Personal Blogs

So… apparently I’m going into Year Two of my degree.

I’m not quite sure how that happened. One minute I was nervously opening my first module, wondering whether I had completely lost the plot by deciding to return to university as a mature student, and the next thing I know, I’m buying notebooks, reorganising my desk and convincing myself that this year I am going to be completely organised from the beginning.

We all know how that one ends, don’t we?

I have created myself a lovely little study space, and I have to say, looking at it makes me feel like I have my life together. There are books neatly stacked, notebooks waiting patiently to be filled, pens arranged in a way that suggests I have some kind of system, a calendar ready to remind me of deadlines I will probably pretend not to see, and enough stationery to make you think I am opening a stationery shop rather than starting another year of university.

The desk looks calm.

The desk looks organised.

The desk looks like someone who definitely has their life under control.

Unfortunately, the desk knows nothing about what is happening on the other side of it. 😂

Because behind this lovely, organised study space is the reality of being a mature student with a very full life.

I’m a mum of three, a dog mum, a wife, a full-time worker and a student, which means my days rarely involve sitting quietly with a cup of coffee while the sun shines gently through the window and I contemplate the meaning of life and academic theory.

My reality is much more likely to involve someone asking what’s for dinner, a dog demanding attention, washing that has somehow multiplied overnight, work, messages, appointments, household jobs, family life, and me trying to remember why I walked into the kitchen in the first place.

And somewhere amongst all of that, there is usually an assignment that needs writing.

I work full time supporting SEN students, and I genuinely love what I do. Supporting young people, helping them overcome barriers and watching them grow is something I find incredibly rewarding. But it is also a job that can be mentally and emotionally demanding. When the working day is finished, the idea of opening a university textbook isn't always greeted by my brain with the enthusiasm I had hoped for.

There are definitely evenings when I sit down at my desk, open my laptop, look at the amount of reading I have to do and think, “Right… perhaps I’ll just have five minutes.”

Five minutes later, the dog is asleep beside me, my coffee is cold, I've somehow ended up looking at something completely unrelated online, and my brain is whispering, “Maybe tomorrow.” 😂

But then I remind myself why I started.

Going back into education as a mature student was never going to be the easiest route. I already had a life. I already had responsibilities. I already had people who needed me. I wasn't starting university with endless free time and the luxury of making studying my entire world.

I was adding university to an already busy life.

And perhaps that is why finishing Year One felt like such a huge achievement.

There were moments when I doubted myself. There were assignments that seemed impossible when I first looked at them. There were days when I wondered whether I was trying to take on too much. There were evenings when I was exhausted and still had reading to do, and there were definitely occasions when I questioned whether being a mature student was a brilliant idea or evidence that I had completely lost my mind. 😂

But I kept going.

I learned how I learn. I learned that sometimes I need to read something three times before it makes sense. I learned that academic writing is a completely different language from normal human conversation, and I learned that apparently I can spend an unreasonable amount of time trying to find the perfect reference for one sentence.

Most importantly, I learned that I am capable of more than I thought I was.

And now I’m getting ready to do it all again.

Year Two.

This year is also going to feel a little different for another reason. One of my children is heading off to university halls on Saturday, and I don't think I'm quite prepared for the emotional rollercoaster that is watching your child take that next step into adulthood.

There is something incredibly strange about spending years teaching your children to be independent, only to reach the point where they actually become independent and suddenly you're standing there thinking, “Wait… come back. I wasn't emotionally prepared for this part!” 😂

I am unbelievably proud, of course. Watching your child grow, make their own decisions and head off to start their own university journey is an incredible thing. But I suspect there may also be a few emotional moments, a few unnecessary messages asking whether they've eaten, and possibly a suspicious number of texts beginning with, “Just checking you're okay…”

Meanwhile, I’ll be sitting at my own desk studying.

Two students in the family.

Two university journeys.

And one mum trying not to become the person who sends a daily weather report and asks whether they've remembered their laundry.

