I remember this time last year particularly well. It was stressful and busy and pressing, yet felt like the dreaded approach to an inevitable ending. I remember being bogged down in what felt like a continual slog of: get up, go to campus, write, re-write, delete, edit, take a break to walk to the loo, walk the longest way back to my table - which was crowded with research, books and post-it notes - continue the process of write and re-write, edit and re-edit. At some point, I’d leave campus, walk home, greet my housemates in some kind of mutual grunt and retreat to my room, where the books would be reopened, and those post-its rearranged. I’d return to the books that were simply too heavy to lug to campus, apologise for my absence, plug my tired laptop in, apologise for my dedication/obsessiveness, and re-read my own words, for what felt like (and quite possibly was) the thousandth time.

I had more word documents and tabs open than my laptop (and brain) could cope with; proven when 3 weeks before the deadline, one particularly tearful trip to Apple had them tell me “you’re on borrowed time, your laptop’s going to die any minute…I hope you’ve got it all backed up”. Maisie MacBook didn’t make the trip home. Tragic times, indeed. Some days, I’d simply stare at the screens and mindmaps, colour-coding and “logical” systems of organising my research, and wonder what the heck my frazzled brain was doing. I’d contemplate how I ever thought this system to be “methodical”. And question why I ever thought this task to be “manageable”. Inevitably, I’d tweak word choice for longer than those words needed tweaking, and considered whether words would ever be “just words” again. In hindsight, I draw on my word tweaking: Let it be. Let it stand. Let it go.

The Dissertation – capitalised as appropriate, and not through some sleep-deprived typo. The cumulative product of a degree, the dissertation brings with it a level of expectation far greater than the average summative. As the clearest depiction of individual interest, the dissertation is, quite simply, a personal investment. Nothing short of blood, sweat and tears go into the long hours dedicated to that lengthy document, accumulating in a trip to The Print Room (alack, The Print Room drama – how long does one allow for queues? Where even is the Print Room? To spiral bind or not to spiral bind? The questions are endless…but the end is insight).

And perhaps this is the most terrifying paradox of all: you’re counting down the days until you hand that beast in, and grace Arena once more, and yet you’re dreading that very moment – the moment you deem you degree done. And then what?! As “one of those English students”, come the end of April 2016, I tentatively released my grip on those crisp pages and bibliographical hell; I wore a smile that read: “I survived my degree”. I was overjoyed and relieved and, in many ways, somewhat believing in miracles…but that momentary exultation was tainted by the realisation that this had been my life, what now?! I’d slept with a memory stick under my pillow for weeks, and dedicated more space to McQueen and Cinderella than I had anyone else...and now our time together had drawn to a close. It was a goodbye with no words: a goodbye where all the words had been said, in that dreaded word limit (+ inevitable usage of 10%). It was a goodbye I both celebrated, and mourned, in that late April sun, with the best of friends, and a much needed Impy jug of Pimm’s. And it was perfect. The whole thing was perfect – from beginning to end, I lived, breathed and loved my degree. There were highs and lows, I laughed and cried, but I miss it more than words (because of course, words will never be “just words” ever again!!) and, dare I say it, I’d do it all again in a heartbeat!