What Changed After the PhD — and What Didn’t
Reflections on grief, persistence, and what comes after achieving a lifelong goal
When I began my doctoral program in 2018, both of my parents were still alive.
At the time, I was living in the house where I had grown up alongside five siblings. My father had spent several years moving between nursing homes and had begun asking to come home. As his primary caregiver, I found myself navigating the process of bringing him back to the family home while simultaneously beginning a journey that would eventually lead to a PhD.
There were days when I spent mornings coordinating medical appointments, afternoons completing coursework, and evenings trying to find enough energy to do it all again the next day. Like many caregivers, I often placed my own needs and aspirations on hold. Yet somehow, amid the responsibilities, I continued moving forward one class, one paper, and one semester at a time.
If someone had asked me then what the next six years would hold, I could never have predicted the answer.
I certainly did not imagine that by the time I completed my degree, both of my parents would be gone.
Nor did I imagine the family dynamics that would shift, the financial pressures I would face, the moves I would make, the jobs I would change, or the grief I would carry while trying to finish the most demanding academic pursuit of my life.
Like many doctoral students, I spent years focused on the destination. I imagined the day I would finally become Dr. Michelle Dartis. I pictured the regalia, the ceremony, the photographs, and the sense of accomplishment that would accompany the moment.
Yet even that milestone unfolded differently than I had imagined. My doctorate was conferred on February 9, 2025 — what would have been my father’s 87 th birthday — a detail that felt especially meaningful given all that had transpired during the journey. Financial realities, however, delayed my ability to attend commencement until January 2026.
The day eventually arrived.
Yet what I remember most is not what was present.
It is what was absent.
My parents were gone.
The daughter and granddaughter I most wanted to share the experience with were unable to attend because neither of us could absorb the financial burden of making the trip. I especially felt their absence because they had witnessed so much of the journey. They had seen the late nights, the frustrations, the sacrifices, and the determination it took to keep going.
Some family relationships had changed over the years. Others had faded altogether.
The only person who stood beside me that day was my best friend, Monique.
For forty-two years, she has occupied a place in my life that few people ever reach. I stayed with her and her family in Orlando for two weeks surrounding commencement. Her aunt had planned to attend the ceremony as well but became ill at the last minute and was unable to make it.
As I crossed the stage, I had a choice to make.
I could focus on who was not there.
Or I could allow myself to celebrate what had been accomplished.
As my name was called, I felt the familiar ache of wishing my parents, my daughter, and granddaughter could see it. For a brief moment, I imagined what it would have felt like to look into the audience and find them there. Then I reminded myself that although my parents were no longer physically present, they had helped shape the woman walking across that stage.
For years, I had carried coursework, research, caregiving responsibilities, employment, grief, financial strain, and countless moments of self-doubt. I had survived the loss of both parents along with four other significant losses in 2022 alone. I had continued moving forward even when life seemed determined to pull me backward.
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Life was life-ing.
And yet, somehow, I kept moving forward.
For that moment, I chose to honor the achievement.
What has surprised me most is what happened afterward.
Like many people, I assumed the degree would represent a finish line. Instead, it became a doorway.
Since completing my doctorate, I have continued building a life rooted in writing, scholarship, entrepreneurship, community engagement, and public history.
I was accepted into The Creator’s Table, an Artist & Creative Entrepreneur Series designed to help creatives strengthen their vision and expand their impact. I developed a proposal for Spirit & Place. I wrote my grandfather’s biography for the Encyclopedia of Indianapolis, helping preserve his legacy for future generations. I began collaborating with the Indianapolis Public Library and the Encyclopedia of Indianapolis. I submitted my first academic article to the Journal of Human Services, received feedback, revised the manuscript, and resubmitted it. I applied to gener8tor and was selected for an interview.
I also continued researching and writing about my grandfather’s contributions to Indiana Avenue, a project that has become deeply personal as I work to ensure that his story — and the stories of others whose contributions have been overlooked — remain part of the historical record.
And perhaps most importantly, I returned to one of my greatest joys: storytelling.
In recent weeks, I have written two new children’s books, The Story Behind My Name: How Omari James Dartes Discovered the Legacy Behind His Name and The Boy Who Carried Stories: A Story About Family, Memory, and Becoming a Keeper of Stories. Both were created with young Black boys in mind and in preparation for upcoming community events, including the Indianapolis Juneteenth celebration and The Local Author Experience.
For years, I dreamed about becoming Dr. Michelle Dartis.
What I know now is that the title matters far less than the person I became while earning it.
Some things changed after the PhD.
My confidence changed.
My willingness and my time to pursue opportunities changed.
My understanding of what I am capable of changed.
But some things did not.
Life remained unpredictable.
Grief did not disappear.
Financial realities did not magically resolve themselves.
Professional opportunities still required persistence, patience, and resilience.
By the time I finally walked across the stage in January 2026, I had already been Dr. Michelle Dartis for nearly a year.
Looking back on both the completion of my doctorate and the commencement ceremony that followed nearly a year later, I understand something I could not fully appreciate at the time.
The doctorate did not solve every problem in my life.
It did, however, remind me that I am capable of carrying difficult things while continuing to move forward.
And perhaps that is the most valuable lesson of all.
