When Graduating Isn’t All That It Seems: Left Reeling After University
A few weeks ago, I turned 23 and was affronted by the mildly alarming thought that it had been exactly five years since my eighteenth birthday. At the age of eighteen, opportunity and possibility seemed limitless. My five-year plan contained as many bullet-points as an entire biography. Buy a house. Write a book. Have children. Get married. Start a business. Go in a hot air balloon. A whole lifetime squeezed into a regimentally scheduled half-decade.
At the age of 23 I have done none of these things. My five-year plan sits entirely unachieved. Although my goals may have been very optimistic to start with, I blame most of this failure on one thing. University.
I was a shy introverted teenager, much better acquainted with the fiction section of Waterstones than the alcohol aisle in the supermarket. When I embarked on my first year of university, I was kitted out with enough kitchen utensils to prepare a meal nearing banquet proportions, but lacking any sense of what to expect from Fresher’s week.
On my first night away from home, I managed one bottle of Stella Artois Peach ‘Cidre’ and approximately 27 minutes in the university hall bar, before I retreated to my room – vowing never again to emerge after 8pm. I felt like I had been thrust into a completely different world, where every conversation started with the interrogative trifecta of ‘Where are you from? What halls are you in? What school did you go to?’, and people bonded solely by trading stories from Magaluf and Zante. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but it wasn’t a sphere I felt I belonged to.
By the end of second year, I had shape-shifted into a completely different person. Somewhere along the way, I ditched my 100% lecture attendance rate, swapping it for a plethora of outrageous anecdotes and a reputation for never turning down a party. In the space of a year, I had a drink spiked with LSD, left my phone number on a napkin for a coffee shop barista, wandered the streets of Bristol for hours alone in the middle of the night, climbed onto rooftop after rooftop of friends’ flats and drank an entire 70cl bottle of vodka in the space of three hours. While this might sound like an extreme series of events, within the university bubble my experiences were completely normal. Tame, even. I was surrounded by people with more dramatic stories to tell, who all seemed to be coping just fine.
On the outside, I was the same; empowered by the feeling that I was squeezing every last drop of life from each second, buoyed along by the people around me. But, behind closed doors, I was crippled by panic attacks and anxiety. I rarely got physical hangovers, but the morning after the night before was always marked by a painful over-analysing of every word I’d uttered and an impending dread for the days stretching out in front of me. My anxiety didn’t slow me down. If anything, the constant over-thinking fuelled me to do more, in the hope that being busy meeting people and making memories would take up so much headspace that my worries would be squashed out.
When I graduated, the university bubble popped. Most of my friends moved away, so my party invites dried up. Suddenly no-one was interested in getting drunk and spending the night-time getting up to mischief. They were more concerned with securing a grad-scheme or saving up to go travelling around the world.
The six months following graduation felt like a comedown from life inside an intense microcosm, as I was forced to reacquaint myself with the ‘real world’. At university, every experience is amplified as you live with your friends and, arguably, have more time on your hands than you will at any other point. An argument that would once have been confined to the sixth form corridors and Whatsapp group chats, now takes place in your flat. The lows feel lower, and more inescapable, just like the highs feel more potent and friends feel closer.
Stepping out of this bubble was like coming out of the cinema after a really good film, only to find that night had fallen outside and my plans for the evening had been cancelled.
I found myself left with the same sort of existence I’d had before university. I studied for my masters, spent time with my family and read a lot of books. It was a homecoming to my younger self, albeit with more stresses about money and less time spent binge-watching TV. Initially, I resisted settling into this new phase of life, pining for the lifestyle I’d lost. I felt jealous of the new generations of freshers who still had everything to come that I’d already lived.
As time passed, my university years solidified in my memory and began to seem more like a fever dream than the best time of my life. There was a huge disconnect between my past and present self; I couldn’t believe some of the things I had done inside the safety of my halls of residence, as they seemed so far removed from how I now saw myself.
The typical university lifestyle lends itself towards tendencies, such as regular drinking, isolation and a lack of routine which can exacerbate mental health difficulties. More and more universities are investing money into supporting students’ mental health, but I wonder how many students struggle with processing their university years and adjusting to graduate life after they leave the education system.
There are countless TV shows, books, YouTube videos and blog articles talking about the transition from 6th form to university however, in comparison, there is a distinct lack of conversation about the transition at the other end, from university life to adulthood. I am not alone amongst my friends in feeling at a loss for what to do with my life now and while, to some extent, this feeling is all part of growing up and living life in your twenties, I feel that more should be done to prepare graduates for the world they are entering.
Does this fall to universities to provide more support for their graduates? Perhaps. But I think it is more important for students and graduates alike to share their experiences and have a conversation about the reality of life after uni. Each of us has a story to tell and advice on how we navigated the change. For people who are struggling to deal with the culture shock of real life, the reassurance that this is perfectly normal, that they are not alone, may help them through.
Written by Jasmin Perry
By day, I work in the real estate sector. I'm also the founder of Weston Writer's Nights and was chosen as one of Rife Magazine's 24 under 24 for 2019. I'm passionate about the environment, creative pursuits and spending as much time in nature as possible