Three years ago, I felt stuck. Life was a monotonous routine dominated by work and fitting in the odd bit of fun around it – my job was no longer fun. I was in my 10th year at the same retail company, having switched from working in shops to a communications role at head office. It was my job to inform people about the business for the staff magazine, and although my title was reporter, I felt more like a PR person promoting the company to its own employees. It was good experience but work felt corporate and stuffy. I had been there too long and worried that I would never leave, although that I was dissatisfied.
Eventually this feeling of disaffection began to seep into other areas of my life. I struggled to find purpose and, especially, creativity. The lack of both ate at my mind while I contemplated what to do about it. I had thrived on creative expression since I was young and writing was my strongest outlet. A short story about a talking hamster written when I was eight – to critical acclaim from my mother and my primary teacher – was as far as my creative writing career went. But as a journalist, I longed to write about other people’s creativity in the arts and culture. That desire endured but lay dormant. I feared it would become extinct as I lacked the confidence to apply for jobs in the field due to my lack of experience.
A friend suggested another path – education. I had toyed with the idea of studying for a master’s degree but self-doubt stood in my way. My first degree was almost a decade ago and the idea of going back to school felt daunting. Yet, as I looked into it, that began to change. I found a course at London College of Communication, quit my job and enrolled.
During the 18 months that followed, I began to flourish. Not only had I found the courage to take my life forward in a new, exciting direction, but the self-doubt that had followed me around like a shadow began to fade. Before the course, I questioned myself: can I really go back to university? Will I do well? Am I too old for this? I was 30 then and foolishly equated my relative maturity to being a grandma in student years, but it wasn’t. I wasn’t even the oldest student there. We treated each other as equals – in fact, if anything, my age helped: younger students valued my experience and knowledge when it came to group work. I made new friends, joined committees, became editor of a student magazine, led projects, took up internships and started to freelance for publications I admired.
I also decided to move out of home for the first time. Living in student halls was an experience, that ranged from heavenly to horrific. I had my own space with a stunning view of the city but had to share a kitchen which often looked like a crack den, with mould and spilled milk stuck to every surface. Yet halls life added to my sense of independence and, with it, confidence. I was learning new things every day. Even making myself a meal or managing my small living space felt empowering. All my limitations and inhibitions seemed to drop away – here was the creative and emotional satisfaction I craved. I found my journalistic voice, drawing on my Middle Eastern heritage and Muslim identity when I wrote articles, and steadily built up a portfolio I was proud of. I wanted to keep studying for ever, but it had to come to an end – my new-found sense of worth, thankfully, didn’t.
After completing my master’s, I continued to freelance and it wasn’t long before I made my way back through the university gates – this time to teach. I am now a part-time lecturer on the same course that I took and I also run journalism workshops for prospective students. My teachers and other staff entrusted me to use the knowledge and experience I gained to teach others, something I could never have envisaged doing two years ago. I look back on the person I was before, trapped inside a cushy, corporate box, and smile. She didn’t yet know her worth.
It sounds like a cliche, but going back to university has given me so much; best of all, the boost in self-esteem to do what I love and push myself creatively. It was a huge financial commitment, but it was an investment in myself – the best one I have ever made.
