Should my child do a postgrad? What I wish we’d talked about before grad school
My daughter brought it up on a Thursday night, halfway through a bowl of pasta. “I think I want to get a master’s.”
I didn’t say much at first. I nodded, finished chewing, and asked what she wanted to study. She wasn’t sure yet. She just knew she liked the idea of going back to school, wanted an edge in the job market, and felt a little lost in her current role as a marketing coordinator. The words came out in a rush, like she was bracing for me to talk her out of it.
I didn’t want to do that. But I also didn’t want to write a cheque for something she wasn’t ready to commit to. So we sat with it for a few weeks, and I did what I do best: too much research, a few phone calls to people I trust, and a lot of late-night thinking about how we’d handle this as a family.
Here’s what I learned from that process, and from watching her decide what came next.
The first thing I’d say to anyone considering a postgrad degree is to ask a very boring question: what actually changes when you finish it? Not what you learn, not the letters after your name—but what doors genuinely open. For some fields, the degree is a hard requirement. Clinical psychology, certain engineering roles, academia, school counseling. For others, it’s a nice bonus but not a game-changer. My own cousin did a master’s in creative writing twenty years ago. He’s a good writer. He’s also still paying off the degree while working in a job that never asked him to have it.
So we made a list. My daughter and I sat at the kitchen table, and I asked her: “Who do you know who has the career you actually want? Go back to their education. Did they need the degree, or did they just have it?” She came back a week later with five names from LinkedIn. Four had master’s degrees, but only two held jobs that explicitly required them. The other two got where they were through internal promotions and professional certifications. That didn’t settle anything, but it gave us a real starting point.
Next, we talked about money. Not the tuition alone—the full cost. If she went back to school full-time for two years, she’d lose her salary, her health insurance through work, and her retirement contributions. Her program would cost about forty thousand dollars. But with lost wages and benefits, the real number was closer to one hundred and fifty thousand over those two years. That’s a hard thing to face, but I’d rather she face it at the kitchen table than in a loan statement five years from now.
I also asked her whether she could do the degree part-time while working. She hated the idea at first. She wanted the full “student experience,” the campus coffee shops, the intellectual intensity, the break from the daily grind. I get that. But when we looked at her actual schedule, she had two evenings free and most of Saturday. The part-time option would stretch the degree to three years instead of two. It would be draining. But it would also mean she kept her income and her employer might contribute to tuition. Her company had a policy about professional development. She’d never looked into it. That alone shifted the conversation.
Then came the conversations with real people. I know a university program director from my own time in adult education, and she told me something that stuck: “Read the syllabus before you read the brochure.” She meant that a lot of students fall for the glossy website, the alumni testimonials, the beautiful campus photos. But what actually matters is what you’ll be reading and writing at 11 p.m. on a Tuesday. Are those courses you’ll enjoy? Can you see yourself doing the assignments? She also suggested reaching out to current students, not just admissions people. Current students will tell you the truth. Admissions people are paid to make the program sound good.
So my daughter emailed three current students in programs she was considering. Two replied. One said the program was life-changing but she was exhausted and had taken on a part-time job to cover living costs. The other said she was considering dropping out because the program was far more theoretical than she expected and she felt no closer to a job. That was valuable. It wasn’t a judgment—it was data.
We also talked about the distinction between running toward something and running away from something. I pushed her a little here. I asked, “What are you trying to solve?” She said she felt stuck. She didn’t like her current job. She thought a postgrad would make her more competitive. That’s a common reason, but it’s also a risky one. If you’re unhappy at work, going back to school can feel like a clean escape. But it’s a very expensive one. Sometimes the cheaper escape is a new resume, a different industry, an informational interview with someone in a role that interests you, or a certificate from a professional association.
I’m not saying a postgrad can’t be the right answer. For her, it turned out to be the right answer—but only after she made it smaller. She didn’t enroll in the two-year master’s she originally pictured. She found a graduate certificate program in data analytics, took it part-time, and is now deciding whether to roll those credits into a full master’s. It’s nine months, a fraction of the cost, and she can finish it while keeping her job. She felt more in control that way. And there’s something about taking a smaller step that lets you learn whether you actually enjoy a subject before you commit to an entire degree.
A few practical things we did that I’d recommend to anyone:
– Look at job postings you’d want after the degree. Copy the qualification sections into a document. See how often “master’s degree” actually shows up. If it shows up in seven out of ten postings, that’s a strong signal. If it shows up in one or two, question it.
– Email two or three current students or recent grads. Ask what they’d do differently if they could go back. Most people are happy to talk for twenty minutes. Some won’t reply. That’s also information.
– Talk to your employer before you apply. You may have tuition reimbursement, a flexible schedule, or a team that would support a part-time course load. Even if your boss seems indifferent to your long-term growth, it costs nothing to ask.
– Add up the real cost, including lost income. Then divide it by the years you’d be paying it off. That monthly number is what you’re actually signing up for.
The other thing I’d say is to be honest about the timing. There is no perfect time to do a postgrad. There never is. Some people do it right after undergrad because they don’t know what else to do, and they end up with a degree they didn’t need. Others wait until they’re thirty-five and have a mortgage and two kids, and it’s harder then—but they know exactly why they’re there, and they get more out of it. My daughter is twenty-six. She has no kids, low rent, and a flexible job. In a lot of ways, now is easier than it will be later. But that doesn’t mean she should rush into a degree just because the timing is convenient.
We still don’t know if this certificate will lead to the master’s. She’s six weeks into the program now. Some weeks she loves it. Some weeks she texts me a crying emoji and says the statistics are overwhelming. I don’t fix that. I just respond, “What’s the assignment? Help me see it.” We break it down, she tells me what she’s stuck on, and usually by the end of the conversation she says, “Okay, I think I can do this.” That’s probably the most useful parenting move I made through the whole process—not deciding for her, not pressuring her, just asking her to show me the actual work.
A postgrad degree is not a life sentence, and it’s not a golden ticket either. It’s a very expensive piece of education that can change things, but only if you go into it with your eyes open about why you’re there, what you’re giving up, and what you expect to come out of it. I wish someone had told me that before my own choices, before I watched friends sink money into degrees they later regretted and friends who took out loans and never regretted a cent.
My daughter hasn’t made her final decision yet. That’s okay. She’s learning that deciding whether to go back to school is itself a kind of education. In a way, that was the first lesson worth paying for.
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