Ah, the lessons learnt in second year. The stage in your university career where you’re neither a fresh-faced newbie nor a confident, “I’ve-got-this” senior. It’s like that awkward middle child of the degree programme, where you don’t quite know whether to be proud of what you’ve learned or just ashamed of how much of it could’ve been avoided if you’d just read the emails.
But alas, here we are. Surrounded by deadlines that mock you, coffee cups that barely keep your eyes open, and the ever-present, ever-silent pressure of the future.
You see, they don’t teach you everything at university. In fact, most of the stuff that actually matters – the stuff that keeps your sanity intact–is nowhere to be found in your lecture slides or textbooks. Like, why did no one prepare me for how to handle university bureaucracy? One minute, you’re emailing admin about a hostel room, and the next, you’re in an eternal loop of “please hold for the next available representative,” trapped in a phone tree that seems to have been made by a sadistic bot who loves chaos. How is it that I can calculate a regression model in my sleep but can’t navigate a simple form submission without feeling like I’m on a treasure hunt with zero treasure?
And then there’s the sleep. Or, more accurately, the lack of sleep. At first, you think it’s just a rite of passage. You know, those all-nighters that you imagine are some sort of badge of honour. “Look at me, I’m an adult now, I can handle five cups of coffee and a dream!” But no. By second year, your body starts to protest. It starts to remind you, in very creative ways, that sleep is important, and that health matters more than grades, but you just hit ‘snooze’ and push through because… well, what else can you do? You’ve got assignments due that are literally due the second you finish this sentence. Deadlines don’t care about your well-being, and neither do the databases that crash when you’re one line away from finishing a report.
And let’s not even talk about mental health, because that’s where it gets real. Uni is one big mental rollercoaster. Some days, you’re on top of the world, with a coffee in one hand and a perfectly crafted dissertation outline in the other. Other days? You can’t even remember where you put your pen, let alone try to remember what day it is. But here’s the thing: no one tells you that it’s okay to not have everything together. Newsflash: your mental health is the most important thing you’ll learn about during these years. No one warned me about the unexpected moments of self-doubt that would sneak up on me when I least expected it, or the pressure to balance academic success with being a whole human being. I was so focused on grades that I forgot about my sanity, which, spoiler alert, makes a massive difference in the long run.
So, here’s the deal. As I’m learning more about myself than I ever thought possible, I’m also learning some truly wild lessons about surviving university, and in particular, surviving second year. Things they never told you in Freshers’ Week. Or, you know, in any of the “How To Survive University” guides they hand out at the start of term. Things like: never trust the Wi-Fi; you will get through that 3,000-word essay (even if you’ve written only 400 words and it’s due in three hours); and there’s no shame in taking a nap at 3 p.m. and calling it self-care. Because let’s face it, uni isn’t just about exams and assignments – it’s about surviving the madness, holding on to a shred of your humanity, and learning how to navigate the chaos with grace, caffeine, and questionable decisions along the way.
But shhh… I’ll never tell my parents that. Wouldn’t want them to know I’m living proof that sometimes, the lessons you don’t learn in class are the ones that matter the most.
“I Have No Idea What I’m Doing But Here We Are” – The Second-Year Struggle
Second year. Ah, second year. That confusing grey area where you’re not quite a newbie, but definitely not a senior either. You’re the student equivalent of the toddler in the middle of a tantrum and a nap. Confused, unsure, and mildly chaotic. Everyone told you it’d get better after first year, but no one warned you that second year is when you start to realise you really have no idea what you’re doing. Welcome to the middle child of university degrees, my friend.
Freshers’ Week was a breeze, right? That was the time for experimentation, finding your people, and learning how to not burn instant noodles. But second year? Oh, it’s a whole different beast. You’ve just come off the first-year high where the “no one knows what they’re doing” mantra felt comforting. Everyone was in the same boat, paddling in the same confused circle. But then, in second year, you suddenly realise… no one’s actually paddling, they’re all too busy googling things like “how to fill in an Excel spreadsheet properly” or “do I need to declare war on admin for this form?”
You’re expected to know stuff now. You’ve somehow survived the novelty of being thrown into a new world of lectures, exams, and pint nights. Now, they’ve handed you the real stuff. Deadlines, group projects, and all the stress that comes with it. Suddenly, you’re expected to function like a real adult—even though you’ve been surviving on 3 hours of sleep and caffeine that is technically older than your degree.
And let’s talk about your workload, because whoa—it’s like they’ve opened Pandora’s Box, and all the assignments, lectures, and pressure just poured out like some cosmic joke. As a data science student, you think you’ve got this figured out. You can code a program that calculates Pi faster than most people can cook beans on toast. But then they hand you a 3000-word REPORT on something that sounds like an ancient Greek philosopher’s discarded napkin scribbles, and suddenly, the whole “I’ve got this” thing doesn’t feel so solid. Like, yeah, you can code your way out of a paper bag, but when they ask you to explain how to explain something… that’s when the panic sets in.
And the thing is, no one told you that second year would be like this. All you had were some vague warnings like, “Watch out, it gets real now!” and “Make sure you don’t fall behind!” But they didn’t tell you about the constant dread of not knowing if you’re on the right track. Or how much you’d start questioning your life choices when your lab partner accidentally deletes the whole dataset you’ve spent hours on (but he remade it so won’t complain).
Spoiler alert: you’re not supposed to question your whole existence in second year, but here you are.
It’s also the time when you realise that the whole “get a degree, get a job” thing is not as clear-cut as it sounds. They say the degree is the key to the future, but what they don’t tell you is that the door is stuck, and you might need to kick it down with a combination of hustle, deep existential dread, and probably some questionable career advice from your aunt who thinks data science is “just coding on the computer.”
And the real kicker? The constant battle between wanting to go out and live your best uni life, but also realising you absolutely cannot afford to have a social life, because you’ve got assignments, projects, and late-night coding sessions to survive through. “Oh, Stoa sounds fun… but wait, I’ve got a deadline, and nothing will make this better except finishing this damn report.” You’ll find yourself slipping into a state of perpetual FOMO mixed with complete isolation because you’re too busy scrolling through Instagram while crying into your laptop screen that refuses to load your assignment.
