Dear journal,
Today, I returned to the campus of William Woods University for only the second time in my life.
The first was in 2018, when I received my master’s degree—walking across the stage in a ceremony that marked a milestone I had worked toward with hope, discipline, and no small amount of wonder. I thought then that I understood what it meant to finish something. I thought that was a turning point.
And in many ways it was.
But today—standing in a quiet room, surrounded by scholars I respect and guided by an advisor who encouraged me to claim this experience fully—I crossed a threshold I had only imagined. I defended my dissertation. I stood before my committee and shared the culmination of not just research, but years of purpose, introspection, and personal transformation.
I asked to do it in person. After completing nearly everything else online, I needed to feel the gravity of this moment in my body. I needed to look my committee in the eye. I needed to stand on this campus again—not just to finish a chapter, but to begin a new one.
We held a colloquium, not a traditional defense. It was a rich, open conversation, shaped by the spirit of inquiry rather than the rigidity of a script. For a little more than an hour, we talked about the work. About theory. About voice. About what it means to redeem a student in a system that so often discards them.
At the heart of that conversation—and of my dissertation—is a theory I’ve named Conditional Redemption.
It’s a grounded theory, born from seventeen interviews, transcribed line by line, coded word by word. From those voices emerged a powerful truth: that for many students in alternative education, redemption is not freely given. It is conditional. It depends on their ability to meet requirements, follow rules, and prove themselves worthy of the second chance being offered.
This theory isn’t just academic. It’s deeply human. It reveals something painful and real about the way our systems view students who have fallen behind or been left behind. It challenges educators and policymakers to reflect: Who gets a second chance—and who doesn’t? What do we ask of the redeemed? And why do we make redemption contingent upon performance, rather than need, dignity, or potential?
I am proud—deeply proud—of this work. It is rooted in the lived realities of Missouri educators. It speaks to something I’ve witnessed firsthand in my own teaching. And it reflects my belief that every student deserves not just access, but grace.
When the colloquium concluded, I was asked to step outside.
I waited in the hallway, heart pounding, thinking not only of my research but of all the moments that led to this one. The long nights, the moments of doubt, the interviews and field notes, the quiet sacrifice, the canceled ceremony in 2020 when I finished my Ed.S. and never got to walk.
Then the door opened.
And my chair looked at me—smiling—and said the words I had dreamed of for years:
“Congratulations, Dr. Armstrong.”
There are moments in life that change your direction subtly, slowly, like a river shaping stone. And then there are moments that strike like lightning. This was the latter. From that moment on, I carried a new name, a new identity, a new place in the world.
I will not walk the graduation stage until the 2025–2026 academic year. But the title was not granted on a stage. It was earned in the trenches—through interviews and analysis, through persistence and care, through a commitment to hear the voices of others and honor them in theory and practice.
Today was not just an ending. It was an inflection point—a moment where the trajectory of my life bent toward something new.
Becoming Dr. Armstrong does not mean I’ve arrived. It means I am now equipped to go further. It is the beginning of a new kind of work, a new kind of listening, a new kind of responsibility.
There is still so much more to learn. So many more questions to ask. But for the rest of my life, I will carry this title—and the work, the love, the theory, and the calling it represents.
Always,
Dr. Dave