So, yes, life is going to be busy.

Actually, busy doesn't quite cover it.

But I've started to realise that perhaps I'm not supposed to wait for life to become quiet before I chase the things that matter to me.

Because if I waited for the perfect time, I would probably still be waiting.

There will always be washing. There will always be work. There will always be family commitments. There will always be someone who needs something. There will always be a dog who believes my university reading is significantly less important than throwing a ball.

Life doesn't stop so that we can pursue our dreams.

Sometimes we have to learn how to pursue our dreams while life is happening around us.

And that is what being a mature student has taught me.

I've learned that you don't have to be twenty years old to start something new. You don't have to have followed a perfectly planned path. You don't have to have achieved everything by a certain age.

Sometimes your journey takes you somewhere completely unexpected before you find your way back to yourself.

Sometimes you take a break.

Sometimes you have children.

Sometimes you work.

Sometimes life throws things at you that you never planned for.

And sometimes, years later, you look around and think, “Actually… I still want to do that.”

That's when you have a choice.

You can tell yourself that it's too late, that you're too busy, that you don't have the time, that you're too old, that other people are further ahead or that you should have started years ago.

Or you can pick up the pen and start anyway.

I'm choosing the second one.

My desk is my little reminder of that.

It isn't just a desk covered in books and stationery. To me, it represents something much bigger. It represents choosing myself alongside all the other people I care for. It represents proving that being a mum doesn't mean your own dreams have to disappear. It represents showing my children that learning doesn't have an expiry date and that you can keep challenging yourself at any stage of life.

And perhaps that's one of the biggest lessons I want my children to take from watching me.

I don't want them to think success means having everything figured out.

I want them to understand that success can sometimes mean getting back up when something is difficult.

It can mean trying again.

It can mean being frightened and doing it anyway.

It can mean starting something later than you expected.

It can mean studying at the kitchen table while the washing machine is going, working all day and then opening your laptop in the evening because you have a dream that matters to you.

It can mean being exhausted and still deciding that tomorrow you will try again.

Because sometimes the most inspiring thing we can do isn't achieving something spectacular.

Sometimes it's simply refusing to give up on ourselves.

So here I am, preparing for Year Two.

The notebooks are ready. The books are waiting. My study space is organised. The coffee supplies are being assessed. The calendar is looking slightly intimidating, and the dogs have already made it very clear that they will be involved in my study sessions whether I like it or not.

I know there will be difficult days.

There will be deadlines.

There will probably be moments where I question my life choices.

There will definitely be assignments where I stare at the screen wondering why I thought this was a good idea.

But there will also be those moments when something finally clicks, when I submit an assignment I'm proud of, when I learn something that genuinely excites me, and when I look back and realise just how far I've come.

And that's what I'm going to focus on.

Not perfection.

Progress.

Not having everything under control.

Keeping going.

Not comparing my journey with someone else's.

Building my own.

Year Two isn't about proving that I can do everything perfectly.

It's about reminding myself that I can keep moving forward, even when life is busy, messy, noisy and occasionally covered in dog hair.

So, to all the other mature students out there who are heading into another year, starting a new course, returning to education or simply thinking about taking that first step, remember this:

You are not too old.

You are not too late.

And you haven't missed your opportunity.

Your circumstances might not be perfect. Your life might already be incredibly busy. You might have children, work, responsibilities, bills, pets, family commitments and a hundred other things competing for your attention.

But your dreams still matter.

Make space for them.

Even if that space is an hour at a desk after everyone else has gone to bed.

Even if you have to study around work.

Even if your dog thinks your textbook is a chew toy.

Even if you have to start again more than once.

Because one day, you will look back and realise that all those small hours you thought weren't enough actually became something much bigger.

A qualification.

A new career.

A new chapter.

A stronger version of yourself.

And perhaps most importantly, proof that you never stopped believing that you were capable of more.

So here's to Year Two.

