I Want an EdD

Considering an educational splurge.

Recently, a friend who has one of those jobs where you get a ridiculous, more-than-I’ve-ever-made-in-a-year bonus was thinking of using it to buy herself a luxury car. In the Millennial tradition, she hashed out the idea with a few friends via group text. I texted the car emoji next to the face-with-dollar-sign tongue emoji. (Honestly, knowing myself and my text etiquette, it was closer to three of those emoji in a row, three times a day for a week.)

But part of me was freaking out at the idea that one person might want to spend that much money on anything. I encouraged my friend to consider the non-luxury glories of the used Subaru, of which I am a fan. Then I googled the luxury-car-in-question’s price, and realized I’m considering something in the same price range.

I’m contemplating — dreaming — weirdly fantasizing — about getting my EdD.

EdDs are the practice/leadership-oriented doctoral option for people working in education. The EdD isn’t quite as fancy as the PhD, but it still packs a punch. I work in higher education administration , and am surrounded by highly educated folks every day. I go to meetings where people have conversations about their dissertations for fun, and I’m starting to be recruited for the kinds of positions where I’d be a regular part of that group, not just on the days my boss can’t go. Increasingly, people in higher level positions in my field — admissions and enrollment management — have degrees beyond a master’s. I want to feel comfortable throwing myself in to that discussion, and leave no hiring committee or search consultant wondering why I haven’t tried for the highest level of education I can achieve.

Executive-style EdD programs are, realistically, the only option I can strongly consider — and with the “executive” inclusion comes the expectation that either you or the institution at which you work pay the bill. (Sadly, the latter does not apply to me.) Programs at reputable, non-profit schools not ending in “Vry” range from around $45,000 at the low end to $120,000 at the high end, with little opportunity for grant-based assistance. Everyone advises against paying for doctoral programs, but I’m in the very small group of people for whom this might make sense. I have an excellent full-time job in my field, and a clear path to advancement if I continue working. I don’t want to teach. Research is neat, but it’s not my life. I recently took a leave of absence—a major higher education perk—to complete my master’s degree in a full-time program, and realized that while I intellectually really enjoy school, I get greater fulfillment from applied work. Taking myself out of the workforce for a more traditional, full-time PhD or EdD program in education doesn’t make career or financial sense for me, so I’m left considering the expensive options.

Short of finding a diploma mill with really nice paper (I’m joking here), I can’t just go out and buy my EdD, which makes this an easier splurge to avoid. Applying to the programs I’m interested in would take a year’s worth of preparation, including contacting grad school professors for letters of recommendation, writing and submitting applications, and talking with my boss about whether the flexibility I’d need to do good work in one of these programs is realistic with my current work schedule. There’s a social and emotional toll to programs like this, too. Most involve travel to the host university for in-person course meetings, a summer residency, and time spent researching and writing a dissertation after a few years of coursework. That’s time I’ve been using this year to plan my first solid, no-work-involved vacation in a few years, to reconnect with my partner after we were physically and often mentally apart during my master’s program, to work on my physical fitness, and to play with my new cat.

There are ways to make this work. I could prioritize finding a job at a university that will pay for a program like the ones I’m considering. This feels like a dead end to me — I love where I work, and believe in the social and intellectual mission of my university. I love living in Chicago, and I love that my partner has meaningful work here, too. I’d only be interested in leaving to take a major step up in responsibility, which would probably make fitting in a part-time EdD program alongside my work schedule even more difficult.

Loans are another option. Working in higher education administration at a non-profit university qualifies me for public service loan forgiveness if I’m using a payment plan for my federal student loans, forgiving any remaining balance at the end of a ten-year period. My master’s degree program was worth it, but expensive — it totally zapped my savings and left me with a loan burden that I’m trying to pay off early. The prospect of adding to that debt, especially in a way that would require me to pay more than I’m paying now while making less and less of a dent in the looming number — even with the prospect of forgiveness on the longer horizon — feels financially and emotionally burdensome.

I sell people on the idea of higher education every day. As a college admissions officer, my job is to speak with prospective students to help them navigate the intricacies of applying to my highly-selective institution, make decisions about who’s in and who’s out, and to convince the students I admitted that they should want to attend this institution over any of their other (often many) excellent offers of admission. My job also includes communicating with and honestly understanding the concerns of their parents, who are about to spend between $0 (as a private institution with a strong endowment, we’re fortunate enough to be able to fund students fully if they need it, with no included loans) to $280,000 to send their child far from home.

It feels like I’m my own admissions officer, parent, and child triad right now working through the high end of that financial commitment—part responsible, weighing the costs; part saleswoman, advocating for the value; and part child, who has her heart — and perhaps her wallet — set on something she might not be able to have. It’s impossible to see in to the future to decide whether this would be financially, socially, or intellectually worth it. But I’m ready to do the work of convincing myself.

Grace Chapin is a higher education professional in Chicago, IL. She enjoys talking to students about applying to college, very large scavenger hunts, and pretending her cat likes to be hugged.

This story is part of The Billfold’s I Want It Now series.

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