about what would be to what was as I experienced driving around Tanzania, there was no comparison. I could still fulfill my purpose of helping people without the pursuit of a PhD.

I scheduled a Zoom with my “mentor.” I expressed my appreciation for his desire to assist in my academic journey and provide an opportunity to join him in research, but I no longer felt I needed to pursue a doctorate degree to do work that matters, work that makes a difference. He acknowledged that my creative work was just as important as clinical work. His door was open if ever I changed my mind or wanted to readdress my educational desires.

It’s been a year and a half since we last spoke. My mind hasn’t changed. And not only have I been back to Tanzania three more times, I am here now. I am getting married to a beautiful Maasai warrior and amazing man that I met on my first trip here. (We are now married. Post soon to come!)