But, here’s the twist, and the one thing they don’t really teach you in second year: You’re not alone. In fact, no one knows what they’re doing. You might be staring at your screen in despair while trying to debug your code, but you can bet that the person in the seat next to you is probably facing the same inner battle. Your group project? Yeah, it’s a disaster. But guess what? Everyone’s group project is a disaster. Just pretend you’re winning at life until you actually figure it out.
Second year is basically the university equivalent of a big fat question mark. It’s messy, confusing, and doesn’t quite make sense, but guess what? You’re making it through anyway. And as much as you’re unsure, as much as you’re treading water, you’re still here. You’ve survived first year. You’ll survive second year, too. So, yeah, maybe you don’t know what you’re doing right now. But trust me, no one does. And that’s kind of the secret.
You’ve got this… even if you have no idea what “this” is.
Bureaucracy 101: Or How I Learned to Hate Email Chains
Ah, university bureaucracy – the one thing that has absolutely no place in your degree programme, but somehow, always finds its way into your life like an unwanted group project. It starts off innocently enough: you need to submit a form, ask a question, or get clarification on some obscure requirement. Easy, right? Wrong. Welcome to the world of emails, forms, and unanswered questions – where your time is wasted and your patience is tested like an undercooked pasta.
It begins with an innocent click. You send that email to the admin team, feeling optimistic, like you’re doing something so grown-up and organised. You’ve done your research, you’ve crafted the perfect subject line, and you’ve asked your question in the most polite, academic-sounding way possible. You hit ‘send’ and lean back in your chair, waiting for that sweet reply, like a toddler waiting for a cookie.
Days pass. No reply. But you’re not fazed, because surely they’re just busy with something more urgent. You’re not the only student. After all, they have hundreds of others to deal with, right? You’ll just give them a little more time. So, you wait. And wait. And wait.
And then, on the third day, when you’ve almost given up hope, you finally get the reply. You smile, you open the email, expecting to see the answer to all your questions, like a golden nugget of wisdom from the bureaucratic gods.
“Thank you for your email. Please refer to the attached FAQ document for further assistance.”
Hold up. What? The FAQ? The document that you’ve already read three times, but still have absolutely no clue how to actually use? Now, instead of answers, you’ve got to wade through a mountain of generic text that has exactly nothing to do with your actual problem. You feel the familiar pang of frustration, but you’re not ready to admit defeat. So you soldier on, crafting your second email.
This time, you’re a little sharper, a little more direct. You explain that you’ve read the FAQ (twice) and still don’t get it. You need an actual human to help you. After all, you’re a student paying for this, right? You’ve earned this reply.
Another few days pass. The silence is deafening. But when you finally do hear back, it’s not what you expected. It’s another email, saying something like:
“For more detailed support, please contact your department directly.”
Oh, brilliant. Now, you have to email the department. Again. At this point, you’ve gone full circle and become a professional at polite frustration. You’ve mastered the art of email chains that go round and round in circles, leading you further into the depths of admin despair. The “reply all” function becomes your best friend, as you constantly loop in anyone who might remotely know something useful, just hoping that the next person might know what the hell is going on.
And don’t even get me started on the forms. Oh, the forms. You’ll fill one out, think you’re done, and then realise there’s a hidden field, like a secret level in a video game, where you need to include your entire life history, your favourite colour, and the name of your pet hamster. Then, when you think you’ve filled it all out perfectly, you submit it and get a message saying: “Please attach your supporting documents.”
Wait—what? The thing is, no one tells you what the “supporting documents” actually are, so you spend the next half hour trying to decipher which of your ten thousand files in your email inbox might be the one they need. By the time you find the right document (that doesn’t even seem relevant), you’re at the point where you’ve fully forgotten what the original task was.
But you know what the real kicker is? When you finally, finally, get your task sorted after countless emails and form submissions, you realise that the whole thing could’ve been solved with a simple phone call. But of course, they don’t have a phone number readily available on the website OR THEY NEVER PICK UP AND RANT ABOUT CALLS IN CLASS, because they love the never-ending cycle of digital bureaucracy. Why talk to you directly when they can send you through an endless email maze to see if you’ll crack? It’s like playing a game of ‘who can stay sane the longest?’
Bureaucracy isn’t just the labyrinth of emails—it’s an art form. It’s a test of patience, a lesson in feigned politeness, and a reminder that nothing in life is as simple as it seems. The real question is: Why do they make it so complicated?
Now, whenever I see an email in my inbox from a department or admin, I get a small, involuntary twitch. The truth is, I’ve learned to hate email chains. Not because they’re inherently evil, but because they’re the academic equivalent of a hamster wheel—endless, repetitive, and slowly driving you insane. So, next time I see that dreaded ‘please refer to the FAQ’ response, I’ll just sigh deeply and prepare myself for the next round of the bureaucratic game.
Sleep is for the Weak… Except I’m Weak, So Where’s My Bed?
Ah, sleep. The one thing they warn you about in university—“It’s overrated,” they say. “You won’t need much of it once you get into the groove,” they claim. But let me tell you something, my fellow exhausted comrade—sleep is not overrated. It is, in fact, the holy grail of university survival, the elixir of life that we’re all desperately chasing, and yet, it always seems just out of reach.
In the first few weeks of second year, I was on a mission. I told myself, “No more all-nighters. No more caffeinated desperation. I will balance my workload, my social life, and yes, my sleep!” What an absolute delusion. You see, theydon’t tell you that second year isn’t a smooth transition from “I’m still figuring this out” to “I’ve got this nailed.” No, my friend. Second year is where the academic fireworks begin. Deadlines? Every other minute. Group projects? Every other minute after that. You don’t even have time to process how your body’s functioning without sleep, because your brain is too busy panicking about that exam next week.
