Time For….

I’m not quite sure how to begin this post, because in all honesty, I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that it’s done. Four years. Dozens of essays. Hundreds of books. Early mornings. Long days. Countless cups of coffee. More than a few existential crises. And now, it’s over. I’ve officially finished my English Literature & Creative Writing degree.

And not just finished—it feels surreal even writing this—I’ve come out with a First.

A First!

I’ll say it again because I need to keep reminding myself: I got a First.

Even now, as I type that, part of me is looking around like, “Surely they’ve got the wrong person?” Because this wasn’t supposed to happen. University wasn’t supposed to be part of my story. I didn’t grow up thinking I’d go. I didn’t have a grand plan. In fact, for the longest time, it didn’t even seem like an option. It was something other people did. People who were confident. People who knew what they wanted. People who could afford it. I was 35 when Alex and I discussed it, and I made the decision to apply, and even then, I thought I’d probably just get through it the best I could and come out the other side with “enough”.

Instead, I found myself thriving in ways I didn’t expect.

Going back into education as a mature student isn’t something I took lightly. There’s a lot of self-doubt that comes with that decision. I hadn’t written an essay since college, and here I was voluntarily throwing myself into four years of literary analysis, creative practice, and academic pressure. I worried I’d be out of place, too old, too rusty. I worried I wouldn’t keep up. But I also knew I needed something more. I had written a couple of books before starting the degree—self-taught, mostly instinctive—but I wanted to understand my craft better. I wanted to know why things worked. I wanted to push myself and see what else I was capable of.

Turns out, the answer was: quite a lot.

The course didn’t just teach me to write better—it taught me to think differently. I learned to question what I thought I knew, to experiment with form, and to write outside my comfort zone. I went in thinking I’d focus on fiction. What I didn’t expect was to fall in love with scriptwriting—a format I’d never seriously considered—and to discover a genuine passion for biographical writing. Those two disciplines, which felt so foreign at first, now feel like part of my creative toolkit, and my final-year biography project is something I’m genuinely proud of.

That final year was intense—no sugar-coating it. The jump in expectations was real, and the deadlines came thick and fast. But what made it easier was the fact that I cared about the work. I wasn’t just ticking boxes or chasing grades (though, yes, I was absolutely doing that too), I was writing things I wanted to take further. A few of the projects I completed this year have legs, and I plan to keep working on them now that the degree’s finished. That’s maybe the biggest thing I’m taking away from all this: not just the qualification, but the sense of momentum.

And I’m not doing it alone. One of the things I’ll always be grateful for is the support I received from my lecturers and the friends I’ve made along the way. They never made me feel out of place for being older or having come to this later in life. In fact, they encouraged me, challenged me, even, to dig deeper, to develop ideas beyond the course. That kind of backing means the world, especially when you’re putting so much of yourself into your creative work. It makes you feel like you’re not just being assessed—you’re being believed in.

I won’t pretend I haven’t thought about what’s next. There was a moment when I seriously considered going straight into a Master’s in Creative Writing. I even started looking at courses. It felt like the obvious next step. But the truth is… I’m exhausted. Academically, creatively, emotionally—just tired. After three years of constant deadlines and critical thinking, I need to step back and breathe. Not forever, just for now.

That’s not to say I’ve ruled out doing a Master’s in the future. It’s still on the table. But I know myself well enough to recognise that if I threw myself into another year of study right now, I’d burn out completely. And I don’t want to lose the love I’ve (re)discovered for writing by pushing myself too hard, too soon. Right now, I want to write freely again. I want to revisit those final-year projects without the weight of assessment looming over them. I want to give myself time to play, explore, and just enjoy the process.

And finally, huge congratulations to everyone in my cohort. Whether you came in straight from college or, like me, took the scenic route here, we all made it through together. I’ve seen the talent, the graft, the creativity, and the passion across the board—and it’s been a privilege to be part of this journey with such a brilliant, resilient group of people. We’ve shared seminars, feedback sessions, panic over deadlines, and the occasional moan—but we also shared encouragement, ideas, and the joy of discovering our voices side by side.

It’s hard to sum up what this whole experience has meant to me. It’s more than a degree. It’s more than a grade. It’s a reminder that it’s never too late to start again. That you’re not past it. That you’re not “too old”. That your story can shift at any moment, if you’re brave enough to take the first step.

So to anyone out there who’s thinking about making a change, or going back to something they thought they’d missed the boat on—this is your sign. You’re not behind. You’re just on a different path.

And for me? Well, this chapter’s finished. And what a chapter it was.

Time to see what the next one brings.