Here's to the late nights, the books, the coffee, the deadlines, the family chaos, the dog interruptions, the questionable life choices and the moments where it all somehow comes together.

My child is heading off to university halls.

I'm heading into Year Two.

The dogs are apparently heading into my study space.

And somewhere amongst the madness, I'm going to keep chasing my own dreams too.

Because I've finally realised something:

You don't have to put your dreams on hold just because you're busy building a life.

Sometimes you build the life and chase the dream at the same time.

And that, I think, is what makes the journey worth it. ❤️📚🐾

Year Two… I'm ready.

Well…

As ready as a mum of three, dog mum, full-time worker and mature student can possibly be. 😂

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.

At 45, I decided it was time.

Time to embrace health.
Time to reclaim my youth.
Time to become the sort of person who says things like, “I’ll just pop to the gym.”

Now, in hindsight, I realise what I meant to type into my phone was “Google gin,” not “join gym.” A simple vowel miscalculation. A tragic, muscle-pulling vowel.

But there I was. Signed up. Inducted. Given a tour by a 23-year-old named Jake who said things like “Let’s wake those glutes up!” as if my glutes had merely been having a light nap since 1998.

I nodded confidently at equipment that looked like medieval punishment devices.
“Yes, yes,” I said. “I’ve seen these before.”
(I had not seen these before.)

I began enthusiastically. Ten minutes on the treadmill. A gentle jog. A pace I described to myself as “athletic.” A pace the treadmill described as “barely moving.”

Then came the weights.

Now, when you’re 45, you approach dumbbells with the optimism of your 18-year-old self and the joints of someone who once slept funny and needed three business days to recover.

But I persevered. Because I am mature. I am disciplined. I am a serious student with TMA04 looming over me like an academic thundercloud.

I left the gym feeling triumphant. Energised. Possibly invincible.

The next morning, however, I attempted to get out of bed.

Friends.
I did not get out of bed.
I rolled out of bed like a fallen oak tree.

Every muscle I have — including several I am fairly sure were installed overnight — announced themselves with dramatic flair. My thighs staged a protest. My arms refused basic instructions. Even my eyebrows felt tight.

I shuffled to the bathroom like a Victorian ghost.

Stairs? A betrayal.
Sitting down? A negotiation.
Standing up again? A strategic operation requiring planning and emotional resilience.

And somewhere between lowering myself onto the sofa with the precision of a NASA landing and realising I couldn’t lift my tea without whimpering, I thought:

Why.
Why did I think this was a good idea?

At this age, you don’t “feel the burn.”
You “experience the administrative consequences of the burn.”

Naturally, I declared I would never return.
This was clearly a moment of temporary insanity. A midlife blip. A delusion brought on by excessive exposure to motivational reels.

But then — and this is the problem — someone tells me I shouldn’t.

“You’ll ache more if you don’t go back.”
“You have to push through.”
“It gets easier.”

And suddenly, I am no longer a sensible 45-year-old adult with responsibilities and a heating bill.

I am a stubborn teenager.

Oh, I shouldn’t go back?
Watch me.

So I booked the next session.

Yes, my body is currently communicating exclusively in creaks.
Yes, I lower myself into chairs like I’m diffusing a bomb.
Yes, I briefly considered installing stairlifts on all three steps into my house.

But here’s the thing — beneath the stiffness, beneath the theatrical groaning — there’s the tiniest flicker of pride.

Because I went.
Because I tried.
Because even at 45, with TMA04 whispering ominously in the background, I decided to do something mildly heroic and deeply inconvenient.

Will it give me more energy?
Possibly.

Will it give me determination?
Almost certainly.

Will I accidentally Google “gin” again?
Also possible.

But for now, I shall stretch dramatically, sip water like a professional athlete, and prepare for round two — moving slightly slower than last time, but significantly more suspicious of stairs.

If nothing else, the gym has taught me this:

I may be stiff.
I may be sore.
But I am still gloriously, magnificently stubborn.

And honestly?