It starts innocently. You’re doing some light revision, just a couple of hours, and then—bam—an essay deadline jumps out of nowhere, a group project suddenly becomes the only thing your classmates talk about, and your eyes? Well, they’re doing their own thing, slowly closing themselves off from the world like they’re in protest.
You think, “It’s fine, I can power through this. I’ll catch up tomorrow.” But by tomorrow, you’ve got three more deadlines, a code that refuses to work, and a lecturer who loves to remind you how crucial this week’s tutorial is for your grade. And then? It hits. The realisation that you’ve spent the entire week drinking enough caffeine to make your heart believe it’s doing the Macarena, while your body is just screaming for a nap. But naps are for the weak, right? Wrong.
So you get creative with your sleep schedule. “I’ll just sleep from 2 a.m. to 5 a.m.,” you tell yourself, “and then be productive again at 6 a.m. like the productive machine I am!” Spoiler alert: you do not become a machine. You become a zombie—but with a laptop and a notebook. The first time this happens, you tell yourself, “This isn’t so bad. I’ve got this. I’m a professional at sleep deprivation. Look at me go!”
But then, by the third time it happens, you find yourself sitting at your desk, eyes wide open yet somehow unable to focus on the pages of your textbook. You’ve been staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes, and somehow, the words are still nothing but blurry, gibberish. “What am I even reading?” you wonder. You blink. You re-read. You blink again, and yet, it’s still nonsense. Suddenly, you realise that you’ve developed a very intimate relationship with your desk chair. In fact, you’ve spent so many hours in that chair, you’re starting to believe it might actually be a part of you. “Am I… part chair now?” you wonder. You’re not sure, but you’d rather not find out.
By now, you’ve officially hit rock bottom. At this point, you’ve resorted to napping on the floor between lectures, trying to convince yourself that “this is just temporary” and that “real adults don’t need sleep.” Except that’s a lie. Real adults definitely need sleep. They just hide it behind their successful work-life balance, which, in reality, probably involves some heavy-duty napping and an ungodly amount of coffee.
But here’s the worst part: you’ve spent the entire semester beating your body into submission with sleep deprivation, convincing yourself it’s “fine” because you’re being productive, and still have no idea what’s going on in your courses. You’re just drifting through life like an over-caffeinated ghost, pulling all-nighters, hitting deadlines, and praying to the Wi-Fi gods that your connection holds up for just five more minutes while you upload your assignment.
At some point, your brain taps out. You think you’re still awake, but suddenly, you wake up 40 minutes later, with your face pressed into the keyboard, a random letter typed across your screen. That’s when it clicks: you, my friend, are no longer a student. You are a professional sleeper in denial. But at least you’re still making it through. Barely.
So here’s the moral of this story: sleep is crucial, and I really should’ve listened to that voice telling me to go to bed instead of cramming all night. But at this point, I’ve spent so many nights battling my body’s cries for rest, that I’ve actually become a sleep-deprived warrior, a walking, talking proof that you can survive anything with caffeine, pure stubbornness, and an unhealthy attachment to your desk chair. So maybe sleep is for the weak, but I’ll happily embrace my weakness—just as soon as I’ve had a nap.
Mental Health > Grades (But I’ll Still Try to Get An A)
Okay, real talk. Mental health. The one thing you don’t hear enough about in your degree, but oh, it’s so crucial, isn’t it? It’s the thing that keeps your brain from turning into a mushy puddle of panic attacks, self-doubt, and endless existential dread. Yet, in university, there’s this nasty little beast lurking in the background, whispering in your ear: “Grades matter more than anything.”
Look, we’ve all been there. The late-night panic sessions, the cramming for an exam you barely studied for, and the desperate “please, please, please let me get at least a 2:1” thoughts circling your brain. When you’re constantly being bombarded with deadlines, assessments, and the looming spectre of your next test, it’s hard not to fall into the trap of thinking that your grades are everything. You start measuring your worth in percentages, and let me tell you—that is a slippery slope. One day you’re obsessed with your GPA, the next you’re counting how many hours of sleep you’ve lost trying to stay ahead of the academic game.
But here’s the thing: Your mental health is more important than those grades. Period. No A+ is worth burning yourself out, driving yourself to the point of tears, or crashing from caffeine overload just to hit a shiny number on your transcript. And yet, the system? It doesn’t always make this clear. The hustle for perfect grades is real, my friend. You’re told you need to be on top of everything, doing your best at all times, but no one gives you the rulebookon how to survive the pressure.
In second year, it gets even trickier. You’ve survived the first-year chaos, but now you’re in the thick of things—really in the thick of it. Deadlines are piling up, group projects are throwing you into the emotional abyss, and the hours spent staring at code that refuses to run could easily be spent having a mini existential crisis over what to have for dinner. But instead, you’re tangled in assignments, revising for exams that seem to appear out of nowhere, and trying to keep track of whether you’ve emailed that professor about your special circumstances or whether you just dreamt it.
You start to feel the pressure. It creeps in like a sneaky shadow, tapping you on the shoulder and saying, “What if you fail?” And suddenly, the pressure becomes a beast you have to wrestle with. Because on top of all of this? You still care about your grades. It’s not that you’re ignoring your mental health; it’s just that your brain won’t let you forget about the assignments, the tests, and the constant, nagging thought that you should be doing more.
Here’s where it gets tricky. You might start saying things like, “I just need to power through. One more night of no sleep, and I’ll be fine.” But your brain, your body, your entire being—it’s screaming at you. It’s telling you that skipping meals, staying up all night, and missing out on socialising with your mates is not sustainable. You can’t keep running on fumes and caffeine forever, but it feels like you have no choice.
The secret here is finding the balance. You can strive for an A without completely annihilating yourself in the process. It is possible. Maybe it’s about learning how to say “no” when someone asks you to join that group chat at 3 a.m. for a last-minute project revision session. Maybe it’s about realising that a decent night’s sleep will actually help you perform better on that exam than studying all night. Maybe it’s about being honest with yourself—there’s no shame in recognising that your mental health deserves just as much priority as your grades.
