Studying this time around started beautifully.
You know the kind of start that makes you feel like this is it, this is the version of you who has it all figured out.
The schedule? Worked to a tee.
Pens? Lined up like soldiers.
Highlighters? Full, vibrant, obedient.
Clear sticky notes? Transparent optimism.
Work? Fine. Manageable. Even enjoyable.
I was that mature student. The one who thought, “Look at me, balancing life, learning, and colour-coded stationery.”
And then… life laughed.
Not a gentle chuckle. A full-bodied, theatrical cackle.
Because suddenly, everything happened at once.
There was the colleague—the snake-like variety. The kind who lies with a smile, manipulates with confidence, and shines themselves up by quietly trying to dull everyone else. The kind that makes you question your own competence while they sharpen their narrative.
Then the phone call no one is ready for: my father, in the hospital, massive heart attack, emergency surgery. The world tilts. Perspective snaps into place whether you’re ready or not.
As if that wasn’t enough, a visit to see the adoption files followed. The kind of visit that knocks you for six. The kind that makes you question everything you thought you knew about your own story, your own roots, your own truth. The emotional hangover from that doesn’t politely clear overnight.
Meanwhile, my 12-year-old—brilliant, sensitive, struggling—needed appointments. Severe panic attacks. Autism assessments. Forms, waiting lists, advocacy, fighting for the support he deserves so he can breathe a little easier in his own world.
Then came my own ill health. The quiet kind that creeps up until you’re forced to admit you need to stop. Time off work. Not optional. Necessary. To protect my mental health.
So naturally, I rested.
By which I mean…
I decorated the entire house. Top to bottom.
Because apparently I cannot sit still, even when ordered to by my own body.
Finally—finally—I sit down to study. I’m ready. Focused. Determined.
And that’s when my trusty pen gives up the ghost.
Three best highlighters? Dry. All of them.
TM03? Not my favourite topics.
Honestly, if life had a sense of timing, this was comedic perfection.
But here’s the thing they don’t tell you about being a mature student:
resilience doesn’t look tidy.
It doesn’t look like perfect schedules and uninterrupted study blocks.
It looks like showing up anyway.
It looks like reading through exhaustion.
It looks like submitting work while holding everyone else together.
It looks like continuing to care—deeply—about being the best version of yourself, even when chaos is shouting for your attention.
Because in the middle of all of this, I’m still focused.
Still resolved.
Still learning—not just academically, but emotionally.
I’m still committed to helping those around me succeed, especially the EHCP students I support every day. Still modelling perseverance. Still proving that progress doesn’t require perfection—just persistence.
So if you’re a mature student staring at a dead pen, an overwhelming module, and a life that refuses to slow down, know this:
You’re not failing.
You’re living.
And you’re still standing.
Even if your highlighters aren’t.
And tomorrow?
I’ll buy new pens.