Second Year: A Lesson in Belief

Learning, Crying, Running: A Second Year Story

Returning home in December, I realised by how quickly the term had passed. In reality, a great deal had happened over the past two months. As I began my second year in September, I barely stepped through the door before I found myself bombarded with warnings of how hard this term would be. A lady from the history department, with a ruler-straight fringe and impeccable smile told us, “We’ve heard from past students that first term of second year was the hardest term of their entire degree… But don’t worry, as long as you’re organised, you can get the work done in time!” She looked like the embodiment of a put together person. With pen in hand I felt inspired to make a note reminding myself: stay organised.

But organisation wasn’t the only thing I’d need. On my first night back, I found myself staring introspectively into space at a house party, suppressing the familiar anxiety I had not felt in a while of having to socialise again. A guy who I had not met before walked past and snapped me out of my daydream when he said “Hi, how are you doing?” The lingering summer introversion propelled me to continue as normal, despite not knowing his name. “I’m fine thank you, how are you?” I said, and the conversation moved itself forwards. Until it was stopped by the massive brick wall before us, when we realised that we had no idea who we were speaking to and we had to introduce ourselves in a sort of back-to-front manner, but we soon found comfort in shared uncertainty. Shortly after, a flatmate of his joined us and we ended up having a lovely conversation. It turns out that they were both first year students and when they learned that I was 20 and in my second year, they remarked, “I could sort of tell. You have a really mature nature about yourself, like you know what you’re doing.” I almost spat my drink out in alarm. “I cried over the phone to my parents more times than I can count last year,” I told them honestly. And in that honesty, they opened up too. Perhaps maturity isn’t about having it all together. Maybe it’s about moving forward even when you don’t.

A week later, I hosted some of my former flatmates for drinks. On the table in front of us were some fortune cookies that one of my housemates got for us during her summer in India. I was speaking to one of my flatmates and about midway through the conversation, she decided to break one open. For the briefest moment, there was an excitement in the air between the two of us as we unravelled the tiny scroll of the fortune but the anti-climax felt like letting go of a half-inflated balloon and watching it meet its pathetic end. I can’t remember what it said exactly. Something along the lines of “Look how far you’ve come”. But with one fortune cookie remaining, it became my duty to open it too. As I unravelled the tiny scroll of paper, the words “Believe it can be done” revealed themselves to me. I dismissed it at first. But with so many essays due in that term, the message hit a nerve. Maybe it was like that experiment where everyone received the same horoscope and found it “eerily accurate.” Or perhaps, this was a sign that it could be done? Either way, when you have work to do and no other way of escaping it, sometimes you need to believe in the message anyway.

Yet, it wasn’t all plain-sailing. A couple of assignments into my second year and I found myself crying yet again to my mum, overwhelmed by a source commentary that I had to write. Over video call, she asked gently, “Have you been out on a walk? To a dance class?” I hadn’t. I told her I didn’t have time. The classes were always on the weekends and I was always doing things on the weekend. If I were to go to a dance class, I would be going just for the sake of it. She suggested I go for a walk, or even a run. I was sceptical, but I was getting pretty desperate. That afternoon, I found myself putting my trainers on to go for a walk by the river. The small bit of activity and the cold icy air gave me a caffeine-like boost just from walking. Since then, I have also started my Couch to 5K journey, running three times a week. I thought I would be exhausted after a run but I found myself feeling totally energised. When I move my body, my mind follows. Walking and running has really helped with my physical and mental health since the start of second year, allowing me to push forwards, helping me to manage my anxiety.

Focusing on my mental and physical health meant that I was able to find time to enjoy myself. When my friends first brought up the idea of hosting a house party on Halloween, I was excited — until I saw the group chat swelling from 30 to 90 people. I panicked and soon realised that I hadn’t actually invited any of my own friends. I quickly jumped to Instagram to message my flatmate from first year to see if she would be coming along. I explained the situation and I admitted I was scared the police would turn up. She responded reassuringly by promising she would be there and sympathising with my fears. “Great!” I thought, “I’ll just add her to the Halloween party group chat.” There came the ninety-first person to be added. It was only 5 minutes after doing so that I received a DM from her saying “Jesus Christ Girl you weren’t kidding about the amount of ppl coming to this house party.”