That counts as cardio.

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.

If you’ve been wondering where I’ve been over the festive period, please be assured I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth. I have, however, spent a solid 24 hours in A&E, which feels like falling off the calendar entirely.

Christmas Eve was less mince pies and more hospital wristbands, as I accompanied my 20-year-old daughter on an unexpected adventure involving an infection and a heart rate that absolutely refused to cooperate with anything described as “normal measurements.” While I remained calm on the outside (obviously), internally I was Googling things I definitely shouldn’t and wondering whether festive pyjamas were appropriate hospital attire. Thankfully, antibiotics worked their magic, equilibrium was restored, and we were eventually released back into the wild.

After that, Christmas Day arrived slightly dishevelled, clutching a roast dinner and asking, “Are we meant to be enjoying this?” In theory, I was cooking a normal roast. In practice, because it involved turkey, I managed to overcomplicate it to the point where NASA could have been consulted. Timings, basting schedules, resting periods—why does turkey turn sensible people into contestants on MasterChef: Panic Edition? Still, everyone was fed, no smoke alarms were harmed, and I’m calling that a win.

The days that followed blurred into that strange festive limbo where time has no meaning. Is it Monday? Is it Saturday? Are the shops open? Do the bins go out today or tomorrow? Should I be productive or eating leftovers directly from the fridge? Nobody knows. Calendars become decorative. Emails feel aggressive. You find yourself saying things like “after New Year” without any idea when that actually is.

As a mature student, this period is especially confusing. I oscillated between thinking I should be studying, napping, cleaning, or simply staring into space wondering how it’s suddenly dark again. Any absence from blogs, messages, or general online presence can be attributed to this combination of hospital visits, turkey-based decision making, and total temporal disorientation.

The good news is: normality is in sight. I am genuinely looking forward to returning to work on the 5th of January, purely for the comfort of routine, structure, and knowing what day it is without checking my phone. Whether my students will allow that normality is another matter entirely—but hope springs eternal.

Until then, thank you for your patience. I’m back, mostly upright, and ready to rejoin the world—armed with antibiotics, leftover roast potatoes, and a renewed appreciation for boring, ordinary days.

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?

Welcome back to my little corner of chaos — where caffeine is a food group, glitter is a coping mechanism, and puppies are the emotional support squad. If you’ve ever tried to balance a full-time job, higher education, and a mildly delusional sense of optimism, then pull up a chair — you’re in good company.

You know that saying about making lemonade out of lemons? Well, I’ve become something of a professional citrus juicer at this point.

Between being a Learning Support Assistant extraordinaire and a mature student knee-deep in the world of Elizabeth I, I sometimes feel like I’m living two completely different lives — one in the classroom supporting others to reach their goals, and the other in the library, desperately trying to keep my own essays afloat.

At work, I go the extra mile (and then some). I stay late, I care deeply, I juggle deadlines, paperwork, and pastoral care like an Olympic event. I get the pats on the back, the “we couldn’t do it without you,” and the ever-so-familiar “you’d be perfect for the promotion!” But somehow… that promotion never quite lands. It’s the professional equivalent of dangling a carrot — or maybe a glittery pen — just out of reach.

Still, I keep at it. Because somewhere between the chaos and the caffeine, there’s the real reason I do it: the students. The ones who make me laugh on the worst days, who remind me that what I do matters, who make all the nonsense fade into the background. They’re the highlight, the sparkle, the reason I don’t just throw my planner out the window and move to a cottage by the sea (tempting though that may be).

And when it all gets a bit too much, there are study days. Blissful, quiet (well, quieter) moments where I can swap lesson plans for lecture notes and lose myself in the drama of Elizabethan England — where at least the backstabbing is historically documented.

So here I am: fed up, frazzled, but still fabulous. Surrounded by pups, glitter, and a never-ending to-do list, I'm making the best lemonade I can with the lemons life keeps tossing my way. It’s not glamorous, it’s not easy, but it’s mine — and somehow, it still sparkles.

