Personal Blogs

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.

Ah, half term. That magical week when the coffee mug stops trembling, the alarm clock gets a brief sabbatical, and you briefly remember what daylight looks like. For us mature students working in further education, it’s less “wild week off” and more “necessary system reboot.” Think of it as switching yourself off and back on again—like an overworked printer that’s starting to smell faintly of desperation.

The Reset (or at least, the Attempt)

You begin the week with great intentions: yoga, reading, meal prep, perhaps finally tackling the “cupboard of doom.” But inevitably, it ends up as pyjamas, snacks, and the occasional “I’ll just check my emails” spiral. You tell yourself it’s restorative. You deserve this. You need this. You’ve earned the right to merge with the sofa like some academic burrito.

And yet, Monday looms.

The Return: Operation Motivation

The first day back greets you with the cheerful announcement that you’ll be spending it at Sandon Bowers for an “outdoor motivational challenge day” with supported students, because nothing says welcome back to reality like being cold, damp, and expected to look inspirational while wearing a harness.

The male staff, naturally, have developed a sudden and contagious fear of heights. Which leaves me—proudly sporting my “festively plump” post-half-term physique—to demonstrate “how easy it is” to scale the climbing wall.

You stand there, staring up at the wall. The wind whips your face. Somewhere in the distance, a seagull laughs. The students cheer you on, half out of encouragement, half out of morbid curiosity.

And as you begin your ascent (a generous term for whatever flailing occurs), you can’t help but think of Mary Wollstonecraft, your current literary companion. The champion of reason, women’s rights, and intellectual independence. Would she approve of this scenario?

Probably not. But she’d definitely appreciate the irony of a woman literally climbing her way through modern education—powered only by tea, stubbornness, and the lingering hope of a biscuit at the top.

The Aftermath

You survive. Barely. You are cold, muddy, and approximately one emotional breakdown away from Googling “jobs involving indoor heating.” But you’ve done it. You’ve inspired your students, terrified the men, and lived to tell the tale.

Now it’s early bed, fluffy socks, and a quiet mental countdown:
Just six weeks until the next half term.

And yes—the Christmas decorations are absolutely going up this weekend. Because if anything can motivate a weary educator to keep climbing (literally or figuratively), it’s the promise of twinkly lights, mince pies, and a socially acceptable excuse to drink Baileys before noon.

 Moral of the Story:
You don’t have to be Mary Wollstonecraft to inspire others. Sometimes, just showing up, strapping in, and hauling your post-holiday behind up a wall is enough.

Now… where’s that countdown app?