I thought I wasn’t nervous about starting at SCA. 

The apprehension of Autumn was a feeling left behind with my school uniform, when the rush of starting anew used to intermingle with September’s sudden cold snap to form a little knot in my stomach, ensuring that I couldn’t quite finish my Weetabix that first morning of every new year. The exhausting newness of freshers week was barely a memory anymore, all the small talk and banal repetition 700+ days behind me. I had retrained myself to feel comfort come September, even relief, at returning to the cosiness and cobbles of my university town, its dusty libraries and tiny pubs having over three years transformed from the great unknown into a safe haven.

I thought I wasn’t nervous about starting at SCA, but my actions these last few days imply otherwise.

Summer’s sexy glasses of Aperol have been subconsciously swapped for enormous mugs of anything that burns my tongue. Despite the unseasonably warm weather, I’ve been craving the embrace of long sleeves, coats, fluffy socks. 

For the first time in two years I’ve thought about my ex. My best friend and I have traded in day drinking in trendy East London parks for day trips to cobbled villages to get swallowed whole by book shops and spat out for a cup of tea next door. I’ve solely been able to stomach low-stakes television in which the only thing that can go wrong is an over baked sponge or a soggy crust. I am suddenly dripping with nostalgia for Sixth Form, for the steady rotation of classrooms and coffee breaks and returning to the same table morning after morning of 8 best friends who have all now scattered unreachably across the country.

I guess I should admit to myself that this sudden craving for warmth, nostalgia and stability is a reflection of something that I’ve been reluctant to admit: I am maybe a tiny little bit scared to start at SCA.

Thankfully, the first step to recovery is to overcome your denial.