Despite my initial anxieties, the house party ended up being really fun. Fortunately, not as many people came as the group chat predicted. I relaxed enough to help myself to the alcoholic beverage we all made. Although, I don’t quite know what I was thinking helping myself to a generous amount. I watched the drinks that went into the cocktail. Let’s just say, the summer introversion faded quickly and I began to actually speak to people. Some of my friends asked me about my costume. It turns out it was actually a dual costume with my housemate. He was wearing shades, a blue and white stripy shirt, with jeans whilst I was wearing a long black skirt, a silver jumper, with an oven glove and wooden spoon as my props. Mirroring the internet personalities we were trying to be, we both stood shoulder-to-shoulder. To my surprise, nearly everyone I spoke to was able to figure out who we were. Nara Smith is famous on TikTok for making nearly everything she eats by hand, giving tutorials for what she makes to her followers. She’s iconic for speaking seductively in these TikTok videos, as well as for having a husband who is a model and three children called Rumble Honey, Slim Easy and Whimsy Lou. I was more than prepared to adorn the cat costume I wore when it was actually Halloween. As I was good friends with this housemate, I think my other housemates saw the potential for a dual costume idea. As such, we became Nara and Lucky Blue Smith. No regrets.

That was my experience with the house party. It seemed intimidating at first, but it was ultimately a lot of fun. My former flatmate came eventually, nervous on my behalf, but I think she had a great time too. What I didn’t enjoy as much, on the other hand, was one of my modules, Popular Cultures. This was taught by a professor I’d had the previous year who was notorious for skipping seminars. Unsurprisingly, his attendance for his second year module was also pretty poor. True to form, he missed the first “introductory” lecture entirely. He made a few appearances early in the term but after that, sometimes he would never show his face. Before I knew it, floods of angry emails to the history department were leaving my computer without a second thought. It became almost a delectable experience crafting the words in my emails professing this injustice. After all, I was paying over £9,000 a year to be taught… nothing.

Yet, part of me pitied him. It was clear that he was just an older man, possibly overwhelmed. I once described him to the housemate dressed as Lucky Blue for Halloween because the mere appearance of my professor seemed to emulate his character so well. I did not realise how vivid of a picture I’d created of him in my housemate’s mind, until one day I got sent a photo whilst I was on a run. My housemate had never seen my professor before but he sent a photo with the message: “Omg, is this your professor?” Wandering up the cobbled Bailey in Durham, the man in the photo was indeed my professor.

One upside of my angry emails to the history department was an extension on my 3,000 word essay. Yes, despite learning nothing, I still had to write the essay. This meant that the essay would be due in January instead of early December. Honestly, I felt relieved. It was one less essay to complete before the end of term. In addition to this, I found out shortly after that my professor for the module was taking early retirement and would be leaving in December. After the absolute shambles of two modules with him, the anxiety was beginning to kick in that I would draw the short straw again for third year and somehow end up with him again. That prospect faded quickly into the abyss and needless to say, not a single tear left my eye. I enjoyed poking fun at him (as you’ve probably noticed). Yet, something about the last seminar we had with him moved me. He announced to us that when he retires he will be buying a ginger cat and calling it Bob. The comment was so random but somehow, it made perfect sense.

The last few weeks of term were tough. I only had to write one 3,000 word essay before the end of term, but time still felt tight. One Sunday evening, I rang my mum in a panic, convinced I couldn’t finish it. She managed to reassure me and later that day, I went for a walk with my housemate. It had previously been his birthday and we made a detour for some free treats from Greggs and Subway. Although I didn’t get anything myself, I was quite happy wandering the streets with him, having a nice conversation. Moments like this remind me of the lasting impact of good friendships and the importance of sustaining those relationships long-term.

The following week, I worked at the kitchen table with two of my housemates. My older sister called and gave me some simple but solid advice: write 500 words a day. I stayed true to her word and by the end of the week, 3,000 words were indeed down on the page. Towards the end of that week I caught the worst cold of my life and I had a sleepless night, coughing like crazy. But I was relieved in a way, that the essay was done. When I finally pressed submit the following week, it was like a huge weight had lifted off my shoulders.

Through the ups and the downs, the good times and the bad, I pushed through the uncertainty and achieved what I didn’t think would be possible. At the start of second year, I pinned the slip of paper onto the corkboard with my calendar of essential deadlines. The hard work made me realise that belief isn’t a magic cure but it was the success at the end that made me see it as a necessary first step. That fortune cookie may have been vague, but by the end of term, I realised it wasn’t wrong.