University life lessons: The season between what was and what comes next

The questions have changed their tone.

A few months ago, they were practical, sharp, and tied to the daily rush: “Have you started the assignment?” “Which room is the workshop in?” “Are you going to the library later?”

Now, they arrive softly, hovering over the steam of fading cups of coffee: “How is the dissertation going?” “Have you started applying?” “So, what happens next?”

I cannot pinpoint the exact hour the air turned, only that it did. Transitions rarely arrive with loud warnings. There is no single morning where you step across a painted line and realise you have entered a new chapter. Instead, change settles over daily life like a slow shadow. The familiar begins to wear a subtle layer of distance, and the places you passed every afternoon start carrying the weight of upcoming goodbyes.

We spend so much energy preparing for the big milestones of university: the excitement of moving in, the shock of building a world away from home, and the eventual relief of graduation day. But there is a quiet stretch in between that rarely gets written down or talked about. It is the time when one chapter has begun to loosen its grip, yet the next remains uncarved in the fog.

It is the ordinary rhythms I will mourn the most

That unformed ground is where I stand now. I’d call it the in-between phase.

My time here is not finished yet. The dissertation still demands to be written (ah!), and graduation sits on the horizon next year. Yet, campus in the summer feels completely different. The lecture halls that once brimmed with voices now hold a hush. The frantic rush between workshops has dissolved. Friends whose laughter once framed my daily routine are now tracing separate paths, mapping out internships, trips home, and research schedules of their own.

Because the pace has softened, I find myself lingering over the small details I used to walk right past.

It is the ordinary rhythms I will mourn the most. Warm paninis at Curiositea on a chilly afternoon. Fueling all-night study sessions at the library. Figuring out independent living through Sunday night meal preps and grocery runs. The simple grace of walking across Warwick’s green campus without somewhere urgent to be, stopping mid-stride just because the sun broke through the clouds.

We grow by showing up when motivation is absent, stepping into unfamiliar ground before we feel ready, and learning that confidence is earned after taking the first step

I think of waiting near the Sports Hub while a procession of geese slowly crosses the road. Nobody rushes them. Nobody complains. For a few quiet moments, everyone just waits and lets them cross.

It is a small, simple detail, yet it stays with me. The moments that turn into memories are rarely the ones we plan out. They weave themselves into the background of daily life, revealing their magic only as they begin to slip away.

This year, I also spent months training for my first HYROX in Cardiff. What began as a physical challenge taught me a deeper truth about university: the person we become is not forged in a single, dramatic flash. We are built through small, deliberate acts repeated over time. We grow by showing up when motivation is absent, stepping into unfamiliar ground before we feel ready, and learning that confidence is earned after taking the first step, not before.

Rainer Maria Rilke wrote: “Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves.”

I used to think that line was an invitation to wait for answers. Now I see it as a call to accept the unknown. Not every lesson sits in a lecture slide, and not every transformation arrives with a degree. Sometimes, you simply grow while living your life, hidden in late nights, campus walks, and routines that only turn to gold once you realise they are temporary.