Here’s your definitive, student-approved guide to the best places to absolutely lose it on campus: Glasgow edition

Let’s be honest — if you study at the University of Glasgow and haven’t cried on campus yet, you’re either lying or in denial. Between midterm feedback that feels like a personal attack, the sudden realisation that your seminar tutor actually expects you to read the readings, and the sheer brutality of Scottish weather, tears are practically part of the curriculum.

But where, exactly, should one let it all out? Fear not. After extensive research (read: emotional damage and too many espressos), here’s a definitive guide to the top-tier crying spots on campus — ranked by comfort, privacy, and how cinematic your breakdown will look if someone happens to walk by.

1. Level 9 of the library

Pros: Floor-to-ceiling windows, a sweeping view of Glasgow, and the hum of collective despair.

Cons: You’re one creaky chair away from being caught mid-sob by that one guy who always wears a suit to study.

Why it works: There’s something deeply poetic about crying over your laptop while the rain smears down the glass like your dignity. You can pretend you’re in an arthouse film titled “Girl, Interrupted (by a Turnitin Deadline).”

Bonus tip: Sit near the corner by the law students — they’re too busy having existential crises of their own to notice you’re ugly crying into your annotated bibliography.

2. The cloisters

Pros: Moody arches, dramatic lightning, and echoey acoustics that make every sniffle sound Shakespearean.

Cons: Tourists. So many tourists. Nothing kills a breakdown like a selfie stick.

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Why it works: If you must cry, do it in style. The cloisters offer the perfect backdrop for when you want your tears to feel culturally significant. Ideal for humanities students mourning their job prospects.

Bonus tip: If anyone asks if you’re okay, say you’re “just feeling inspired by the architecture.”

3. Fraser building toilets (second floor)

Pros: Surprisingly clean, usually empty, and conveniently located near coffee.

Cons: That awkward pause when someone in the next stall coughs in solidarity.

Why it works: Functional, discreet, and emotionally soundproof enough to let out a few shaky exhales without attracting attention. It’s basically the student version of therapy, just with worse lighting.

Bonus tip: Reward yourself with a chocolate croissant from the café afterwards. You’ve earned it.

4. Kelvingrove Park (by the river)

Pros: Ducks. Fresh air. Ample bench options.

Cons: You will be rained on. Probably twice.

Why it works: Nature has a way of making your problems feel small — until you accidentally lock eyes with a stranger walking their dog and have to pretend you’re “just listening to music.” It’s peaceful, picturesque, and emotionally charged in the best way.

Bonus tip: Bring tissues and waterproof mascara. Glasgow weather does not respect your emotional process.

5. The Gilchrist Café

Pros: Comfort snacks, oat milk options, and a steady supply of background chatter.

Cons: You will 100 per cent run into someone from your course pretending not to see you.

Why it works: The Gil is basically the emotional neutral zone of campus — nobody’s really thriving, but nobody’s falling apart too loudly. Perfect for a quiet cry behind a laptop screen, disguised as “catching up on emails.”

Bonus tip: Order soup. It makes your red eyes look intentional — like you’re just moved by the warmth of lentils, not your declining GPA.

6. Any Adam Smith Building toilet

Pros: Chaotic energy that perfectly matches your spiralling thoughts.

Cons: The mirrors are too honest.

Why it works: You haven’t lived until you’ve cried in a cubicle that smells vaguely of hand soap and regret. The Adam Smith loos are where theory meets breakdown — it’s giving “marginal utility of my tears.”

Bonus tip: Time your sob session for mid-afternoon when everyone else has fled for lunch. Maximum privacy, minimum judgement.

7. Your course’s common room (psych, history, comp sci, linguistics, etc.)

Pros: You’re surrounded by people who get it.

Cons: Someone will inevitably start talking about their assignment halfway through your emotional release.

Why it works: Nothing bonds students like shared misery. Whether you’re dissecting syntax or late-stage capitalism, there’s always someone nearby ready to say, “same.”

Bonus tip: Bring snacks. People are 40 per cent more sympathetic if you share your crisps mid-crisis.

8. The stairs in Boyd Orr

Pros: Nobody will notice you crying because they’re too bust gasping for air halfway up.

Cons: It’s basically a vertical maze designed by someone who hates students.

Why it works: There’s something humbling about having a breakdown on those stairs. You start weeping from emotional exhaustion, but by the third flight it’s just cardio tears. Plus, the echo adds a nice reverb to your sobs — very experimental performance art.

Bonus tip: Cry near the railing so you can dramatically look down at the floors below like a tragic Victorian ghost who failed a lab report.

9. St Andrews Building (South side – the ghost half)

Pros: Empty corridors, flickering lights, and a silence so deep it feels haunted, but yet peaceful, too.

Cons: It is haunted. Probably.

Why it works: The south side of St Andrews feels like it’s been abandoned since 2004. It’s perfect for when you want to cry without witnesses — or when you just need to whisper “I can’t do this anymore” into the void. The echoes will agree with you.

Bonus tip: Ideal spot for drama students or anyone in Education having an identity crisis. The building’s ghost energy pairs beautifully with your academic burnout.

10. Anywhere between Hillhead and the library during exam season

Pros: You’ll blend right in. Everyone’s crying.

Cons: None. It’s tradition.

Why it works: There’s something communal about walking past five other students who also look one bad grade away from tears. You nod, they nod — it’s an unspoken solidarity.

Bonus tip: Keep your head down, your tote bag up, and your dignity low. You’re doing great, sweetie.

So there you have it: Glasgow’s definitive, unofficial crying map. Whether you’re letting out a single elegant tear or having a full-body sob in the library toilets, just remember — you’re not alone.

Every degree at this uni comes with at least one breakdown, three sleepless nights, and a story that begins with: “So I was crying in the Fraser toilets when—”

It’s not a failure. It’s a rite of passage.