If you sit down in a study space with the genuine intention of being productive, you’ll quickly realise that the room is already doing half the thinking for you. Before you’ve even opened the laptop, a subconscious thought often emerges that you somehow already know how this is going to go. You suddenly become remarkably aware of the lighting, the people, the noise level – maybe even how comfortable (or uncomfortable) your chair is. And sometimes, before you even realise it, your concentration begins to slip away the moment you sit down, as though the study space itself has already decided the outcome of your productivity level.
As someone who fails spectacularly whenever they attempt to study in the comfort of their own home, I often have to force myself to make the journey to another study space. For a long time, I concluded that how productive I was, was purely a personal concern. If I couldn’t focus, then it was my own fault. Maybe I just wasn’t motivated, or perhaps I didn’t get enough sleep that night. Many failed study sessions seemed to follow the same pattern – sitting down, staring blankly at the same page for about half an hour, repeatedly reading the same paragraph but not actually taking anything in, and eventually accepting defeat, packing up early. However, I started to realise that this pattern wasn’t always my fault; sometimes it boiled down to the architecture and atmosphere of the room I was in.
What about conventional study spaces?
Take the Main Library, for example. In theory, it should be the perfect place to work. Silent floors, long tables, and single cubicle desks, the collective understanding that everyone is here to do something serious. In practice, though, it can feel oddly hostile. The bright fluorescent lights that hum faintly overhead sometimes make everything feel a bit too exposed. And the architecture outside definitely doesn’t help either – I wouldn’t exactly say that brutalism is the most inspiring construction choice. Inside, the silence of the third and fourth floors is so deafening that every time you scrape your chair or set something down on the table, it feels like a personal failure worthy of a few disappointed glares from those sitting nearby. However, I have to say, the intimidating feel is excellent for forcing yourself through a dense reading or a deadline.
Then there’s St. Mary’s Library. The demand for seats here during exam season borders on absurd. If you don’t arrive before it even opens, you might as well not bother. It makes you wonder, why? Is it just the convenience of the location on South Street, or is it something else? The light, the quieter atmosphere, the sense that you’re working somewhere that appears well regarded rather than just practical. The space seems to promise a sort of elite, productive mindset to students, so everyone flocks to it, hoping this is where they can finally “lock in”. Of course, the downside is obvious: the stress of securing a seat can outweigh the calm the room is supposed to provide.
OR PERHAPS A CHANGE?
When libraries get too intense, I often end up in a coffee shop or café, maybe at Taste or Space. Because of the background noise, buzz of the espresso machine, and snippets of conversations you can’t exactly tune out, these spaces don’t seem productive in the traditional sense, yet I still get more done than I ever expected to. The soft light and the relaxing hum of society lower the stakes – the unspoken social rules of studying are absent, unlike in traditional libraries. You become someone who is simply sitting there with a laptop and a coffee, allowing you to relax into study-mode rather than fight it.
Or instead, opt for the smaller, less glamorous spaces – the libraries or study rooms tucked into student accommodation, for instance. In my first year, when I still wanted to feel comfy yet productive, this is where I’d choose to be. I wouldn’t say that St. Salvator’s Hall library was my favourite study space, but the lack of aesthetic inspiration was kind of part of its appeal. The chairs were fine, the tables were fine, everything was just fine; it didn’t pretend to be inspiring. But because there’s no expectation attached to them, you can just start, and the lack of pressure becomes its own kind of freedom.
From this, I’ve realised that different spaces invite different versions of yourself. Some may make you feel capable and serious, while others remind you that sometimes you’re allowed to work imperfectly. These environments are never solely good or bad; each has its own pros and cons. Silence encourages both focus and pressure; comfort can bring ease, but sometimes it can also be a distraction. Aesthetics can inspire, but only if you’re not fighting for a seat.
At university, your productivity level is often presented as a personal characteristic – something you either have or don’t. But different study spaces can complicate this, altering how we think and feel. Sometimes the best way to be productive is to recognise when the room that you’re in is working against you – and allow yourself to leave it.