I Can't Say I Feel Any Pride in “Earning” This For-Profit Diploma-Mill Degree

If you've been on the fence about grad school, let me decode Capella University for you.

In 2017, I dropped out of an MBA program because I couldn't manage working full-time while keeping up with graduate-level writing. I knew what graduate school demanded, and at the time, I couldn't give it what it required.

Fast-forward to Capella, where I discovered what that whole “designed for working adults” marketing bullshit apparently means.

WHAT NO ONE TOLD ME—until my academic advisor finally did:

You could spend four months researching, reading, writing substantial papers, and actually learning something to earn graduate-level credit hours.

OR, if you're a “working adult,” apparently you can demonstrate your graduate-level mastery with THREE 2–5 PAGE ASSIGNMENTS AND ONE 12–15 SLIDE POWERPOINT.

That's it.

Every course I took. Same format. Different subject.

I had attended two nonprofit universities before Capella, so I wasn't exactly unfamiliar with higher education. But I hadn't given much thought to what the difference between nonprofit and for-profit education might actually look like from the student's perspective.

Capella gave me a pretty good idea.

The GuidedPath Game

When I enrolled, I was told I HAD to complete two GuidedPath courses before moving forward.

Each course lasted ten weeks. Ten weeks to complete the same four assignments I just described.

Despite having already completed both an associate degree and a bachelor's degree online without any issues, I accepted what enrollment told me. After all, these were supposedly the people who understood their own programs and requirements.

I didn't know then what I know now.

GuidedPath was slower. GuidedPath was more expensive. And apparently, GuidedPath wasn't even necessary in the way it had been presented to me.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Three Courses. That's Why I Chose Capella.

One of the biggest reasons I selected Capella was that enrollment told me my SHRM-CP certification could earn me credit for three courses.

THREE OUT OF ELEVEN COURSES.

That's a pretty significant incentive when you're comparing graduate programs, especially when you're paying for the privilege.

The lead enrollment representative told me about the opportunity but never specified which three courses would qualify.

And here's where I made the mistake of assuming competence.

I tend to believe that if someone has spent eight years performing essentially the same professional responsibilities, they should have a reasonably solid understanding of what they're doing.

Crazy expectation, I know.

I also made the apparently radical assumption that when an enrollment representative tells you about a process that directly influences your decision to attend a university, that person might actually explain how to complete it.

Maybe provide instructions.

Maybe follow up.

Maybe respond when you submit the requested documentation.

You know, the complicated stuff.

Thankfully, I save emails. And I've always kept automatic call recording (ACR) on my phone.

That turned out to be a very good habit.

Ten Weeks Later: Surprise! You Didn't Need That Course.

After I finished the second bullshit ten-week GuidedPath course, my academic advisor informed me that I hadn't actually needed to take it.

Read that again.

I spent ten weeks completing a course that enrollment had told me was mandatory, only to find out afterward that it wasn't.

And enrollment had never bothered to tell me otherwise.

Now, mistakes happen. People misunderstand policies. Employees give incorrect information. That's life.

What separates a competent professional from someone who has no business advising people about decisions involving thousands of dollars is what happens after the mistake is discovered.

And this is where the situation went from irritating to absolutely fucking ridiculous.

The lead enrollment representative, who seemingly had no trouble TALKING AND TALKING AND TALKING when she was trying to get me enrolled, suddenly had remarkably little to say when the conversation turned to accountability.

She couldn't locate any of the emails I'd sent.

Apparently, I must have made an error.

Interesting.

Because I had copies.

It's funny how someone can be confident enough in their expertise to tell you what you must do, but when that information turns out to be wrong, suddenly the problem is your inability to send an email correctly.

Sometimes the Cover-Up Is More Infuriating Than the Mistake

You know when something happens, and you would have been perfectly fine with a legitimate apology?

Not a corporate script. Not an elaborate performance. Just another adult acknowledging that something went wrong and taking responsibility for fixing it.

Something as simple as:

“I made a mistake. I'm sorry.”

That's it. Five words. Apparently an impossible linguistic achievement for some people.

Or, if we're really aiming for advanced-level adult communication:

“I'm sorry. I gave you information about a process that influenced your decision to enroll here, but I failed to explain the requirements or follow through after you submitted your documentation. I understand that my failure to communicate caused you unnecessary frustration. I've contacted the appropriate department, explained what happened, and requested that your paperwork be expedited. Here's what happens next.”

HOLY SHIT.

An acknowledgment of the actual problem. An apology. Accountability. A concrete attempt to fix it.

Imagine that.

I don't expect people to be perfect. I don't expect employees to know every answer to every question. And I certainly don't expect a university employee to personally rewrite institutional policy because something didn't go my way.

I do expect people who present themselves as experts to take responsibility for the information they provide—especially when someone relies on that information to make expensive decisions.

What I have absolutely no patience for is an adult who would rather imply that you are incompetent than entertain the possibility that they made a mistake.

Because at that point, the problem isn't even the original error anymore.

It's the refusal to own it.

And that's what takes a situation where I might have accepted a sincere apology and turns it into one where I'm mentally screaming:

LOCK THE FUCKING DOORS AND BURN IT ALL TO THE GROUND.

And I'm Supposed to Feel Proud of This Degree?

Here's what bothers me most.

I went back to graduate school because I wanted to accomplish something I hadn't been able to finish in 2017.

I wanted to learn. I wanted to challenge myself. I wanted the satisfaction of earning a graduate degree and knowing exactly what I'd put into it.

Instead, I found myself completing the same recycled assignment structure course after course, navigating enrollment information that turned out to be unreliable, and chasing answers from people who seemed considerably more interested in avoiding responsibility than resolving problems.

I'm not saying I didn't do the work.

I did.

I'm questioning what that work was actually worth.

Because there's a difference between completing assignments, earning credit hours, and receiving an education that deserves the title graduate-level.

And when the institution awarding the degree leaves you questioning both the academic rigor and the competence of the people guiding you through it, that fancy piece of paper starts to feel a lot less like an accomplishment.

I wanted to finish what I started in 2017.

I did.

I just never imagined I'd finish graduate school feeling less proud of the degree than I did of having the sense to walk away the first time.