Opinion
Returning to uni at 36 has convinced me: This is no place for teenagers
Wendy Syfret
Freelance writerOne of life’s stranger ironies is that the older we get, the younger we feel. Sadly, I don’t mean in a physical sense. Skin and tendons rarely become more elastic with time. But rather, emotionally.
At 18, I felt like the oldest– or rather most mature person on the planet. I knew everything, could do anything, had seen it all. In less than 20 years I’d achieved the mythical status of “full-fledged adult”. All before learning to drive.
Going to university at 36 has changed the way I see mature-aged students.Credit: iStock
At 36, I can drive (more or less). I also have a career, a mortgage, a long-term relationship and a child. Viewed from the outside, I am an adult. But I know, deep down, that I am a baby.
The larger my world becomes the more aware I am of my smallness. As I discover beautiful and exciting things I understand my naivete and simpleness. This strange trick of identity and time is often made especially obvious to me. I regress to childhood when navigating a tax form or trying to remember if I’m due for a cervical screening. But I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite as young as I do now – navigating life as a mature-age student.
As suggested, confidence wasn’t an issue for me at 18 when I took my first pass at uni. Thirteen years of middling grades and a very average VCE performance had inexplicably imbued in me the confidence of kings. Sitting in lectures I felt like I could have easily taken my place behind the lectern and shown the professor where it was at. That’s when I showed up at all.
If my attendance was spotty, my participation was non-existent. Studying journalism with a minor in English, you’d assume I did some of the prescribed reading. But any memories of them were long ago lost to time and $1 beer specials. Still, no one was more shocked than me when I failed the first semester.
Eventually, I did come down to earth. Life, work, smartphone-induced carpal tunnel and the petty humiliations of having your heart broken by boys who will learn Auslan but not your last name humbled me. With each birthday, I felt younger and younger. Less sure of my abilities. Less certain of my specialness. Less confident about my place in the world. Which is probably how I ended up back in those lecture halls almost two decades later. However, this time, rather than wondering if I should get up and proselytise, I was eager for someone else to tell me who I was supposed to be.
Despite the traces of cringe, I hold a lot of affection for my younger self. But if these two personas were to somehow meet, I doubt the feeling would be mutual. Back then, mature-age students irked me endlessly. Listening to their infinite questions and personal reflections, I didn’t swell with empathy for these tender beings wobbling on the precipice of self-actualisation. I mostly just felt annoyed.
It never occurred to me that their over-engagement was perhaps an attempt to justify taking on an enormous midlife financial burden. Or they didn’t want to have missed a child’s bedtime for a tutorial that didn’t feel fully satisfying. I just inwardly groaned when they admitted to reviewing the enrichment materials.
I’ve been thinking about those wayward feelings a lot recently when I glance at the line-free faces of my current peers and try not to do the maths on whether I could biologically be their mother. But surprisingly, considering how everything else in adult life fills me with dread and self-doubt, their potential judgments bother me less than you’d expect. Because while I sit there rich in the knowledge that I know so little, there is one fact that I never doubt. They’re all absolutely wasting their time.
Not one of those teenagers should be there. Not the silent ones who gaze blankly when the tutor poses a question. Not the engaged overachievers who want to retain their high-school status as teachers’ pets. Not even the glowingly confident slackers who don’t let the fact they haven’t reviewed any of the coursework stop them from claiming centre stage. None of them.
I don’t mean they should never be here. I am coming back for a second helping of uni after all, I can’t be a total sceptic. Specifically, I mean they shouldn’t be here now. Whether they’re getting high distinctions or failing it doesn’t make a difference. They’re all wasting their time, money, arrogance, self-belief and unlined skin in these badly lit rooms.
University is sold to us as a place for the young to explore and grow. But who is really ready for any of that at 18? Leave self-exploration and intellectual adventuring to when you’re 25 at least. These luminous children should be out in the world. Loving, partying, drinking and traumatising each other.
At 18, I saw mature-age students as interlopers. At 36, I see we are the true locals. Of course, my cohort won’t realise any of this until they’re older – and feeling so much younger. But, for now, at least, I promise them this: I’ll never remind the tutor they assigned us homework.
Wendy Syfret is a freelance writer based in Melbourne.
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