I still remember the first morning I walked up University Avenue for induction week; the sun hitting the side of Gilbert Scott, students spilling out with their tote bags and that chaotic, excited energy that only happens at the start of the year. I stood there taking it in, feeling both part of it and slightly outside of it. Not dramatically, just in that quiet, I haven’t done this in a while way.
There’s a universal expectation that by your early twenties, your life should be on track. So starting university at 23 brought a secret, nagging fear: What if people think I’m a fraud? What if I’m ‘too old’ to be struggling, yet somehow still too clueless to be considered genuinely mature?
It felt huge at the time, but the reality was something else entirely…
Fitting In Wasn’t the Mountain I Imagined
I anticipated walking into my first class and immediately standing out. I assumed everyone was 18, already bonded over high school and fresher’s week chaos, while I’d left school six years earlier during Covid and was too busy working to go to any events.
But nobody cared. People asked where I was from or what I was studying, the same things they asked everyone else. That was the moment I realised my age wasn’t going to be the big, awkward thing I’d imagined.
I was also silly to assume I’d be the only one feeling that way. Someone in my marketing group turned out to be 23 too, with the exact same worries. It surprised me, but that’s what fear does: it makes you feel isolated even when you aren’t.
There were still tiny moments where the fear crept back like when everyone kept saying “67” and laughing, and I had absolutely no idea what it meant. I just smiled and nodded, but looking back, it wasn’t deep. Just one of those small things that felt bigger at the time.
The university’s emails inviting me to mature-student events were always a strange reality check. I have total respect for people returning to university later in life with full careers, families, or deep-set seasoned wisdom. They earned that title. But for me, as someone who barely knew how to do adult life yet, seeing ‘mature’ plastered next to my name felt like a joke. I didn’t feel mature; I just felt like someone who had taken a slightly crooked path to get here.
The Academic Fear Was Not reality
The thing I was most scared of was whether I could still learn the way I used to. I worried I’d forgotten how to write essays or revise or even concentrate after years of full‑time work. Switching back into “student mode” felt impossible, and everyone else seemed to have momentum I didn’t.
But learning came back slowly, then all at once. I remembered how to study, how to think deeply, how to trust myself again. I found my rhythm, and the more I leaned into it, the more I realised I wasn’t behind, I was simply starting at a different time.
Letting go of comparison helped too. Friends who had already graduated or were onto their second degree weren’t ahead of me but rather just on their own timelines. Accepting that made mine feel less like a delay and more like a beginning.
What Starting Later Actually Gave Me
Starting at 23 didn’t make me stand out, it made me steady. It gave me perspective I wouldn’t have had at 18 and made me more intentional about why I’m here. Once the fear softened, everything else did too. I stopped bracing for awkwardness and started actually being present.
And somewhere in all of that, I found my people. Now I’m going into second year with friends who make everything feel easier, including one who’s lowkey chronically online and basically acts as my social translator. It’s funny how quickly you settle in once you stop assuming you won’t.
I didn’t start university at 18, but I started and that’s what matters. If you’re starting later too, go in scared, go in unsure, go in curious. Just go. You owe yourself the chance to experience university in your own time and at your own pace- whatever age you happen to be.