Caps and Gowns

This might seem like a strange post—even for me—but from the start, my Substack has been a space to explore my observations aloud. When I say, “out loud,” I mean it feels that way as I type, just as it might when you read it—unless you hit the play button, which I often do. In fact, that is what drew me to this platform in the first place. And as I type this, I’m realizing how things are evolving for people like me: lifelong dyslexia sufferers with zero ability to engage with pages of a book and terrible educational experiences. Back in the early ‘90s, small parish schools treated bad spelling like divine punishment. Yet here I am, regularly churning out 2,000+ words—mostly nonsense—and publishing it on the internet. Even more impressive? I publish it on a website I own.

With the rise of spell-checkers, e-books, podcasts, and especially those big play buttons on Substack articles, it’s like we’ve been given a shot at breaking down barriers and levelling up in the game of knowledge—and, I believe, the game of life. This is probably why the therapeutic world pushes journaling so hard. I just paused for five minutes to continue the conversation with myself in my head—I hypothesize this happened because I drew conscious attention to it. And yes, I know it’s the first sign of madness. Moving on...

What I’m saying is, if you’d asked me years ago whether I’d be sitting here now, pondering desk lighting and a new bookshelf, I’d have used self-deprecating humour to shoot it down, followed by a little laugh to avoid awkward silence—all while insisting university wasn’t for people like me. Do not get me wrong: I had always upheld that I had a level of intelligence, to some degree, and a certain competency. This was evident in how I navigated stress-induced physical illness while still securing enough GCSEs to qualify for college-level courses if needed.

By the time I left school, I’d become obsessed with horses—a hobby I fell into hard—and set my heart on an equine diploma at a local college. That dream quickly turned into a struggle, mainly because the academic tools were not in place. The ability was there, proven by a successful career in the industry later on, but the building resistance from past trauma and new experiences became too much. Just as I was about to start my second year, I pulled the plug.

In that moment, I adopted the stance: “There’s them that make their money with their hands, and there’s them that make it with their heads—I, my good sir, have my hands.” I walked out the door and abandoned any ideas of returning to school. So, like many young, energetic people, I packed a bag and secured a job on an exotic island... well, Ireland to be precise, and in the south, so it’s kind of exotic! I went on to hold a prominent role in the industry, managing a leading racing thoroughbred stud farm. I only left to return to England, learn a new trade, and run my own decorating business for many years—further cementing the use of my hands over academic pursuits.

As I sit here typing this, we have just wrapped up the first semester at the university I now attend. With graduation ceremonies in the weeks prior, there was an electric energy around campus. It still feels strange to say that. I struggle to accept that I get in the car five days a week, drive into the city, enjoy lectures, find solace in the library, and even consider extra classes—all while taking pleasure in expanding my knowledge on a grand scale. My bag is full of books, my hard drive is filling with papers, and the latest software on my computer is a statistical application. The campus has a different tone this week: always buzzing with learning, opinions, and exploration, but amplified by the sea of caps and gowns.

But why am I actually here? This is a question I ask myself daily, and while it might seem amplified by the graduations, it’s not—in fact, it feels settled. It is easier to place yourself in a position when it is evident in your environment.

Why am I here? Bloody good question. At first, it was to achieve a general qualification that opened doors. I took those classes online—they were rudimentary at best—and I overachieved, which surprised me. Fortunately, I landed on a topic that captured my attention: “the human condition.” I fell in love with a couple of concepts, and finally, the tools were in place for me to engage—without singling out my struggles. Suddenly, it became a challenge to myself: the more I achieved, the higher I set the bar, all without a clear plan, just ideas of where it might lead.

