When I think back to my most formative years, my parents often remind me how much trouble I caused as a child. I was a fussy eater, I outright refused to do my maths homework, and if I couldn’t be persuaded to complete something, it became a constant battle.
My sister, on the other hand, was the model child—straight A’s, top of every class, a quick learner who ate every food under the sun. It became a running joke among friends that I’d be the one to “tarnish” the family name with my awkwardness and refusal to fit in. But I never saw it that way. I wasn’t trying to rebel—I just had my own way of doing things. Some of my teachers didn’t love that, but when it came to subjects I truly enjoyed—Art, P.E., Religious Studies, Creative Writing, Drama —I was completely invested. I wasn’t lazy; I just struggled to force enthusiasm for things that didn’t spark any real curiosity in me.
Following My Own Rhythm
That instinct stayed with me as I got older. I remember visiting university open days, standing in lecture halls at Loughborough and Bournemouth, and feeling an immediate certainty that I didn’t belong there. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something about it felt unnatural—like I was expected to sell myself to them, rather than it being a shared space to explore creativity and life.
I didn’t have a plan at that moment, but I knew I needed to take my time. So I did an art foundation year, then moved to Spain. I just wanted to explore, to put myself in a new environment and see what happened. Slowly, opportunities started to take shape in ways I never could have predicted.
Realising What Was There All Along
Eventually, I found my way to Falmouth, where I could study in a way that made sense to me, build something for myself, and follow what actually made me excited to wake up in the morning.
I stayed at home longer than most people I knew, and for a while, I wondered if that was something to feel embarrassed about. But looking back, it gave me space—space to explore, to take risks, to figure out what mattered to me without rushing to fit into some external timeline.
Now, as I navigate adulthood, I see that the very things that once made me seem “difficult” were actually just part of how I process the world. Being particular, questioning things, needing time to commit to something—those weren’t flaws. They were just signals that I needed to carve out my own way of doing things.
And while my path has been anything but conventional, I can say with certainty that it’s my own.