I still remember the first day I walked into that lecture hall, heart pounding like it had forty years ago when I walked down the aisle in my handmade wedding dress. But this time, instead of clutching a bouquet, I was holding a backpack and a thermos of lukewarm coffee. I had always dreamed of going to college—me, Linda Monroe, born and raised in Peoria, Illinois, the second of six children, the one who always had her nose in a book and her head in the clouds.

But life had other plans. At twenty, I married Walter, and together we raised twelve children—yes, twelve. The oldest is now 43, and the youngest just turned 25. Between wiping noses, packing lunches, and making sure everyone got to their baseball games and piano recitals, college was always a dream I set aside for “someday.”

Well, “someday” finally came. After Walter passed and the last of the kids moved out, I looked around my quiet house and realized I finally had the time and freedom to do something just for me.

Enrolling in the university’s Computer Science program at 64 wasn’t easy. The application process alone nearly drove me to tears. But when I got that acceptance letter, I danced barefoot around the kitchen until my joints protested.

The first week was exhilarating—and terrifying. I sat in the front row, eager and nervous, listening to Professor Hughes explain binary systems while my eyes darted between the projector and my laptop. That cursed laptop. My “sausage fingers,” as I half-jokingly called them, couldn’t seem to find the right keys. Every time I typed a sentence, it looked like I’d had a stroke mid-email.

Still, I was determined. Until the whispers started.

At first, it was just giggles. A group of girls in cropped sweatshirts and acrylic nails snickered when I asked the professor to repeat the assignment instructions. Then came the nicknames. “Too-Late-Linda,” they called me. I laughed along, pretending not to care. But it stung.

The boys weren’t any better. One day in lab, as I tried to code a simple calculator app, I overheard one of them say, “Look at Grandma over there. She should be baking cookies, not debugging functions.” The others laughed and slapped palms like they were in some fraternity comedy flick.

It wore me down. Every day I walked into class, my shoulders hunched just a little more. I stopped raising my hand. I kept my questions to myself. I began to wonder if I had made a mistake, if I really was just a foolish old woman chasing a fantasy that had long expired.

The lowest point came on a rainy Tuesday in October. I was in the restroom, washing my hands, when I heard two girls talking near the stalls.

“She asked what HTML stands for again. God, she’s so slow.”

“I know! She’s like a thousand years old. I don’t even get why she’s here. It’s too late for her, anyway.”

They giggled, and then came the kicker: “Too-Late-Linda strikes again.”

That’s when I lost it. They hadn’t noticed me in the stall until they heard me crying.

The door creaked open, and I stepped out, my cheeks flushed with shame and fury. The girls looked horrified. One of them mumbled an apology, but I didn’t respond. I just dried my hands and walked out.

That night, I nearly dropped out. I sat on the edge of my bed, laptop open, the withdrawal form just one click away. But then my daughter Caroline called.

“Hey, Ma,” she chirped. “Ellie says she’s so proud of her grandma. She told her class you’re learning to build websites. She even drew a picture of you at a computer!”

I looked at the drawing Caroline sent—crayon and marker, me with big glasses and a cape that read “Super G-Ma.” I laughed until I cried.

That picture became my lock screen. It reminded me why I started this journey. Not for the diploma. Not even for myself. But to show my grandkids—and maybe even those snickering students—that it’s never too late to chase a dream.

I came back the next day with my head high and a renewed fire in my belly. I asked questions. I made mistakes. I raised my hand until Professor Hughes smiled and said, “Let’s give someone else a turn, Linda.” And slowly, things changed.

It started with one boy, Nate, who offered to show me how to use the debugger. Then came Marissa, who asked if we could pair up for our JavaScript assignment. Even the mean girls softened. One of them, Kayla, caught up to me after class one day.

“I, um, heard you have twelve kids?” she asked, almost sheepishly.

“Yes, twelve. And fifteen grandkids.”

Her eyes widened. “Wow. That’s kind of… badass.”

We laughed. It was a small moment, but meaningful.

By the end of the semester, I had not only passed but earned a solid B+. At the final project showcase, I presented a budgeting app for large families, complete with tutorials for seniors trying to manage retirement funds. It wasn’t flashy, but it was practical—and real. Several professors praised it for addressing an underserved audience. One even asked if I’d consider expanding it into a capstone project.

But the best moment came after my presentation, when Nate—remember the boy who’d first helped me?—clapped me on the back and said, “You really showed us, Linda. I hope my mom’s half as cool when she hits 60.”

I smiled. “Tell her it’s never too late.”

Today, I’m 67 and finishing my final semester. I’ve even been asked to give a short speech at graduation. Me. The woman who once cried in the bathroom because a couple of teenagers called her Too-Late-Linda.

Now, when I think about that nickname, it almost makes me smile. Because I know better.

It wasn’t too late.

It never is.

So if you’re reading this and thinking you’re too old, too slow, too behind—don’t listen to them. Don’t even listen to that voice in your head whispering doubts. Listen to the part of you that still dares to dream.

And if this story moved you, go ahead and give it a like or a share. Someone out there might need that little push to take their own first step—whether it’s toward college, a new job, or anything else their heart’s been whispering about for years.

What dream have you put on hold for too long?