Until next time — may your coffee be strong, your students be kind, and your glitter always find the light. ✨🐶📚🍋

Ah, a day off from work — or as I like to call it, my “study day.” I’m an FE LSA by trade, a mature student by madness, and a mother and wife in between. Today’s grand plan was to be productive.

Armed with a mountain of notes, a questionable amount of caffeine, and the determination of Cleopatra herself, I’ve spent the morning analysing how the Egyptian queen ended up flogging soap in a Palmolive poster. I mean, this woman bathed in milk — hardly the modern face of moisturising bubbles! Still, I managed to pull together some half-decent thoughts between trips to the loo. (Note to self: six cups of coffee may technically count as hydration, but your bladder disagrees.)

After my 87th walk to the bathroom — hello, 10,000 steps before noon — I switched modules to Mary, Mother of Jesus — quite a gear change. From seductress to saint, I’m not sure my caffeine-addled brain was ready for the contrast.

By mid-afternoon, I was feeling virtuous enough to consider a reward. I typed “book gym session” into my phone, but somehow ended up with “gin session” instead. Honestly, the phone knows me too well.

Still, despite the caffeine shakes and confusion, I’ve actually had a productive day. Cleopatra sold her soap, Mary kept her halo, and I kept my sense of humour — just about.

So yes — I may have spent half the day pacing, over-caffeinated and slightly delirious — but I learned a lot, got my steps in, and somehow managed to laugh my way through it. For a mature student on a study day, that’s what I call success.

Until next time — may your coffee be strong, your notes legible, and your autocorrect forever on your side.

---

Today, I learned that being highly qualified, wildly experienced, and possessing the patience of a caffeinated saint still doesn't count for much if you haven’t ticked the magic box that reads:
“Been here long enough to be considered serious.”

Apparently, time served in your current role trumps actual ability to do the job, which is a relief, really, because now I know what to do with all my qualifications: use them to build a small fort and hide in it until the required probationary moon cycle has passed.

Don’t get me wrong — I get it. Rules are rules. But when you're a mature student (translation: running on caffeine, ambition, and the tired you can’t nap your way out of), being told “No, not yet, you haven't been here long enough” feels a little like being grounded… for being too competent.

It’s like turning up to a bake-off with a three-tier Victoria sponge, only to be told,
“Lovely cake, but we only judge fairy cakes made on the premises.”

Oh, okay then. I’ll just eat my own cake and stare longingly at the job board.

But here’s the twist (because there’s always a twist, otherwise we’d spiral):
Maybe… just maybe… this is a blessing in disguise.

Yes, I said it. Maybe this little career hiccup — this beautifully wrapped parcel of professional rejection — is the universe’s way of whispering,
“Oi, focus on your degree, will you? You’ve got dreams to chase, papers to write, and a whole generation of neurodivergent Picassos waiting for you.”

Because that’s the actual goal, right?
To become a Special Needs Art Teacher Extraordinaire in FE — helping learners express themselves with glitter, glue, and unapologetic creativity, all while navigating the occasional flying paintbrush and existential crisis.

So while I lick my mildly bruised ego and remind myself not to storm HR with a scroll of my qualifications like Gandalf at a staff meeting, I’m going to breathe, refocus, and trust that my time is coming. Probably just not this Tuesday.

To anyone else out there being told they’re not “long enough in the building” to dream big — hang in there. We may be stuck at the bottom of the ladder, but we’re wearing better shoes and carrying the kind of experience you can’t fake.

Besides, we’re mature students. We’ve done harder things — like figuring out Microsoft Teams without swearing. Mostly.

Until next time, stay caffeinated, stay hopeful, and never let them dull your sparkle (or your CV).

Yours in eternal probation,
A Frustrated Future FE Art Queen

Today is the definition of a slow and steady study day – and honestly?... I’m not mad about it.