I’ve learned, the hard way, that when you start ignoring your mental health for the sake of perfection, your grades will start to lose their value. The grades may come, or they may not, but your mind? That needs to stay intact. You’re not a robot. You’re a human being. And as much as you want to make your parents proud, secure that shiny job at the end of your degree, and ace that bloody exam, none of that is worth sacrificing your mental wellbeing.
So yes, I will still try to get an A (because let’s be real, who doesn’t want a good grade?). But I’m going to make sure that in the process, I’m not sacrificing my peace of mind, my ability to breathe without stressing, or my own happiness. It’s a work in progress. Some days, it’s harder than others to remember that mental health > grades. But here’s to trying to get the best of both worlds, without losing your mind in the process.
The Wi-Fi Will Betray You, But Your Determination Shouldn’t
Ah, Wi-Fi (iBUS PLEASE HELP). The invisible force that both empowers and betrays us all in equal measure. We’ve all been there. It’s the night before a deadline, your laptop is open, and the Wi-Fi connection is strong—so strong. The stars are aligned. You’re ready to conquer the world with your machine learning algorithms, run your final piece of code, or simply upload that report you’ve been toiling over for weeks. The Wi-Fi is there to help you, right? Wrong.
In reality, the Wi-Fi is just biding its time, pretending to be your friend. And then, out of nowhere—BAM. iBUS decides to take a vacation right when you need it most. RIGHT WHEN YOU NEED YOUTUBE TO PASS YOUR EXAMS. It’s like that one friend who promises they’ll show up to your party but leaves you hanging at the door. The connection suddenly drops, and you stare at your screen, blinking as if the Wi-Fi is going to magically return by sheer willpower. Spoiler alert: it won’t.
You refresh the page. Nothing. You restart your device. Still nothing. You stand there, watching the little loading icon spin like it’s mocking you. In this moment, the Wi-Fi isn’t just a utility. It’s a betrayer, a fiend who thrives on your panic, feeding off the chaos of your upcoming deadlines. And as you sit there, frozen in disbelief, you remember: The Wi-Fi is always out to get you.
This betrayal is even worse when you’re in the middle of a group project. You’re zooming in with your team, trying to actually get something done for once, and then—boom—the Wi-Fi cuts out. Everyone’s muted, the screen freezes, and your half-finished code is trapped on your screen like it’s in Wi-Fi purgatory. Your entire group is left staring at each other through pixelated versions of their own faces, desperately trying to reconnect, praying to the internet gods for just a second of stability. It’s a tragic, gut-wrenching affair.
Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to rely on MUJ Wi-Fi, but if you have, you’ll know it’s not exactly the most trustworthy companion. There are days when it will serve you faithfully, like a loyal dog, letting you zoom through your lecture slides or download that crucial software update. But the second it realises you’re under pressure? It takes a stroll. It checks out. It’s like that one mate who says they’re up for a 2 a.m. study sesh, only to bail at the last minute. And the worst part? You can’t exactly get mad at the Wi-Fi, because it’s not a human. It’s just… there. Mocking you with its mysterious signals, playing with your stress levels like it knows you’re already operating on fumes.
But here’s the thing: The Wi-Fi will fail you. You can count on that. But your determination? That’s something you have full control over. Sure, you might not have the perfect connection. You might be at the mercy of a dodgy router, a malfunctioning modem, or a random blackout in the middle of an online exam. But as long as you’ve got your determination (and maybe a backup plan), you’ve got a fighting chance.
In those moments when you’re staring at the spinning wheel of doom, you have to remember: It’s not the Wi-Fi that’s going to get you through this. It’s you. Whether you’re sending an email to your professor, frantically reconnecting to Zoom, or just finding a way to switch to mobile data, your resilience is what matters most. Wi-Fi can be flaky, but you can’t let that break you. The world might be a chaotic mess of poor connections, but your determination will be the one thing that never lets you down.
And when, miraculously, the Wi-Fi decides to grace you with its presence once again? You’re ready. You won’t waste a single moment. You’ll hit send, upload your assignment, and give a little victory fist pump to the gods of the internet. You’ve survived the betrayal, and now it’s time to emerge victorious. You might not have had control over the Wi-Fi, but your determination has carried you through. That’s the real power.
So, the next time the Wi-Fi lets you down, don’t give up. Be the person who survives the chaos, even when the internet’s playing games. Because, at the end of the day, it’s not the signal strength that matters—it’s the strength of your will to push through, even when everything’s on the line. Wi-Fi is weak. You are not.
Coffee Is Your Only Friend – But Also Your Worst Enemy
Let’s talk about coffee—the liquid lifeline that keeps us alive, yet somehow also drags us closer to the edge of madness with every sip. Coffee is like that one friend who always has your back, but also lowkey causes all your problems. It’s the best of times and the worst of times, all in one mug.
There you are, sitting at your desk in the middle of an all-nighter, staring down at your open laptop like it’s your nemesis. Your eyelids are doing their best impression of being glued shut. Your brain is operating at 0.3% capacity, and yet, there’s still that one task left—the final push before you can collapse into the abyss of your bed (which will probably also end up being a glorified nap). And what do you reach for? That beautiful, steaming cup of coffee.
The first sip? Heaven. It’s like a warm hug, but with caffeine instead of love. You feel it course through your veins, and suddenly, your brain starts firing on all cylinders. You go from barely able to form a sentence to typing furiously, as if the coffee has unlocked some hidden superpower. The work that once felt impossible now seems like an easy challenge—a little caffeine, a little hustle, and I’ve got this.
You take another sip. Ahhh. Life is beautiful again. You’re invincible. You can crush this assignment. Forget sleep. Forget food. It’s just you, your laptop, and a mug full of that black gold. You are now in the zone. But here’s where things take a dark turn.
