University life! 02/02/26

You know those days where you suddenly realise you’re not exactly the same anxious little goblin you were a year ago? Like nothing dramatic has changed, but you catch yourself doing something you never would’ve done before and think, “Wait… that was actually growth”? That’s kind of where I’m at right now.

It really started last Friday. I’d just finished my psych lecture, the one where the lecturer announced we’d be working in groups for the module and my stomach instantly dropped. Classic scenario: people turning to their friends, pairing off, forming clusters, and I’m there pretending to be very interested in my bag so it doesn’t look like I’m just… group-less and frozen.

Normally, that would be it. I’d let the moment pass, tell myself, “It’s fine, you’ll get put somewhere eventually,” and avoid doing anything that involves voluntarily talking to a stranger. But last Friday, for whatever reason, I didn’t just pack up and escape. I waited until the lecture ended, watched people slowly drift out, and then did something I honestly didn’t think I had the nerve for: I walked up to a girl and asked if she had a group yet.

It sounds like such a tiny thing, but in the moment it felt massive. My heart was pounding, my brain was narrating every step like it was a high-stakes mission. You’re actually walking over there. You could turn around now. Nope, too late. Say something. Say literally anything that isn’t weird. I caught up with her and somehow managed to get out, “Hey, do you have a group for this yet?”

Anxiety, as always, had already drafted the worst-case script: she’d already be in a group, she’d look at me like I was strange, I’d stand there awkwardly trying to pretend I wasn’t bothered. But reality was so much softer than that. She smiled, said she didn’t have one yet either, and we just… started talking. Next thing I knew, we were in a group together. It was simple. No drama. No humiliation. Just a normal human interaction that felt like a huge internal victory.

For most people, that’s a regular Tuesday-level social moment. For me, it was proof that I can push through that horrible “don’t speak, don’t move, don’t risk it” feeling and actually do something that might benefit me. I walked away feeling a bit shaky, but also quietly proud. I didn’t wait to be picked. I picked myself.

Fast forward to today, and of course the universe balanced that win with a bit of chaos by making sure I ended up late to my lecture. Being late when you have social anxiety isn’t just mildly annoying; it feels like you’ve been cast in a play you didn’t audition for. The moment I pushed the door open, it felt like every head in the lecture theatre turned, even if they probably didn’t.

The door did that loud creak that only seems to happen when you’re late. My bag sounded ridiculously noisy. My footsteps felt ten times heavier as I walked down the aisle. Inside, my brain was screaming: Everyone is looking at you. Don’t trip. Don’t drop anything. Don’t make your bag rustle. Do you smile? Don’t smile too much, that’s weird. Just get to a seat and disappear.

On the outside, I did my usual routine: neutral face, tiny apologetic smile if I accidentally caught someone’s eye, then a slightly-too-fast walk to the first empty seat I saw. I sat down, pulled out my stuff, and immediately pretended I had been there for ages. The difference this time, though, was what happened next — or rather, what didn’t happen.

I didn’t spend the whole lecture replaying the entrance in my head. I didn’t sit there in a shame spiral, convinced everyone was still thinking about me walking in. After a few minutes, the embarrassment faded, and I actually focused. I took notes. I listened. I existed in the room like a normal person instead of a walking disaster. For me, that’s progress: not the absence of anxiety, but the ability to move through it instead of getting stuck.

Now I’m in my usual spot in the library — my unofficial territory at this point. Because I commute to uni, this place is kind of my anchor between “home” and “campus.” I don’t have halls or a flat full of people; I have car rides, lectures, and this one spot I keep coming back to that makes everything feel a bit more familiar and less chaotic.

I’m sat by myself, laptop open, just doing my own thing, and instead of feeling painfully aware of that, it just feels… calm. It’s become my little bubble where I don’t have to perform or be “on it.” And, staying completely on brand, I am currently watching Love Island USA while I’m here. Not pretending I’ll watch it later. Not planning to “save it for tonight.” Nope. I’ve got my lecture notes open in one tab and the most chaotic reality TV in another.

I’m deep into the drama and it’s honestly hilarious how invested I am in the lives of people I will never meet. The arguments, the smug faces, the sudden plot twists — it’s all so ridiculous and yet so comforting. There’s something about it that lets my brain switch out of constantly analysing my own life and instead scream internally about strangers’ decisions in a villa. It’s like emotional escapism, but in neon lighting.

At some point later, I’ll pack up and head home like I always do, swapping this little campus bubble for my actual life again. Tonight, I’m keeping things deliberately simple. No pretending I’m going to be super productive just for the sake of feeling like I “earned” my rest. I want a genuinely chilled night — low pressure, low drama, just existing without constantly trying to fix or improve something.

My boyfriend’s coming to stay over, which makes that even better. I’m really looking forward to that quiet, comfortable kind of time where you don’t have to entertain each other or fill every silence. After a day of walking into big rooms full of people, making myself talk to strangers, and trying not to trip over my own anxiety, it’s nice to end it with someone I can actually relax around.

In the middle of all that, the academic side of things is still very real. I’ve had most of my grades back now for my first time at uni. So far I’ve got two Bs and a C, and I am genuinely happy with that. There’s always that temptation to compare your grades to other people’s, or to some impossible standard in your head, but when I put everything in context — the commuting, the anxiety, the adjustments, the constant low-level stress of trying to figure out how uni even works — those grades feel like a real achievement.

There’s still one grade I’m waiting on, and that one feels a bit unpredictable because I wrote the whole assignment overnight, from 11 p.m. to 6 a.m. It wasn’t some aesthetic all-nighter; it was just me, tired but stubborn, refusing to give up before it was done. I remember my eyes burning, my back aching, my brain slowly turning to fog. I kept re-reading sentences thinking, Does that make sense? Or have I just invented a new language? but I kept going anyway.

By the time I submitted it, I felt half-human, half-zombie, but also kind of proud that I actually finished it instead of shutting my laptop and pretending it didn’t exist. Now I’m just hoping that somewhere in the middle of that sleep-deprived chaos, there was enough clarity and effort for it to turn into a decent grade. I’m manifesting “better than I expect,” powered by sheer determination and a stupid amount of perseverance.

So here I am: commuting in and out of uni, building tiny bits of courage I’d never give myself credit for if I didn’t slow down and notice them. Last Friday, I walked up to a girl after a lecture and asked to be in her group — something I’d usually avoid at all costs. Today, I arrived late to a lecture, felt that familiar wave of embarrassment, and then actually moved on with my day instead of letting it ruin everything. I’m sitting in my favourite library spot, half-working, half-watching Love Island, waiting on one more grade while being quietly proud of the ones I’ve already got.

It’s not the glamorous, aesthetic version of uni you see on social media. It’s a bit messy, a bit tired, a bit anxious — but it’s real. And slowly, quietly, it’s getting better. I’m not suddenly fearless or perfectly put together, but I am braver in small, important ways: asking the question instead of staying silent, walking into the room even when I’m late, sitting alone without feeling like it means something bad about me, letting myself rest without turning it into a crime.

This is my work-in-progress era: commuting girl, library regular, Love Island watcher, overthinker, and someone who is finally starting to admit that progress doesn’t always look big from the outside — but it feels huge on the inside. And honestly? I’ll take that.