Personal Blogs

Dear patient readers,

You may have noticed that my blog has been quieter than a library during a surprise inspection. This was not intentional. I did not abandon you. I simply made the classic mature student mistake of believing I could realistically manage my time.

I would like to take this moment to apologise for the unexpected blogging drought. I had every intention of posting regularly. Unfortunately, life, academia, and a deeply unreasonable number of glitter highlighters had other plans.

The Memoir Situation

Firstly, I have been writing my memoir. Yes, an actual memoir. Because apparently going back to university as a mature student wasn’t emotionally challenging enough on its own.

The memoir explores trauma, abuse, survival, and the long journey into advocacy. It is important work, meaningful work, and occasionally the literary equivalent of opening a drawer labelled “Things We Packed Away for Later and Definitely Should Have Left Shut Until After Coffee.”

Writing it involves a lot of reflection, some unexpected emotional ambushes, and a suspicious amount of tea. There have also been moments where I’ve written a paragraph, stared at it, and thought: Wow. That explains a lot.

Still, it matters. Stories matter. Advocacy matters. And if even one person reads it and thinks “oh, it wasn’t just me,” then it will have been worth every slightly terrifying sentence.

The Glitter Highlighter Crisis

While doing all this serious reflective writing, I have also been fighting a battle that nobody warned me about when I enrolled in higher education.

Stationery.

More specifically: glitter highlighters.

At some point I made the perfectly reasonable decision that ordinary highlighters were unacceptable. If I am going to highlight academic texts, those highlights should sparkle with purpose.

Unfortunately, glitter highlighters behave less like stationery and more like a rapidly expanding ecosystem. I started with three. I now appear to own approximately seventeen.

They are everywhere.

In pencil cases.
On my desk.
In bags I haven’t used since 2019.

I’m fairly certain they’re reproducing when the lights are off.

The Next Module: A Light Existential Crisis

Meanwhile, I am also attempting to choose my next module, which is a process best described as academic speed-dating with existential consequences.

Each module description follows the same emotional arc:

1. Oh this looks fascinating.

2. This could really deepen my understanding.

3. Oh look, a reading list longer than my will to live.

As a mature student, you’d think wisdom and life experience would make these decisions easier.

Instead, it just means I overthink them with greater sophistication.

Where Have I Actually Been?

So in summary, my recent absence can be explained by the following completely reasonable schedule:

• Writing a memoir about trauma, abuse, survival, and advocacy

• Doing university work

• Accidentally building a glitter stationery empire

• Having mild academic identity crises while choosing modules

• Drinking tea like it’s a research method

The Plan Going Forward

The blog will return to regular programming shortly.

Assuming, of course, I can clear enough space on my desk between the glitter highlighters and the emotional processing.

Thank you for your patience while I was temporarily missing in academic action.

Normal levels of slightly chaotic mature-student commentary will resume soon.

Sparkles optional.

(They are not optional.)

There comes a point in every mature student’s evening when the blues singers have stopped lamenting long enough, the Greek sculptures have been admired from every morally upright angle, and your brain gently suggests: perhaps a walk.

This is usually the moment you should ignore your brain.

I had been studying the blues (all heartbreak, railroads, and very committed facial expressions) and ancient Greek sculpture (all marble, muscles, and absolutely no modesty) for several hours. My notes were beginning to look less like academic insight and more like the ramblings of someone who needs vitamin D. So when the weather warnings popped up—snow expected, take care—I laughed the confident laugh of someone who has lived long enough to be wrong many times and still believes they won’t be wrong this time.

“It’s raining,” I said to my husband, with the authority of a woman who once watched a documentary about clouds. “It can’t snow if it’s raining.”

He raised an eyebrow. I doubled down. A bet was made. Pride was engaged. Boots were put on.

Thus began the walk.

