Love and Magic

A personal essay by Mattie Jackson

What constitutes an education? That's too big a question to answer here, but I'm finding that an education is a lifetime pursuit, in and out of classrooms.

I’ve had some lousy boyfriends. A few years back, I had a serious one. He’s incredibly (book) smart and overly ambitious; in fact, he now works for one of the top strategy consulting companies in the country. We talked about marriage a year deep into our relationship. Was it the right thing for us? I thought so. I’ll never forget one conversation we had when he probed into what I was currently learning. My answer provided loose details from my classes. He stopped me and said, “I mean what are you learning besides all that?” I was puzzled, and responded, “I’m taking 15 credit hours, working 20+ hours a week right now, and figuring out the proper care for you and other important humans in my life—what do you think I should be doing in addition to that?” 

He proceeded to ask about what books I was reading, podcasts I was listening to, etc. “Well, what are you passionate about?” (You’d think after dating me for a year he would know this.) I told him that I was passionate about him, my family and friends, about art, definitely art. More importantly, I’m passionate about Jesus. I remember looking at him and feeling like those things weren’t enough in his eyes. And for a guy who was primarily driven by a perfect 4.0 GPA and a polished resume, it probably wasn’t.

He made me feel small. Diminutive. I let that average boyfriend make me feel unaccomplished. I realized then that the qualities I possessed couldn’t be adequately measured on a resume, not an academic one anyway.  Honestly, where do you pencil in loving human? Or expert listener? He wanted me to be a straight A student at BYU, which I’m not. I’m sure I could be, but structured school just isn’t my thing. (Please don’t think me a defeatist.) I remember in second grade when someone asked me what my favorite subjects were and I responded, “recess and lunch.” They’re still some of my favorite subjects to date. In the sixth-grade spelling bee, I was disqualified because I misspelled humane; I eked out “h-u-m-a-i-n.” (I added an extra “e” on eked at first, but I’m determined to make my weaknesses somewhere closer to strong.) And at one point in elementary school, I convinced Alissa Moffat to open up a pet store in Spain with me—we’re still working on that by the way. La mejor tienda de mascotas. I’d talk about animals ad nauseam. I love learning—I just think the classroom is way bigger than a campus. 

My college experience hasn’t been an easy one. Because I prioritize my relationships above most everything else, school tends to get put on the back burner. I found out on my mission, nearly six years ago, that my parents were getting divorced. If you’d met my parents in the first 15 years of their marriage, divorce would have seemed unfathomable—as far flung as the moon. It was to me anyway. I might be biased, but I think I had a better childhood than any other lucky kid out there. It’s hard to capture my childhood in a one-word description, but I’ll give it a shot: magic. Or should it be magical? Either way, you get the sparkly idea. Despite being “less academic,” don’t think I haven’t analyzed why my childhood felt extraordinary. I’m with Nora Roberts, “Love and magic have a great deal in common. They enrich the soul, delight the heart. And they both take practice.” My parents were so good at practice. Young as I was, I felt copious amounts of love. Tragically, opioids transformed my dad into Alan Iverson: “If I can’t practice, I can’t practice.” He stopped practicing. The magic slowly vanished over time. It has taken me years to see how my dad’s addiction to pills really changed things in our home and in my life. But I’m learning that magic is still attainable, even when life is hard and less than ideal.

I wouldn’t say my home is “ideal” necessarily—the copious amounts of love is. I go home a lot, probably more than any college student should. From waking up at 6:45 a.m. to drive my brothers to school, to working on seventh grade science projects late into the evening, I have had a strong inclination to be around and help my mom who has been the sole provider (not just financially) in our home for over a decade now. I’m not saying she’s the reason I’ve struggled with class attendance or my C+ average, but I would say helping at home has been a factor. And yet, I’ve still managed to get an education, in life. Reality has been an important teacher for me. I’m learning that life is messy, but it’s still beautiful.


About a year ago, I was walking through my friend’s backyard as her little niece picked fresh raspberries from bushes lined along a wooden fence. My friend’s mom, a BYU Associate Academic VP, was pulling weeds. Academia matters far more to her than trimmed hedges and a perfectly manicured lawn. She’s an Educator (capital E). She and I make sincere small talk when we see each other. But on that hot summer afternoon, the Doctor said something to me that felt like a prescription for hope (and perspective). I told her, with some embarrassment, that I was determined to graduate in 2021 (knowing she was aware of the fact that I graduated from high school with her daughter seven years prior). She responded with, “I had a student who took longer to graduate because she chose to help her ailing parents. It’s okay to take a little longer because of extenuating circumstances.” That singular comment felt like cool wind on my face. I already knew what she said was true, but something about putting it out into the desert air wrapped me up after removing a large cultural weight on my shoulders. It was good comfort. She lifted me up.


The best teachers know how to lift me up. My religion teacher, Brother Heward, is a heavyweight champion lifter. I’d fallen behind in his class—he went above and beyond to make sure I not only passed but helped me excel in the course. I spent countless hours in his office. He knew that I would get the work done with much needed encouragement. He didn’t wave a wand and fix my grade, I had to work for it. That man took me under his wing. I could tell he genuinely cared for me. One time I showed him my artwork. He said he wanted to buy a copy of a painting I’d made of the first vision. I gifted it to him as a thank you. Years later, Brother Heward reached out to me and returned thanks for the painting he hung on his wall. He told me he’d stare up at it for encouragement when he was slaving over his dissertation. “Some days, it quite literally got me through my dissertation.” The funny (not so funny) thing about taking Brother Heward’s class is that I’d barely failed a religion class prior to his, so I needed to retake it again and that’s how I ended up meeting him. I don’t doubt that I needed brother Heward and perhaps he needed me. That reciprocity feels magical to me. These are the moments I hope I’m graded on. These are the moments where I’m reminded Roald Dahl was right: “Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.”


Ten years from now, I don’t think I will regret the way approached college. Don’t get me wrong, there are things I’d change if I could, thanks to a new set of eyes. And yes, it’s taken me a long time to earn a diploma. But I’ve worked on my spiritual report card simultaneously and I’m grateful for that fact. Anymore, I think that’s where the magic is at: learning, not only by podcasts and books, but from the struggles that come and finding some sort of beauty or lesson in every one of them.