Harriet Hobbs
Those of us who have already been through it know that the first year at university can be a tough one. A tumultuous rollercoaster, which is not eased by the fact that you are often thrown into a big, new city where you know next to no one, far from your family and comfort zone. Harriet Hobbs has finished her first year and has the battle scars (and confetti from Crisis) to show it. So, to all of those about to embark on their adventure into the scholarly world, here’s Harriet’s firsthand account of it all to give you hope that things will turn out alright…
I remember it well. I was 15 years old, visiting my sister at the University of Manchester, wandering around her very student-y accommodation, when I developed a pit in my stomach. ‘There’s no way I could do this,’ I thought. The sticky kitchen, the strangers, and the crippling fear of being ripped away from all I knew gave me a sense of such dread about my own journey in the near future. This feeling didn’t subside in the lead-up to moving to Notts. I was thrilled, of course, to be accepted; all my hard work had paid off, but… actually going? God no. That’s something other people do. Older people. Older siblings. Not me. Not now. The night before the big day, I recall making my family laugh by saying, ‘I feel like the authorities need to step in and stop this! Hatty’s not allowed to be sent to university all by herself!’ But I was and I did.
The first few days were hell. I’m not going to sugarcoat it. The barren dorm room that was suddenly my new home felt like a prison cell.
The first few days were hell. I’m not going to sugarcoat it. The barren dorm room that was suddenly my new home felt like a prison cell. I felt like a raw nerve wandering around a country I’d never been to. Fighting back tears and mustering all the strength I could, I traipsed in the pouring rain to the Coates Building following my phone’s questionable route and blasting ‘I Can Do It With A Broken Heart’ by Taylor Swift for the ‘Intro to English’ talk. In all honesty, I really was heartbroken. I had tears bubbling at every moment, and all I wanted was to be picked up by my dad and driven home. Somehow, the nights were harder. I didn’t go out in freshers as the old pal anxiety convinced me I’d be left stranded and not be able to find my way back. This point was certainly the lowest. Mind you, that was only the second to third day. However, time moved at a snail’s pace, and each minute felt like two hours.
After a particularly intense crying session, something suddenly clicked in me. This doesn’t have to be perfect. And more so, that I could hate it if I wanted to, because it was mine to hate. Once this mentality entered my brain, everything became so much easier. I could stomp to the shops and buy myself a tub of cookie dough ice cream to snack on whilst miserably watching Bridget Jones because I didn’t have to revel in every moment, I just had to live them. That’s enough. Once I removed the pressure of forcing myself to enjoy every moment, the moments became more and more enjoyable.
There is something so uniquely special about the experience of sharing a corridor of identically tiny rooms with 6 people thrown together from across the UK.
As the weeks went by, I found myself laughing hysterically in the kitchen with some of the most wonderful people I have ever met. Our bonds became tighter and tighter until we couldn’t imagine ever not knowing one another. There is something so uniquely special about the experience of sharing a corridor of identically tiny rooms with 6 people thrown together from across the UK. I know, there are horror stories about halls, but in our case, we couldn’t help but become a family. There are epic memories like the huge Broadgate snowball fight at one o’clock in the morning, but what will remain in my heart forever are the tiny, mundane moments. Cooking in the kitchen, stumbling up flights of stairs each week coming back from Ocean, catching confetti in Crisis, movie nights in each other’s rooms (Shrek and Pitch Perfect were the flat favourites) and the endless hours spent lingering in our doorways yapping before saying, “Guys its 3:43, we need to go to bed.” There are millions of these tiny moments, and yet they mean so very much. Perhaps they are not so tiny after all.
Bierkeller bruises became a regular adornment to our legs, and flailing our arms around, dancing like lunatics to Andy Hoe’s Friday playlist became a weekly occurrence.
Notts became our home. We found our favourite places to eat, figured out the maze that is Tesco Extra in Beeston, and even made friends with the Broadgate cat, who we nicknamed ‘Shelly’ because, why not? Fear of clubs turned into, “Which colour bob do you want for Ocean? I’m going pink.” Bierkeller bruises became a regular adornment to our legs, and flailing our arms around, dancing like lunatics to Andy Hoe’s Friday playlist became a weekly occurrence. I wouldn’t trade any of those moments for the world.
On the 8th June, the dreaded day came. With all our belongings lining the corridor, posters taken down, and Shelly nowhere to be found, it was time to leave. We hugged and squeezed one another as if we would never let go, whilst a few tears ran down our cheeks. To think we were all strangers just 8 months prior seemed impossible. We lived a lot of life in that small window of time and made memories to last a lifetime.
In the car, I reflected on the person who walked into that flat and how little she knew of the journey she would go on. Arriving home felt surreal. My small town was exactly as I’d left it, as if I hadn’t been away. I felt like Dorothy waking up in Kansas without proof of her adventures. No one here knows anything about Ocean, Bierkeller, or Shelly, or the inside jokes and corridor chats. Did it all even happen?
But, of course, it did – I can prove it. I still have the Crisis confetti.
Harriet Hobbs
Featured image courtesy of Jordon Conner via Unsplash. Image license found here. No changes were made to this image.
In article images all courtesy of the author, Harriet Hobbs. No changes were made to the images.
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