You’ve now become too reliant on this magical brew. The power it gives you isn’t endless. Slowly but surely, that first wave of energy starts to fade, and you’re left feeling strangely empty. You reach for your second cup. “It’s fine,” you tell yourself. “Just one more.” And so it begins—the slow descent into coffee dependency. One cup becomes two, two becomes three, and by 3 a.m., you’re sipping on your fourth cup, eyes wide open like a character in a horror movie, wondering if you’ve accidentally sold your soul to the coffee gods.
And there, in the infinite abyss of your caffeine-induced mania, you begin to realise: coffee has become your worst enemy. It’s no longer the miracle drug that got you through the night—it’s now the thing keeping you awake at 3 a.m. while you lie in bed, tossing and turning, unable to shut your mind off. It’s like a prank, except you’re the one who’s being pranked. Coffee’s betrayal is subtle, yet brutal.
The jitteriness kicks in. Your heart races faster than your thoughts, and you’re now hyper-aware of every little noise. The clock ticking? Too loud. The neighbour’s dog barking? A symphony of terror. You start to question reality—Is it just me, or is the room spinning? You’re too caffeinated to sleep, but somehow too tired to continue being productive. Your mind is racing, but you can’t focus on anything. You’re stuck in coffee purgatory—too wired to sleep, too tired to work, and way too anxious to make good decisions.
And then, just when you think you’ve reached your limit, you’re faced with the worst part of all: the crash. You’ve downed four cups of coffee, your energy’s peaked, but now, it’s plummeting. Like a rollercoaster, you crash hard. You go from “I can take on the world” to “Please, just let me die under this pile of textbooks.” Your concentration goes down the drain, your brain fogs over, and all you can do is sit there, wishing you’d never taken that extra cup.
But here’s the catch—coffee doesn’t just betray you during the crash. It’s the perpetual cycle of highs and lows that keeps you coming back for more. The next day, you wake up, feel like you’ve been hit by a bus, but there’s that single, reassuring thought—“One cup, just one cup, and I’ll be okay.”
You know it’s toxic. You know it’s a vicious cycle. But you also know that without it, you’d never survive the day. Coffeeis that friend who convinces you to pull an all-nighter and promises everything will be fine. But once you’re deep in the caffeine abyss, it’s also the friend who abandons you the second you need them most.
So, we live in this delicate dance of love and hate, constantly chasing that elusive, glorious cup of caffeine, knowing full well it will probably be the thing that keeps us awake at 4 a.m., making questionable decisions, yet we still can’t stop. It’s the student life, in a nutshell: coffee is your best friend, but also your worst enemy. And at the end of the day, we’re all just hoping to survive until the next cup.
How to Fail Gracefully: The Art of Pretending You’re Fine
Let’s face it—failure happens. It’s part of the university experience. You’ll miss deadlines, get subpar grades, and probably experience a few existential crises over the fact that your course has left you questioning every life decision that led you here. But hey, it’s okay! What’s important is not whether you fail (because you will), but how you manage to fail gracefully. And if there’s one thing second-year uni students know, it’s that pretending you’re fine is an art form you will perfect whether you like it or not.
Now, failing doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve been caught out for slacking—oh no, it’s more nuanced than that. Sometimes you’ll fail even though you’ve done everything in your power. You’ve studied for hours, sacrificed social events, and maybe even slightly ignored your mental health (because, you know, it’s fine). But life doesn’t always follow the “if you work hard, you’ll succeed” script. And that’s when you need to bring out the most reliable tool in your university toolkit: the ability to look calm, collected, and like you’ve got everything under control—even if you don’t.
It starts with a subtle look. You’re sitting in that lecture, knowing full well you’ve probably failed that latest test, and your mind is a swirling mess of self-doubt. The grade’s just been posted, and you’ve done the whole “I’ll check it later” thing—only now later is here. It’s like walking into an interrogation room and willingly sitting in the chair. Your heart races as you click on the grade, expecting the worst. And then, boom, you see it: a disaster.
At that exact moment, you have a choice to make. You could either scream, run out of the lecture hall, or dramatically collapse onto the desk and pretend you’re having a breakdown. But no, that’s not the move. Grace is key. You need to channel your inner cool cucumber, taking a deep breath, glancing at the grade, and then with a smirk that says “I’m absolutely fine,” you carry on like it’s just another day in paradise. No one needs to know you’re seconds away from a nervous breakdown.
Once you’ve nailed the initial “I’m totally fine” act, the next step is the art of conversation management. When the topic of grades inevitably comes up, you need to be prepared. If a friend asks how you did, your immediate response should be a confident, “Oh, you know, it was… interesting.” Follow it up with a shrug, because shrugging is the universal language for “I don’t care, but I’m definitely hiding my inner turmoil”. If they press you further, just say something like, “It wasn’t my best work, but I’ll be fine. Just got to keep moving forward, right?” Cue dramatic sigh. And if all else fails, just talk about the next exam. Nothing distracts from a failed grade quite like the promise of future pain.
You know the trick is working when you start to believe it yourself. The more you act like you’re handling it all like a zen master, the more you start convincing your brain that, hey, maybe this isn’t the end of the world. Sure, the grade sucks, but you are unbreakable. You can’t be crushed by a silly little thing like failure. After all, you’re a student warrior. A badge of honour for those who are just too stubborn to quit, even when the universe gives you an F for effort.
Now, for the next part: the aftermath. You go home, get into bed, and cry. No one can see this part. It’s all about the public persona of strength and the private chaos of “How will I explain this to my parents without them losing their minds?” And here’s the thing—you don’t. You don’t explain. You give a vague, nonchalant response. Something like, “It’s fine, I’ll just need to catch up a bit more.” And when they ask if you’re okay, you throw them a charming smile, say “Yes!” with a little too much enthusiasm, and immediately dive into a tangent about something completely unrelated.
