The six stages of your final year breakdown

So close, yet so far

University was supposed to be a breath of fresh air after the pit of hellish fire that was A-levels. Three years of studying “your passion” with 9 hours a week and £3 doubles.

First year now seems like a lifetime ago, the easy days of 40% attendance and still being able to use Sparknotes for revision. Final year is something you could never have imagined – an overwhelming mix of debt, job applications, dissertations and ongoing deadlines.


“Is it too late to change course?” “I should change my dissertation title.” “WHY DID I DO HISTORY?”

You have never been in such an overwhelming state of shock. Two terms to write tens of thousands of words on topics you still have to Wikipedia.

No amount of to-do lists can save you now because there’s literally no end.


“It’s not as bad as it seems if I pretend it isn’t happening.”

All of your friends have sailed through assessment centres and have job offers flying in, while you still struggle to remember to separate your colours and whites for the laundry.

You tell yourself you don’t need a job, you need a well-earned rest after three years of sleeping through lectures. However, unemployment won’t maintain the millionaire lifestyle you feign from your student loan.


With your dissertation not timetabled into your schedule, you often forget that it exists. Then some insufferable entity Snapchats their word count “Only on 8000 words :/” and you internally scream.

If you’re not in the library by 8am like everyone else, the regret floods in. The ever-looming sense of guilt means taking time out to even feed yourself is accompanied by the constant reminder that you’re not doing your work.

Every night out ends with the takeaway and regret because you’ve written off another day of work and basically more life chances.



It’s too late to change your dissertation title and now you can’t forgive yourself for choosing such a terrible degree, never mind research topic.

Every grad scheme you’ve applied for has “regretted to inform you” of your failure and you wonder whether there is any point of carrying on.


“This is potentially the last few weeks I’m going to be able to lie in on a Tuesday until I’m 65.” Let that sink in.


“Look at all this work I haven’t done,” you observe as you start House of Cards season three. You don’t have 12,000 words inside of you and fixating on additional deadlines may actually kill you.

You’ve winged your entire degree and accept that maybe you’ll just have pull out another miracle to scrape that 2.1.