How I Knew I Could...Even Before I Had the Proof

“When you say ‘I did it because I can,’ how did you know you could—before you had proof?”
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If you’re asking yourself, “How did you know you could?”
I want to start by saying this gently:
Most of us don’t know because we have a certificate in our hands.
We know because something in our history keeps whispering, “Pay attention.”
Here’s how I knew—long before the title, the degree, or the external validation arrived.

I Knew Because I Stood on the Shoulders of Someone Who Wasn’t Allowed To
When I say “I did it because I can,” I’m not talking about confidence alone.
I’m talking about context.
My paternal grandmother was born in 1909. She was a grandchild of people who were enslaved. She taught school--taught—until policy changes required a diploma she never attained. Overnight, the classroom door closed. She did the work she could do next: cooking in other people’s kitchens.
So when I say “I can,” what I really mean is:
I have access she was denied.
My pursuit of education wasn’t just personal ambition. It was reclamation.
If you are a high-achieving Latina, Afro-Latina, or Black woman reading this, I want you to hear me clearly:
Your excellence is not extra. It’s ancestral.
Your curiosity, your ambition, your refusal to shrink—it didn’t come out of nowhere.
Sometimes you know you can because someone before you wasn’t allowed to—and you carry that truth forward.

I Looked at the Evidence Already in My Hands
Before the PhD.
Before the official title.
Before anyone put “expert” next to my name--
I looked at my life.
Technology kept showing up.
Even when I was a biology teacher, I was the one helping colleagues with gradebooks and learning management systems. I shadowed IT professionals. I worked in IT through federal work study. People came to me when things didn’t work—and trusted me to figure them out.
I didn’t need permission to notice that pattern.
I didn’t need a credential to name what was already true.
I realized something important:
I didn’t need the title to do the work.
I needed the title to expand it.
So here’s my coaching question for you:
What problems are you already solving without being asked?
What do people come to you for—naturally, consistently?
That’s not random.
That’s evidence.

I Borrowed Belief Until It Became My Own
Sometimes, knowing you can starts with someone else seeing it first.
When I was working on my Master’s, my advisor, Dr. Bruce Crim, read my thesis and said—plainly, calmly—that there was no reason I shouldn’t pursue a PhD.
At the time, the thought had not crossed my mind.
I thought I had already changed paths enough.
I thought medical school was the dream—until I realized it wasn’t aligned with my spirit.
But I trusted his clarity when mine was still forming.
And that matters.
We don’t move through life—or academia—alone.
There will be moments when you borrow belief from a mentor, a professor, an auntie, a coach, a voice in your village.
If someone you trust is holding up a mirror and saying “You’re ready,” don’t dismiss it too quickly. Sometimes that’s how readiness arrives.

I Trusted the Pivot
I knew I could because I stopped treating change as failure.
I walked away from medical school ambitions.
Later, I walked away from a stable job, packed everything I owned into a two-door Honda Accord, and moved to Atlanta to pursue my studies.
It didn’t look tidy.
It didn’t look linear.
But it was honest.
I learned that pivots aren’t proof of confusion—they’re proof of courage.
So if you’re changing your mind right now…
If your major doesn’t fit anymore…
If your career plan feels like it belongs to an earlier version of you--
That doesn’t mean you can’t.
It means you’re listening.
And that, too, is evidence.

A Gentle Reminder for You
​You don’t always know you can because the world has confirmed it.
Sometimes you know because your history has been preparing you quietly.
Pay attention to the patterns.
Listen to the people who see you clearly.
Honor the pivots.
You don’t need all the proof today.
You just need enough trust to take the next honest step.
And that—more often than not—is how “I can” begins.