1It was the best of times, it was the worst of times - it’s your early twenties. Some say to push through the pain of university to secure your 9-5 corporate job and invest in ETFs so you can retire a millionaire. Others urge you to drop out, claiming university is a scam and that you should travel the world as a digital nomad alongside operating a drop-shipping business.
Amidst this storm of polarising viewpoints, feeling confused and uncertain is an inevitable and valid consequence.
I confronted this confusion and uncertainty by deferring. Forty years ago, this would have been a rare occurrence, but nowadays, studying part-time, deferring, and dropping out have become common.
Nonetheless, deferring felt like a rebellious and scary divergence from the norm. No one in my personal network had undergone or was undergoing the same experience that I so desperately yearned for.
At the time, subconsciously, all I craved was a pause amidst constant motion - a period to embrace stagnancy, not as a setback but as a deliberate choice for personal growth and exploration outside of the education system.
In January 2023, the thought of returning to uni that year seemed hellish. I had lost my love for the humanities - those subjects that had compelled me to undertake one of the most expensive degrees with no promise of a favourable ROI - and was clueless about what I should use my breadth subjects for.
Yet, the fear of deferring scared the shit out of me. What if I never returned and jeopardised my ability to find a secure job in adulthood? Also, the prospect of not knowing how I would utilise my deferral period scared me. I feared I would get bored and lonely and inevitably go insane. Ironically, by holding myself back from doing precisely what my heart craved, I went insane. I embarked on a semester of uni that I hated. I was disengaged in all my classes, and the thought of going onto campus nauseated me. I couldn’t find a reason for studying Kantian ethics or learning research methods to analyse a world that seemed so bleak and fucked.
That semester, I finally confronted the jarring reality that the university experience I had fantasised about in high school was starkly different from my current reality. In my imagination, university life was a blend of vibrant campus activities, heated classroom debates that could raise voices and flip chairs, and large friendship groups lounging on the South Lawn until sunset. I pictured finding a boyfriend who was just as dedicated to his academic pursuits as I was and who would become my future husband. This idealised vision sustained me through my teenage years, making my current reality even more distressing.
What I encountered instead was a series of disappointments. Lazy lecturers turned what should have been enlightening lectures into uninspired sessions filled with memes. My classmates, glued to their phones, refused to engage in meaningful conversation. The learning environment was overly digitalised and isolating, stripping away the communal essence I had longed for. Tutors, far from encouraging, often reminded us that we’d likely end up poor and miserable, casting a shadow over our academic efforts. Oh, and I forgot to mention that pest known as Hinge.
The stark dissonance between my dreams and reality was mentally distressing. I had worked tirelessly in high school, believing that my efforts would lead to an enriching and fulfilling university experience. Instead, I found myself in a bland routine, accumulating crippling debt for an experience that felt hollow and unworthy of my aspirations.
My deferral period offered me a unique vantage point to see the world through unfiltered lenses, untainted by the academic constructs that often confine our perspectives. I learned firsthand how hard and tiring it is to earn money and how much discipline is required to handle money responsibly. I learnt that people were more than their grades and that what mattered was their ability to provide value, which is not necessarily determined or guaranteed by a grade received from University.
However, my deferral period also taught me how much more inflexible I was and how much less variety there was in my employment opportunities. It also taught me that a degree acted as third-party validation that I was not a complete idiot, which was highly appealing to me as someone burdened by a crippling fear of being perceived as dumb throughout my life.
During the summer, I felt that I needed to return. I felt that I might as well finish as I was halfway through. I returned not knowing what I specifically wanted to get out of my degree, but I did know that I wanted lots of options available to me. As such, my deferral period gave me the opportunity to ponder what I truly wanted from my life and whether a degree was conducive to that achievement. This was a wise choice because it meant that I was proactively thinking about what I was spending my money on.
So many fall into the trap of signing themselves up for debt without even wanting to undertake a degree, doing it to fit the norm, to appease their parents, or simply because they don’t know what else to do with themselves.
But honestly, I still don’t know what I’m doing with myself, yet I decided to return. What I did know was that I enjoyed writing again.
In the summer, I listened to a podcast with Nicolas Cole, a successful ghostwriter. After hearing him tell his story and offer his hot takes on writing in this digitalised era, my fascination was reignited.
He said something along the lines of: if you have something to talk about in conversation, then you have something to write about. Stop making excuses.
Immediately I thought, ‘he’s right!’
It sparked an instant burst of motivation to plonk myself at a café and tap away at my keyboard. I hadn’t felt like writing for over a year, but upon hearing this message, my desire was reignited.
Leveraging the caffeine hit, I began to write. It felt effortless and euphoric. I hadn’t felt like this for over a year. It felt unbelievable to immerse myself in a flow state where nothing could puncture my focus because I was so dedicated to writing. While what I wrote was far from prolific, I felt a sense of pride from merely trying.
It was at this moment that I realised I needed to return. I missed sitting alone and thinking expressively and creatively. I felt like I had finally reconnected with the curious and enthusiastic self I had lost since distancing from my teenage years. My degree, while not explicitly teaching me how to write, is writing-heavy, given that I major in politics and philosophy.
While these subject areas are not my greatest passions in life, they are areas I am somewhat interested in, and I saw the benefit of returning to study these disciplines - to engage in the skill of writing again.
My deferral period imparted a valuable lesson: when you feel lost or uncertain, it is entirely acceptable to pause, reflect, and even change. This experience taught me to resist the pervasive 'market logic' capitalism ingrained in us. This logic compels us to constantly anticipate and strategise for future outcomes, often at the expense of our present well-being. By perpetually focusing on future gains, we neglect introspection. Embracing uncertainty, however uncomfortable, catalyses personal growth. It allows us to break free from the confines of anticipatory thinking and discover the more authentic and fulfilling path for ourselves.
Had I not deferred, I never would have realised all this and learned additional lessons along the way.
But that’s a story for another time…
Yes i’m quoting Charles dickens out of context, SUE ME
Absolutely loved this piece! The Arts undergrad courses have degraded in quality compared to what it was five years ago (when I started uni). And the fantasy they’re trying to sell is completely inaccurate. At this point I’m so committed (sometimes out of spite) to deliver the best teaching experience I could to students when I become a tutor. But good on you for taking time off to reflect. It’s so important in this age where universities fooled us into thinking that debt accumulation is a new positive.