One of life’s stranger ironies is that the older we get, the younger we feel. Sadly, I don’t mean in a physical sense. Skin and tendons rarely become more elastic with time. But rather, emotionally.
At 18, I felt like the oldest– or rather most mature person on the planet. I knew everything, could do anything, had seen it all. In less than 20 years I’d achieved the mythical status of “full-fledged adult”. All before learning to drive.
Going to university at 36 has changed the way I see mature-aged students.Credit: iStock
At 36, I can drive (more or less). I also have a career, a mortgage, a long-term relationship and a child. Viewed from the outside, I am an adult. But I know, deep down, that I am a baby.
The larger my world becomes the more aware I am of my smallness. As I discover beautiful and exciting things I understand my naivete and simpleness. This strange trick of identity and time is often made especially obvious to me. I regress to childhood when navigating a tax form or trying to remember if I’m due for a cervical screening. But I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite as young as I do now – navigating life as a mature-age student.
As suggested, confidence wasn’t an issue for me at 18 when I took my first pass at uni. Thirteen years of middling grades and a very average VCE performance had inexplicably imbued in me the confidence of kings. Sitting in lectures I felt like I could have easily taken my place behind the lectern and shown the professor where it was at. That’s when I showed up at all.
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If my attendance was spotty, my participation was non-existent. Studying journalism with a minor in English, you’d assume I did some of the prescribed reading. But any memories of them were long ago lost to time and $1 beer specials. Still, no one was more shocked than me when I failed the first semester.
Eventually, I did come down to earth. Life, work, smartphone-induced carpal tunnel and the petty humiliations of having your heart broken by boys who will learn Auslan but not your last name humbled me. With each birthday, I felt younger and younger. Less sure of my abilities. Less certain of my specialness. Less confident about my place in the world. Which is probably how I ended up back in those lecture halls almost two decades later. However, this time, rather than wondering if I should get up and proselytise, I was eager for someone else to tell me who I was supposed to be.
Despite the traces of cringe, I hold a lot of affection for my younger self. But if these two personas were to somehow meet, I doubt the feeling would be mutual. Back then, mature-age students irked me endlessly. Listening to their infinite questions and personal reflections, I didn’t swell with empathy for these tender beings wobbling on the precipice of self-actualisation. I mostly just felt annoyed.
