I hate Mondays. As an Oxford finalist, every Monday, I feel like I’ve not done enough, worked hard enough, seen enough people, done enough or cared enough. Every Sunday, I’m optimistic. A new week, a new start, a reset. But come Monday, I’m crying in Wellington Square again. 

There are so many people I want to see. Aisha and Becca and Charlie and David and Erin and Freya and Gabriel and Harriet and Isha and Jeannie. I need to talk to Kai and Leila and Maya, and I have a meeting I’m late for with Ned and Ollie and Penny and Qasim. I want to see more of my closest friends, Rhea and Saira and Talia and Uma and Vanessa and Willa. I’m worried about Xander and Yasmine and Zara. (You get the gist).

I want to row more, run more, exercise more, draw more, play the guitar more and sleep more. I want to tutor, volunteer for charities, try new societies, do more student journalism, and meet new people. I want to walk and sleep and study and write a great thesis and revise and see my girlfriend. 

I should try new cafes and new libraries and do a play and go home or go on a road trip and eat healthily and do more cooking and try new restaurants. I should go on holiday with my family, and my friends, and my girlfriend, or by myself, and stay at home, or sit in a pub by the fire. I should read my book, do some crocheting, walk my dog, call my little brothers and play board games. 

But I’m struggling with scheduling. And I’m realising there just isn’t enough time. 

I want to write, and I want to talk, and I want to make a difference and get things right and make sure they last – societies, friendships, relationships, me. 

I want to stay healthy and happy and productive and energetic and smiley and impress people. I want to apply for jobs and build my CV, yet take a gap year and travel the world. Or spend a year in bed, drop out or rusticate, maybe even elope or run away. I could move to America, do a master’s degree, or wait for a year to apply for a master’s degree because I missed all the deadlines.

I could move in with my friends or my girlfriend or move home or move to London. I could work in a pub, start a business, or save the planet. I wanted to write my thesis and come top of the year. At this point, I’m hoping I’ll graduate. 

I want to run a beer mile and try the New College Seven or run around the Radcam in my underwear. I want to have stories. I want to make memories. 

These don’t feel like options or choices. 

They all feel like things I have to do, things I could do if I were more organised or on it – things everyone else is managing to do just fine. For the first time it doesn’t feel like I can do these things next term or next week or next year; there is not enough time. 

And despite wanting to do so much, see so many people, I spend more time by myself than ever. No contact hours. Fewer societies. No rowing. My friends are busy and stressed, and I’m too exhausted to go out when they’re free. There seems to be endless scheduling: today, next week, next month, next vac, next year, and more and more and more moving pieces. No clubbing, but I’m more tired than ever. 

5th week suddenly feels like a death sentence. I thought I had all of Hilary Term before finals to chill out and have fun. But god, it’s going by quickly, and shit, what do I do next?

I think my friends are feeling the same, but we don’t have time to hang out, and when we do, I don’t want to ruin the mood by talking about it. So I’m writing it all down; it’s better than the wait for Oxford University Counselling. Maybe I’ll just send this article to my friends—it will save the time and energy of saying it all again. 

So be nice to Oxford finalists. It is a grave and serious condition. And don’t ask me what I’m doing next year unless you are prepared for tears.

And to all of my friends, yes I’m fine, yes I’d like to get coffee, yes I’ll do my best not to cancel last minute, I hope you’re ok too.