If you’d told me a few years ago that I’d be a full‑time mum, full‑time school leader, and a full‑time student, I would’ve laughed so hard I’d need my inhaler. But here we are.
It all started with a tiny, ridiculous thought:
“Maybe I could teach?”
Followed immediately by:
“Don’t be silly, you’re ancient.”
I tried to ignore it. I really did. But the thought kept creeping back in like a toddler at 3am.
Eventually, I mentioned it to colleagues — casually, like a joke. “Imagine me… teaching.”
But instead of laughing, they hit me with: “You’d be amazing.” “Why not you?” “You literally already do half the job.”
Rude but fair.
Then came the confidence boost from my executive head, who basically said, “Go on then, do it,” which is how I found myself Googling courses at midnight while eating biscuits and questioning every life choice I’ve ever made.
Next thing I know, I’m booking myself onto an open day — because apparently I enjoy suffering.
And THAT is where the universe decided to humble me. I walked in, trying to look like a functioning adult. A staff member smiled and said:
“Are you here to look at the course for your son or your daughter?”
I said, “Me.”
Instant regret.
I wanted the ground to swallow me whole, the building, and ideally the entire postcode.
But I stayed. I listened. I asked questions.
And somewhere between the embarrassment and the panic, I realised something:
I wasn’t too old. I was just starting later. And that’s allowed.
I applied.
They accepted me.
And suddenly I was a student again — Googling “How to reference without crying” and “Do mature students get extra snacks?”
And that’s how The Immature Student was born.
From chaos.
From courage.
From coffee.
Mostly coffee
(and maybe a tiny bit of wine)
The Immature Student 