At the end of the day, failure is part of the game, but how you deal with it is your power move. You don’t need to let everyone know you’re crumbling inside. You don’t need to explain every misstep. Just channel your best “I’m definitely not panicking right now” vibe, and go back to your desk. Failure doesn’t define you—how you bounce back from itdoes. So, pretend you’re fine, because with a little grace, you’ll get through this. And when the grades come around next time? You’ll know how to handle it… just with a bit more strategy and maybe a tad less caffeine.
YOOO? Who Threw My Social Life into Space?
Look. I didn’t ask for much. Just a semi-functioning sleep schedule, decent grades, and a sprinkle—just a sprinkle—of social interaction. Maybe the occasional brunch, a cheeky night out, a coffee date where I don’t talk about assignments or impending doom. But noooo. Somewhere between second-year coursework, surprise quizzes, group project mayhem, and my body randomly deciding to nap for 6 hours in the middle of the day, my social life got absolutely YEETED into the stratosphere.
Gone. Vanished. Casually orbiting Saturn, probably.
Like seriously, I used to have plans. Hobbies. I once went outside for fun—not just to cry-walk around campus while pretending to take a “mental clarity stroll” (which is really just code for “I’m spiralling and needed fresh air”). I used to RSVP to things and actually show up. But now? I RSVP with my whole chest and then flake like a croissant because I’ve got two deadlines, three breakdowns, and a lab report all due in the same 48-hour window. Social life who? Never met her.
Uni culture tells you, “Balance is key.” But no one mentions how the scale is rigged. You try to schedule a little hangout, and suddenly your timetable is like, “Surprise! Group presentation prep at 7PM, followed by crying at 9, and finishing that data model at midnight.” Cancel your movie night, bestie—your social life’s been replaced by spreadsheets and the haunting sound of your Canvas notifications.
And don’t even get me started on messaging people back. Texts pile up like dishes in the sink. You open your phone and bam—149 unread messages, and you’re just sitting there like, “How do I respond without admitting that I’ve been too overwhelmed to even think in full sentences?” So you do what any responsible adult does: you leave it for later and spiral quietly.
Group chats used to be chaotic fun. Now they’re just a minefield of “Who’s free?” and “Let’s plan something soon!” You scroll, you ghost, you whisper a soft “maybe next week” even though you and your planner both know that week is already booked with mayhem.
And when you finally do make it out? You’re half-human, half-zombie. You’re smiling, sipping your iced coffee like everything’s fine, while your internal monologue is just one long scream. People say “You’ve been so quiet lately!” and you have to resist the urge to say, “That’s because I’ve emotionally flatlined and time isn’t real anymore.” Instead, you laugh, say something vague like “Haha yeah, just busy y’know!” and try not to cry in public.
But here’s the thing—we’re not broken. We’re just in our ✨character development arc✨. Uni’s weird. You’re expected to maintain grades, internships, a personality, a skincare routine, and a vibrant social life… and sometimes the social part does get launched into deep space.
And that’s okay. Because when it boomerangs back (and it will), you’ll know which friends are real, who stuck around when you couldn’t show up, and which brunches are truly worth the energy. Until then, it’s okay to be MIA for a bit, to choose rest over raves, or deadlines over dinner parties. The social life isn’t gone forever—it’s just floating up there somewhere… waiting for you to press pause on the chaos and call it back down to Earth.
PSA: If anyone sees my social life out there in the galaxy… tell her I miss her. And I swear I’ll reply to her texts soon.
Lessons You Don’t Learn in Class, But Wish You Did
(a.k.a. “Why Did No One Warn Me?”)
Alright, look. Uni promised me many things: academic excellence, personal growth, “the best years of my life.” What it didn’t promise—but really should have—is that half the actual learning wouldn’t happen in the lecture halls. No no, the real syllabus is written in tears, late-night epiphanies, budget breakdowns, and passive-aggressive emails from Apurv. Welcome to the unofficial curriculum—no credits, no lectures, just chaos and vibes.
1. How to Eat a Balanced Meal Using Only Toast and Vibes
Why isn’t there a module called “Nutrition for the Broke and Busy”? Because I would’ve aced that. You learn quickly how to turn plain bread into an event: toast with butter? Breakfast. Toast with peanut butter? Gourmet. Toast with emotional instability? That’s dinner, baby. Cooking is romanticised until you’re three assignments deep and the idea of washing up a pan feels like a personal attack.
2. Emailing Professors: The Most Terrifying Form of Communication
No one taught me how to write the perfect “Sorry I missed your 9am, please don’t hate me” email. There’s a very specific formula—just the right ratio of apology to professionalism, with a dash of pretending-you’re-fine. And the sign-off? It’s an art form. “Kind regards” feels too formal, “Best” is cold, and “Warm wishes”? What am I, a Victorian ghost? I end up going with “Thanks!” and 47 anxious rereads.
3. Budgeting 101: The Math You Actually Needed
They never told me financial ruin would be this aesthetic. There’s nothing like checking your bank balance after a “quick Allmart run” and realising that Buldak was a luxury purchase. One day you’re balling out with American Chopsuey and Large Brownie Cold Coffee, next day you’re googling “can you keep bread for 4 days?” and budgeting in units of noodles. Learning to make 700INR stretch a week is a skill I’ll carry forever—like a broke little badge of honour.
4. Emotional Regulation When Everything Feels Like A Crisis
You will cry. In the library, in the loo, possibly on a bus. No shame, it’s part of the process. And you learn to mask it with absolute Oscar-level finesse. But real talk? I wish someone had said, “Hey, your brain will sometimes turn a minor inconvenience into an emotional avalanche, and that’s okay.” Your coping mechanisms may involve spontaneous cleaning, rage-napping, or staring into the void—but over time, you find what works for you.
5. Group Projects: A Psychological Thriller
This should be a module in itself. Learning to work with people who ghost for two weeks then reappear with the wrong document is a character-building exercise you didn’t ask for. You’ll become a master of passive-aggression and learn the fine art of smiling through gritted teeth while mentally rewriting the entire project. Apurv, if you’re reading this, I’m still recovering from the Canva-RDBMS deal we made.
