12 Years Later, and Somehow back in a lecture hall

Twelve years ago, I swore off higher education with the sort of melodramatic conviction usually reserved for romantic breakups and quitting alcohol. "Never again," I said, hurling my last exam paper like a gauntlet. And yet, here I am. Back in school. In London. On purpose.

I arrived with two overstuffed suitcases and a mental list of every single way this could go spectacularly wrong. Moving across the ocean at 35 to reenter the world of assignments, attendance, and classmates who consider Y2K a quaint historical event is... a choice. But it’s mine. And that feels like a radical little victory in itself.

Being back at university after more than a decade is a strange cocktail of nostalgia, imposter syndrome, and the rare bouts of overinflated confidence. The reading lists are longer, the essays more abstract, and the students younger, louder, and very possibly made of caffeine and sheer optimism. (I have to admit though, the shock on their faces when they find out how old I am is an absolute ego boost. I’ve had three girls ask me for my skincare routine 😅)

But I also find myself sharper now. Hungrier. More grounded in who I am and why I’m here. I don’t need to impress anyone—I’ve already lived a few lives. I’m here to learn, to stretch, to unravel and rebuild. To find out who I am in a place where no one already thinks they know.

It’s not always easy. Sometimes I miss the comfort of routine. I miss my people. I miss my animals. But there’s magic in the unfamiliar, too. In the way I’m rediscovering myself between lectures and late-night bus rides. Somewhere between the cobblestones and the curry shops, I’m remembering what it feels like to want more.