With Storm Amy howling outside like she’s got a personal grudge against roof tiles, I made the executive decision to stay tucked up indoors, firmly planted under a blanket, flanked by two snoozing dogs, and glued to the spot in front of the fire. At 5 ft 2, there is no way I am risking getting swept off into the sky like some academic Dorothy.

Instead, I have decided the blustery weather is the perfect excuse to dive into something a little less chaotic: my university welcome pack.

Welcome Pack Wonders

I finally had the time (and brain space) to properly flick through the orientation materials – and I have to say, it all started feeling real in the best way. Reading about what’s to come, module breakdowns, support services, and study tips made me feel more excited than nervous. Okay, slightly more excited than nervous.

Material Girl in a Study World

After taking some notes (colour coded, of course – we’re keeping the vibe organised), I made a checklist of everything I’ll need:

• Core textbooks (one already ordered, the rest sitting patiently in my cart)

• A few academic journal links I’ve bookmarked for later

• My trusty day-to-a-page diary, now with post-it flags marking key dates

• An unhealthy but necessary amount of highlighters including glitter ones, because let's face it every girls needs some sparkle.

There’s something so satisfying about preparing without the pressure to perform. Just a warm fire, a hot cuppa, and the occasional tail wag thumping against my legs.

Little Wins & Big Feels

Even though I wasn’t knee deep in assignments or lectures today, I still feel accomplished. Sometimes the quiet, slow-paced days are the ones that actually build the strongest foundation. A little reading here, a little planning there ... and suddenly, it all feels less overwhelming.

And hey, if I managed to resist the pull of an afternoon nap with two dogs curled around me like living hot water bottles, I can do anything, right?

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Here’s to the calm before the academic storm. And if Amy could chill out too, that’d be great.

Until next time – stay warm, stay dry, and remember: progress doesn’t always have to be fast-paced to be meaningful.

So here we are. Week one back at university. As a mature student, I’d like to say it was a breeze – but let’s not lie to ourselves. Between full-time work, running a household, and wrangling with academic referencing (again), it’s been more of a juggling act than a smooth academic re-entry.

Prepping for Success (or at least, survival)

The stationery haul alone was enough to make me feel 10% more ready for this journey. I treated myself to:

• A hardback day-per-page diary (absolute game-changer) – one page dedicated to each chapter or lecture. I jot down thoughts, breakdowns (mental and academic), key points, and deadlines. Feels good to physically cross things off.

• Highlighters in every shade of pastel – I now have a colour code for everything from citations to “read again with coffee”.

• Post-it notes – bright reminders stuck on textbooks, laptops, fridge doors… even the kettle. Wherever I’ll definitely see them.

I even created a folder just for academic journal downloads. Who knew I’d get excited about PDFs titled “A Theoretical Framework for Critical Thinking in Adult Education”?

The Balancing Act

Balancing uni with a full-time job is a bit like trying to eat soup with a fork. Possible… if you have patience, a strategy, and accept that some of it will spill.

I’ve learned to:

• Time-block like a boss – Evenings are now divided into dinner, study, and “don’t disturb me unless the house is on fire” hours.

• Meal prep on Sundays – because one less decision during the week saves me precious brainpower.

• Communicate boundaries – to housemates, partners, pets… everyone needs to know that library-mode is serious business.

The Emotional Rollercoaster

Let’s be real. There were moments this week when I asked myself: “What was I thinking?” Especially while deciphering academic journal jargon after a long workday.

But there were also moments  when I finally cracked a reading that made zero sense at first, where I felt genuinely proud. Not just of being back, but of still wanting to learn. That’s something.

Final Thoughts from a Full Plate

So, yes – I’m tired. The house is messier than usual, and the to do list is longer than a referencing guide. But I’m doing it. We’re doing it. And there's something deeply satisfying in chasing a goal with both hands full.

To all my fellow mature students: keep your highlighters close, your coffee strong, and remember – you’ve already done the hard bit by showing up. The rest? One page, one post-it, one chapter at a time.

Bring on week two.