Well, that’s it. First year completed.
Honestly, if someone had told me twelve months ago that I would survive university life while juggling two dogs, three children, marriage, advocacy work for SEN students, a memoir manuscript, unpredictable weather patterns, and approximately seventeen emotional breakdowns over assignment deadlines, I probably would have laughed politely before going back to reorganising my stationery drawer.
And yet, here we are.
I have somehow made it through the first year as a mature student, although not entirely unchanged. I’m definitely wiser, considerably more tired, and perhaps a few pounds heavier thanks to stress-snacking my way through essay season. At this point, I’m convinced mature students should receive honorary medals alongside their grades — preferably delivered with coffee and a week of uninterrupted sleep.
This year has genuinely felt like studying inside a tornado. One minute I was confidently colour-coding lecture notes with what began as three sensible highlighters and somehow escalated into five “essential shades,” and the next minute I was outside revising during the May heatwave, getting spectacularly sunburnt while pretending I had my life together. Who expects to be burnt alive in Britain in May? Certainly not me. I started the afternoon looking like an academic and ended it resembling an exhausted tomato, questioning every decision I’ve made since enrolling.
The weather alone deserves its own degree. I’m fairly certain I experienced all four seasons walking to lectures some mornings. Add in two dogs who firmly believe laptops are simply heated beds designed specifically for them, and it’s remarkable any assignments were submitted at all.
Then, of course, comes the annual tradition every student dreads: choosing next year’s modules. Nothing quite humbles you like reading module descriptions that sound both intellectually fascinating and emotionally catastrophic at the same time. I’ve spent weeks trying to decide whether I should challenge myself academically or simply pick whichever lecturer seems least likely to upload twenty-seven readings the night before class.
Still, somewhere amongst the chaos, something remarkable happened this year too.
My memoir is finished.
Not half-finished. Not “almost there.” Completely written and currently in print with publishers, which still feels surreal to say aloud. A true survival-against-all-odds memoir written during late nights, early mornings, school runs, assignments, family life, and those moments where giving up would have been the easier option. Looking back now, I honestly don’t know how it all fitted into one year.
Actually, that seems to be the biggest lesson I’ve learnt from this experience. You never really “fit it all in.” You simply learn how strong you are when life gives you no alternative.
Being a mature student is very different from the romanticised university experience people imagine. Many of us arrive carrying entire lives alongside our backpacks. I’m not just a student. I’m a wife, a mother of three, an advocate for SEN students, a dog owner, a writer, and a woman trying to build something meaningful while still remembering to buy milk and answer emails. Some days it has felt less like balancing responsibilities and more like performing circus tricks while on fire.
What have I learnt from juggling everything?
Possibly nothing practical.
I still leave assignments later than I should.
I still buy unnecessary stationery, believing it will magically transform me into an organised academic goddess.
I still underestimate reading lists and overestimate how much coffee one human can safely consume.
But I have learnt that resilience does not always look graceful. Sometimes resilience looks like submitting coursework five minutes before the deadline while reheating forgotten tea for the third time. Sometimes it looks like advocating fiercely for others while quietly doubting yourself. Sometimes it simply looks like getting up again the next morning and continuing anyway.
And despite the exhaustion, despite the chaos, despite feeling permanently one notification away from collapse, there have been moments this year where I’ve genuinely felt a bit like Superwoman.
A slightly overwhelmed Superwoman with sunburn, too many highlighters, and a suspicious addiction to buying notebooks she doesn’t technically need — but Superwoman nonetheless.
So here’s to surviving first year.
To the mature students balancing families, responsibilities, careers, neurodiversity advocacy, finances, pets, and life itself whilst still showing up to learn something new. We may not look polished doing it, but we’re doing it anyway.
And honestly, that feels like an achievement worth celebrating.