Next, I found myself on an evening course studying Level 3 counselling skills. I cannot describe the anxiety around walking back into a classroom—the only thing that could have made it worse was missing the first day, which happened to be when my marriage officially broke down. That said, what I found was a group of like-minded individuals, all with their own journeys to that room, lecturer included. Surprisingly, most were on the wrong side (my side) of thirty; most were pursuing this as a second career; and most had not been in a classroom since high school. There was something humanizing and empowering about it. Without diving into too much detail, the divorce gave me freedom to explore myself, and starting in psychotherapy offered space for personal development like never before.

I was lucky to be introduced early to person-cantered theory and the works of Carl Rogers. The focus on the self and ideas of autonomy stuck like mud. A couple of quotes hit me hard, and I think they are worth sharing. The first one that struck like a hammer was:

“The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change.”

(C. Rogers 1961)

I will be the first to tell you it takes a hell of a lot to truly accept yourself—flaws and all. It requires serious self-reflection and facing harsh realities. I am not ashamed to say my self-perception was distorted. When I stripped back the barriers I had built from my experiences, I found a clean foundation to rebuild on. That was the easy part; next was realizing my views and beliefs—like everyone’s—were shaped by that distortion. The idea that school was not for me evaporated, replaced by the conviction that I had earned the right to be there. Just like that, a negative response turned positive.

Anxiety to excitement!

It would be a mistake to brush this off as easy. In fact, this was one of the most transformative periods of my life—no exaggeration. I spent months deconstructing my value structure, dissecting each component, and assessing its origin. Over time, I recognized what I was truly attached to and what came from elsewhere—a little introjection here, a condition formulated by someone else. Slowly, my views shifted, or at least my attachment to imposed ones faded, giving space for my authentic ones to form.

You do notice a change in yourself. For me, it felt like waking up, rippling into all areas of life. It’s funny how loud things become when you tune into yourself, but the downside is the need to defend it. I suddenly gained a sixth sense for imposed views or values, and it got noisy. Meeting a new partner and becoming a prominent figure in three step kids’ lives brought new challenges. I gained insight into the ethical considerations of imposing views on others—especially little ones. If you’re unfamiliar, explore “introjected values” first, but hold on: with context, it gives every word you say a new dimension.

It takes self-awareness and maintenance, which is where my next bit of Rogers’ wisdom comes in. This one is wordier, but I will break it down. It comes from Rogers’ 19 propositions, outlining his humanistic theory of personality. It is well worth a read—most AI models can provide an accurate overview. Propositions 1 through 19 emphasize that individuals exist in a subjective world of experience, driven by an innate actualizing tendency. Behaviours arise from perceived reality, with self-concept shaped by interactions and values. Each proposition flows symbiotically with its neighbour, giving Rogers’ concepts their permeability.

Proposition 19: “When the individual perceives and accepts into one consistent and integrated system all his sensory and visceral experiences, then he is necessarily more understanding of others and is more accepting of others as separate individuals.”

(C. Rogers 1951)

Though it’s last, I do not present it as the final attainment. The propositions are not a scale; mastering this one unlocks clarity to move between them. It highlights the outcome of congruence (integration): when a person fully accepts all internal experiences—sensory (external perceptions) and visceral (internal feelings, emotions, gut reactions)—into a unified self-concept, without denial or distortion.

I appreciate that got deep, but that is what it takes to hold this position once adopted. Witnessing your full experience without defensiveness creates inner spaciousness. From there, others’ feelings, perspectives, or behaviours no longer threaten yourself. They can exist on their own terms—a natural extension of self-acceptance into genuine acceptance of others, not as projections, but as valid, complex beings.

So, I pose the question again: Why am I here? Is it to break down barriers from early educational experiences? To prove something after being written off due to dyslexia? To deny values from a failing marriage, prove my worth to a new partner, or stride the halls of parenthood? To reward my mother’s efforts and my late father’s? To succeed as the only sibling at university? To flip off the old me while appeasing the new? Or is it that actualizing tendency taking root in nourished soil?

Who knows? What I do know is it’s all just caps and gowns—and I have always wanted to give them a go. So, while I am here...