So… I Graduated. Now What?

Last April, while I was washing dishes, I felt the Lord clearly impress something on my heart: “Submit a proposal to present at TMEA. Your session will be called So, I Graduated. Now What?”

It felt almost laughable at first. Presenting at the Texas Music Educators Association Convention was never something I had envisioned for myself. I don’t teach in a traditional classroom, and for a long time I quietly carried the belief that because of that, I somehow didn’t fully belong in the music education space. Still, I reached out to my mentor, Dr. Dee Romines, and to Abigail Payne. Both encouraged me immediately. So I submitted the proposal and waited.

When I was selected, excitement quickly collided with imposter syndrome. I knew I had felt called to do this, yet doubts crept in. Was I the right person to speak on this? Would anyone care about a story that didn’t follow the traditional path?

Fast forward to the convention.

My session was one of the last of the day. There were 72 chairs set up in the room, and I quietly hoped maybe half would fill. Fifteen minutes before we began, the room was about halfway full, and I felt content with that. Then, just before the session started, people kept walking in. Chairs were added. Then more chairs. Eventually, there were 88 seats filled, with several people standing or sitting along the walls. Nearly 100 attendees packed the room, about 90% of them college seniors.

They weren’t there for a perfectly polished roadmap. They were there for permission.

As I shared my journey of redefining what “music educator” meant for me, I watched faces nod in recognition. I spoke about the pressure to follow one specific path and about the freedom that came when I realized redirection is not failure. I told them that if they needed someone to give them permission to explore a different path, I would gladly be that person.

Afterward, students approached me—many I had never met—thanking me for speaking openly about something that often feels taboo: loving music deeply while not wanting to teach in a traditional classroom. Some said they felt seen for the first time. In those conversations, I saw my younger self standing in front of me.

That was the moment it all made sense.

I wasn’t there because I had everything figured out. I was there because I knew what it felt like to sit in their seat, wondering if choosing a different path meant I had somehow failed. If sharing my story helped even one student feel less alone in that uncertainty, then every anxious thought leading up to that session was worth it.

Sometimes obedience feels uncomfortable. Sometimes it stretches you beyond what feels safe. But on the other side of that obedience, there is impact—and often, unexpected blessing.