6. You’re Allowed to Say “No”
One of the biggest, baddest lessons? Learning that you don’t have to say yes to everything. You don’t have to attend every social, accept every responsibility, or pretend you’re okay when you’re very much not. Protecting your peace isn’t selfish—it’s survival. Boundaries are sexy. Burnout is not.
7. Healing Isn’t Linear (Neither Are Deadlines)
Sometimes you’ll feel on top of it all—organised, hydrated, emotionally stable—and sometimes you’ll be feral in a hoodie, watching your to-do list grow like mould. Both are valid. Growth is messy. And you’ll learn, through many mini-meltdowns, that failure isn’t the opposite of success—it’s part of the map.
8. Roommate Diplomacy: The Great Mug War of 2024
Ah, hostel living. Nothing teaches you about conflict resolution faster than passive-aggressive soft board notes and mysteriously disappearing forks. No one prepared me for the silent warfare over dishes, bin duty, or someone stealing my kurkure again. You’ll learn to negotiate peace treaties via chats, send emotionally loaded memes instead of confrontation, and give Ted Talks to your friends about how “we live in a society, not a swamp.” It’s like living in a reality show, except no one gets voted off—they just stop cleaning the bathroom out of spite.
9. You Will Become That Person Who Talks to Themselves
And not just a cheeky mutter under your breath. No, we’re talking full-blown conversations. Narrating your every move like you’re in a BBC drama.
“Right. If I just finish this one paragraph, I can have a biscuit. Maybe two. Or a whole packet. What is time? Who am I?”
Honestly, your inner monologue becomes your bestie, therapist, and motivational speaker all in one. If people overhear you in the library whispering “you’ve got this, queen”—no they didn’t. Mind your business.
10. Imposter Syndrome Hits Harder Than Your Deadline Panic
You could be smashing assignments, landing internships, and still feel like someone’s going to pop out of a bush and scream “EXCUSE ME, YOU DON’T BELONG HERE.” That voice in your head? Lying. Gaslighting. Delusional. You’re not an imposter—you’re just growing, and growing feels like faking it sometimes. The truth? Everyone else is winging it too, they’re just better at pretending. So bluff your way with confidence, and remember: even the smartest student once Googled “how to Harvard reference a meme.”
11. Productivity Culture Will Try to Eat You Alive
At some point, you’ll convince yourself that if you’re not working, you’re wasting time. And that’s the lie. That’s the poison. That’s the enemy. You are not a robot. You do not need to earn rest. Breaks are not rewards—they’re oxygen. So romanticise your recharge moments. Make a cup of tea like it’s a sacred ritual. Take a nap like it’s your human right (because it is). Hustle culture who? We’re healing, not grinding.
12. Friendship Isn’t Just Who You Sit Next To in First Year
People shift. Circles change. Some friends fade like a blurry Fresher’s photo. And that’s okay. The real ones? They’re the people who check on you even when you go off-grid. The ones who send you memes at 3AM, hype you up when you’re unhinged, and sit in silence with you when you just can’t. You’ll realise that friendship in uni isn’t about quantity—it’s about quality chaos.
13. You’ll Romanticise Rock Bottom (And That’s Called Character)
There’s a special kind of feral joy in hitting your lowest moment and turning it into ✨content✨. You’ll find yourself laughing through tears, tweeting your trauma, journaling like a dramatic Victorian heroine. And somehow? That makes it bearable. Lean into the chaos. Cry dramatically. Then write about it like a legend. That’s called narrative control, babes.
14. You’ll Google “Should I Drop Out” At Least Once a Semester
It starts off as a joke. “Ha ha, what if I just quit and moved to the forest?” Then suddenly it’s 1:17AM, you’re watching videos about starting a van life vlog in the Alps and calculating how long you could live off your last hostel payment.
The fantasy hits hard: no emails, no deadlines, just you and a farm and maybe a goat named Susan. But once the panic fizzles and you actually get a bit of sleep, you realise it’s not the degree you hate—it’s the burnout. You don’t want to run from your dream, you just need a nap, a hug, and someone to tell you that you’re doing better than you think. So here’s that: you’re doing better than you think.
15. The 250INR Meal Deal Will Become Your Most Committed Relationship
Forget romance. You don’t need a partner when Pizza Bakers gives you meals. You’ll find yourself developing personal loyalties—are you a Stardom roll stan? A Chinatown loyalist? You’ll defend your choices with the passion of someone arguing in court.
And yes, it’s 63% salt and 37% sadness, but it’s comfort food with a side of “at least I’m eating something.” In this economy? That’s love, babe. That’s survival. And that’s basically nutrition, right?
16. You’ll Lie to Yourself About Deadlines (And Weirdly, It Helps)
You’ll swear you’re starting early. You’ll plan it out, colour-code it, maybe even open the doc and title it “FINAL ESSAY (real this time).” Then you blink and it’s due in 6 hours, and you’re speed-typing with the panic of a raccoon in a bin.
And somehow, in the chaos? You deliver. You finesse. You channel a higher power. You become the Beyoncé of academic blagging. Is it healthy? No. Is it sustainable? Also no. But the rush? The delusion? The main character energy? Unmatched. You live. You learn. You lie again next semester.
17. Your Body Will Keep the Score, Even If You Don’t
You might ignore the red flags: tension headaches, a twitchy eye, random bursts of tears during laundry. “It’s just stress,”you say. “I’m just tired.” But babe, stress isn’t supposed to be your default setting.
Eventually, your body starts screaming what your brain’s been whispering—this pace is not cute anymore. You’ll learn that burnout doesn’t come with fireworks. It creeps in, quiet and heavy. And healing? It starts with the smallest things: drinking water, moving your body, sleeping without guilt. You don’t have to earn rest. You just have to honour it.
18. There’s No Shame in Asking for Extensions
At first, it feels like failure. Like you’re waving the white flag. But no—asking for help is one of the hardest, most badass things you can do in uni. That email that says “Hi, I’m struggling and I need more time”? That’s a win. That’s self-respect. That’s knowing your limits and protecting your peace.
