The nights I spent browsing New York University’s website, exploring Media and Culture degrees “just out of curiosity,” felt as unattainable as booking a one-way trip to Mars. I had convinced myself that studying a creative subject in the UK wasn’t an option - whether because of the pressure to choose something more “practical,” the fear of instability, or the nagging doubt that I wasn’t skilled enough to succeed. Looking at degrees abroad only reinforced that belief; I fixated on wildly out-of-reach options as if proving their impossibility justified giving up on the idea entirely. It was something to fantasise about, not something I’d actually pursue.
I fixated on wildly out-of-reach options as if proving their impossibility justified giving up on the idea entirely.
As it turns out, I did a remarkably good job of convincing myself that a creative degree wasn’t for me and headed off to York St John University (YSJ) to study Primary Education.
For the most part, I genuinely believed I would enjoy Primary Education, and I’d convinced everyone around me of the same - despite the fact that with every application, every interview, and every time someone asked why I wanted to pursue it, I felt like an outsider, grasping for an answer I didn’t truly believe in. The “practical” option, it turned out, was the most impractical decision I had ever made.
My six-week stint at YSJ was a disaster, to no reader's surprise. Like many, I envisioned being one of the lucky few who end up with flatmates who become lifelong friends. Instead, my flatmates and I simply weren’t each other’s kind of people. I made friends on my course, did my best to socialise, and tried to settle in, but at my core, I felt like I was treading water. Lecturers began discussing school placements, and I seemingly was the only one on my course more terrified than excited. “Do I actually hate children?” I found myself questioning every time the panic of placements set in.
I made friends on my course, did my best to socialise, and tried to settle in, but at my core, I felt like I was treading water.
Academically, I put immense pressure on myself, convinced that every piece of required reading was make-or-break. Soon enough, my phone was cluttered with overwhelming reminders to “catch up on reading,” and I was spiralling. But the real tipping point wasn’t in a lecture hall or a shared kitchen - it was 100 miles north in Newcastle.
I had never set foot in Newcastle before visiting my friends who had started university there, and I’d never considered moving further than 40 minutes from home. Yet, in just a few weekends, the time I spent in Newcastle overshadowed every experience I’d had at YSJ.
Two days after returning from one of my trips, I admitted defeat. I called my mum and told her that I was dropping out. The relief was immediate - but so was the crushing weight of failure. I had spent my whole life thriving on academic validation, and I had gone from being the first in my school to get an A* in A-Level Media Studies, to dropping out of university and having no prospects at all, in what felt like one fell swoop.
By November, I was back home, oscillating between pretending to enjoy my newfound freedom from the comfort of the local watering hole and ignoring the outside world from the comfort of my room. But at least I was home. I will never be able to express just how much I owe my mum for getting me through that time. Somehow, she knew exactly what I needed.
By January, after letting me sit in the mess I had made and process it all, she told me it was time to re-enter the world. And she was right. I booked my first driving lesson, went back to my old job, and eventually started reapplying to universities - not just because I wanted a backup plan, but because I genuinely thought I might enjoy it this time.
By January, after letting me sit in the mess I had made and process it all, my mum told me it was time to re-enter the world. And she was right.
Journalism and Media at Newcastle University felt right in a way that Primary Education never had. I had always loved studying the media, and journalism sounded like a refreshing new challenge. More importantly, Newcastle already felt like home. This time, I approached things differently - I didn’t cling to the idea of perfect flatmates or suddenly developing Rory Gilmore’s academic motivation. Instead, I booked accommodation in the same building as a close friend from home, creating a safety net for myself.
Twelve months after my first attempt at university, I was on my way to Newcastle, a driving license under my belt, filled with cautious excitement. And, of course, you know how that story goes…
It’s easy to look back on one of the loneliest periods of my life and blame my misery on the wrong degree, bad flatmates, or being too close to home. But the truth is, I simply wasn’t ready to move out. Living only 12 minutes away from home meant that I relived the heartbreak of leaving home every single week when my mum came to visit me.
At the time, dropping out felt like my greatest failure. But now, over two years later, I see it for what it truly was: a turning point. If I hadn’t left YSJ, my life would be unrecognisable. I would never have found myself in this city, never have pursued a course I genuinely love, and never have met the people who are now some of the most important in my life.
Dropping out of university was the best decision I ever made. Because sometimes, failing at something just means you’re making room for something better. And, for once, I finally made a decision that wasn’t about pleasing anyone but myself.