Now, Birches Valley is very beautiful in the evening. Calm. Quiet. The sort of place where you feel reflective and vaguely poetic, as though you might suddenly understand the blues on a spiritual level. For approximately seven minutes, everything was fine. The rain was light. I felt smug. Somewhere behind me, my husband was undoubtedly conceding defeat in his imagination.

Then the rain… changed its mind.

One minute it was raining. The next minute, it was snowing. Proper snow. Big, floaty flakes that look magical on postcards and feel deeply personal when they hit your face sideways.

I stopped. I stared at the sky. The sky stared back and said nothing, which felt rude.

Within moments, Birches Valley transformed from “pleasant evening stroll” to “documentary voiceover about human foolishness.” The path vanished under a fresh white layer, my gloves (which I didn’t bring because well....confidence) became decorative rather than functional, and my fingers began to feel like distant relatives I once knew but could no longer quite remember.

Turning back was an option.
Continuing forward was another.

Naturally, I chose stubbornness.

There is something about being a mature student that makes you believe endurance is a personality trait. I trudged on, telling myself this was character-building, that Greek sculptors probably worked in worse conditions, and that the blues were born of hardship—though possibly not this specific kind.

By the time I finally staggered home, I could no longer feel my toes, my fingers were communicating exclusively through pain, and my earlier scientific certainty had melted away faster than the snow on my eyelashes. My husband did not gloat. This was somehow worse.

I peeled off damp layers, admitted defeat to the hallway mirror, and made my way to the fire. The doggies immediately attached themselves to me like furry heat packs with opinions. Curled up, steaming gently, I felt the evening shift from “I told you so” to “right, what did we learn?”

The answer, obviously, is nothing. Because ten minutes later, once circulation returned, I opened my books again.

Book 2. Chapter 1.

There is something deeply comforting about notes after near-hypothermia. A rough draft began to form—ideas about culture, context, meaning—interrupted occasionally by a dog snoring or my fingers reminding me they had been personally wronged by the weather.

And somewhere between the firelight, the soggy boots by the door, and my scribbled thoughts, I wondered: should this be one of the topics for TMA 3?

After all, what better illustration of human confidence, cultural misunderstanding, and the limits of lived experience than betting against the weather because it looked like rain?

If nothing else, it’s a reminder that learning doesn’t just happen in books. Sometimes it happens in Birches Valley, under falling snow, when you are very cold, very wrong, and very determined to walk all the way home anyway.

They say life is a journey, and sometimes, the path we take isn't the one we originally planned. For most of my life, I didn’t think I’d be sitting here, typing these words as a mature student, returning to university to study a BA (Honours) in Arts and Humanities. But life has a funny way of revealing new paths, and after years of working, reflecting, and growing, I’ve decided to take the plunge toward a career in education and becoming a teacher in further education (FE).

You might be wondering what brings someone my age back to the lecture halls and the student grind. The answer? Passion. A love for learning that has never truly left me, despite the years spent working in other fields. It’s funny how sometimes, what we loved as children can become the seed for what we want to do later in life. For me, that seed was always in the arts, literature, history, philosophy and now, I’m finally pursuing that dream.

But it’s more than just a personal ambition. It’s about giving back, sharing what I’ve learned, and guiding the next generation of learners to discover their own passions. I’ve spent years in the workforce, working with people from all walks of life, and it has given me a deep appreciation for the transformative power of education. Now, I want to be the one who helps others find their own paths, just as I’ve been fortunate enough to do.

Returning to university at this stage in life can feel like a daunting challenge, but it’s also incredibly exciting. There’s a certain freedom in stepping outside of the box, leaving behind expectations and embracing a fresh start. I know there will be moments of doubt, moments when I’ll question if I’m “too old” or if I’ve made the right choice, but I’ve learned that growth rarely happens when we stay comfortable.

So, here I am: embarking on a new chapter. A chapter full of reading, writing, discovering new ideas, and ultimately teaching others. If you’re also thinking about going back to study or making a big life change, I hope my journey will show you that it’s never too late to follow your passion.

Thanks for joining me on this adventure. Let’s see where it takes us.