Some lecturers will be kind, others might hit you with the “we’re all struggling” energy—but don’t let that shake you. You are not a machine. You don’t owe anyone a performance of perfection. You owe yourself grace.
19. Your Room Will Reflect Your Mental State and Vice Versa
The pile of clothes on the chair. The desk with 7 mugs. The plant that gave up on life just like you did after Week 8. It’s all a mirror. And you’ll realise one day—after a little cry and a lot of procrastination—that cleaning your space isn’t about tidiness. It’s a love letter to yourself.
You’ll put on a playlist, open the window, light a candle and start small. And as the clutter goes, so does the fog in your head. Your room becomes a sanctuary again, not just a stress nest. And in that moment, you remember: you’re not broken—you’re just buried. Clean space, clean spirit. ✨
20. You’ll Romanticise Rock Bottom to Cope (And Honestly, Slay)
You know the vibe. The crying-in-the-shower soundtrack moment. The Phoebe Bridgers at midnight shuffle while staring out the window like you’re in a low-budget indie film. The silent “please give me a sign” plead to the sky because Mercury’s in retrograde and your bank account is haunting you.
Is it dramatic? Absolutely. Necessary? Kinda. But here’s the thing—it helps. Romanticising the mess makes it bearable. It turns pain into poetry. If you’re gonna spiral, you might as well have a killer soundtrack, mood lighting, and a protagonist monologue in your head. That’s not delulu, babe—that’s survival with ✨aesthetic vision✨.
21. You’ll Learn to Spot a Breakdown Coming Like a Weather Forecast
At first, it hits outta nowhere. One minute you’re fine, the next you’re frozen in bed wondering why even breathing feels like a task. But with time, you start to notice the signs—the brain fog, the bone-deep fatigue, the “I’ll reply to that later” texts piling up like a guilt tower.
But here’s the growth: instead of ignoring it, you prepare. You throw on your safety hoodie. You cancel that one thing you were dreading. You make tea, or cry, or journal—or just rest. You stop the spiral before it hits Mach 5. That’s not weakness, bestie. That’s emotional meteorology. You’re forecasting healing in real time.
22. Sometimes Just Getting Out of Bed is the Win
Some days the world feels like it’s moving without you—assignments, deadlines, social plans—all speeding past while you’re stuck in slow-mo. And on those days, productivity isn’t the goal. Survival is.
If all you did was get up, wash your face, send one email and scroll Reels under a blanket—you still did something. You still showed up for yourself, in the smallest but bravest way. Progress isn’t always loud. Sometimes it whispers, “you tried today, and that’s enough.” And it really, really is.
23. You’ll Outgrow People You Thought You’d Have Forever
Uni friendships can feel like soulmates forged in the fire of all-nighters and shared meal deals. You tell them secrets at 2AM and laugh ‘til your stomach hurts in seminar break rooms. But sometimes, people drift. No drama. No fight. Just different directions.
And it hurts. It really does. But what if you saw it not as loss, but as evolution? The universe gently editing your cast list. Some people were meant to shape one season, not the whole show. Mourn them. Miss them. But don’t chase what’s already moved on. There’s beauty in the letting go.
24. You’re Allowed to Celebrate the Little Things
Uni makes you think only big wins count—firsts, awards, job offers. But babe, the small stuff? That’s where the gold lives. A good hair day after three weeks of chaos. Getting 7 hours of sleep AND waking up before your alarm. Actually finishing your laundry pile for once (miraculous, honestly).
These little victories are the proof. That you’re still trying. That life is still happening, even when it feels still. Celebrate them like they matter—because they do. Light a candle. Blast your hype song. Text your friend “I DID A THING.” Romanticise the heck out of your own effort.
FINAL THOUGHTS: The Messy, Magical Middle
Second year is the in-between chapter no one warns you about. You’re not wide-eyed and clueless anymore (okay, maybe still a little clueless), but you’re not yet the wise, world-weary senior with a LinkedIn profile that actually looks like it belongs to a functioning adult. You’re just… here. Learning. Crashing. Laughing. Crying. Spiralling and slaying, sometimes simultaneously.
And in the chaos, you discover things no curriculum could teach: how to choose yourself, how to make peace with failure, how to hold your own hand when no one else is around. These aren’t just lessons—they’re survival spells, tiny testaments to the strength you didn’t know you had.
Because yes, the academic side of second year is bonkers (Data Science? In this economy?), but so is the emotional syllabus. And unlike that one stats course, these lessons? They’ll actually stay with you forever.
You’re not lost, love—you’re just levelling up.
Now, here’s where I’d usually say something like: “For more fun and intriguing articles, visit Her Campus at MUJ!”And while that still slaps (and you absolutely should), this time… it’s more than that.
This is my little love letter. My chaotic kiss on the forehead. My soft “ciao-for-now” as your Chapter Senior Events Director-slash-Creative Director-slash-Editor Extraordinaire™ here at Her Campus MUJ.
(Yes, I might be getting a promotion. No, I’ll never get this flavour of madness again.)
So if you want more chaos, catharsis, and caffeine-fuelled brain spirals like this one, you know where to find me:
✨ Visit Her Campus at MUJ for heartbreak diaries, existential rants, serotonin playlists, and the occasional unhinged Canva poster.
💌 And if you want a front-row seat to the rom-com that is my brain, keep an eye out for Niamat Dhillon at HCMUJ—I’m not disappearing, I’m just shapeshifting.
Thanks for reading. For feeling. For growing up alongside me—even if we were all kinda faking it.
Now go out and write your own chaotic list of lessons. Whether you’re nineteen, twenty-nine, or mentally done at twenty-one—promise me this:
Keep learning.
Keep loving.
Keep showing up.
And never, ever settle for plain salted Lays.
Romanticise everything.
You deserve that much.
Catch you in the next chapter (literally). 💗
Love and light,
Niamat Dhillon
A Lot of Roles ’24–25