The Five Stages of Grief: Being a Scottish Student at St Andrews

Stage 1: Denial — “How the f**k did I get here?”

My heart quite literally dropped through my stomach, fell out, and ran away from my body when I got the dreaded email: “There has been an update to your UCAS application.” Whoever set up that ominous, answerless tease: we students curse you.

We Scottish students generally know when it’s St Andrews’ turn to update the portal. This deliberate, patient university has a reputation amongst Scottish high schools for taking its sweet time responding to applications. Months of convincing ourselves we wouldn’t get in, thanks to the cap on government-funded places (a lovely double-edged sword forged by Scottish politics), have all led to this moment. But let's give ourselves a pat on the back. Believe it or not, we've made it. Welcome to St Andrews.

Stage 2: Anger — “No, but seriously, where is everyone?”

During the first few days of Freshers’ Week, the feeling that something will soon go wrong is shared by many, I'm sure. But after looking left, then right, then left again to double-check, I realise I’m right. I haven't somehow wandered across the Atlantic, because we're still in Scotland, apparently. But it doesn’t stop the sheer internationalism of the student population from hitting us like a tonne of bricks.

International students seem to make friends quickly. Discovering that someone comes from the same city, state, or even half of a particularly large country becomes an instant source of connection in their search for companionship. For Scottish students, those who immediately understand our local references can be harder to find. We find ourselves trying to keep up with unfamiliar humour, different social habits, and conversations that leave us just ever so slightly too lost to join in and feel that same connection.

The town itself can also leave a rather bad taste in our mouths. St Andrews is expensive. Between pricey coffees, double-digit prices for club nights, quadruple that for balls, and the general expectation that an integral part of student life is spending money, having a comfortable bank balance can feel like an extracurricular mandate. I didn’t see that on the entry requirements.

There's something particularly ironic and frustrating about working so hard to get into a university in our own country, only to arrive and feel like a completely clueless noob.

Stage 3: Bargaining — “Can I join your game?”

Naturally, the next step is to try to make it work, as all social creatures must do. We all feel pressure to make friends, fit in, and appear as though we know what we're doing. But as Scottish students, without that same initial social head start, establishing ourselves can feel like a performance. We find ourselves trying to convince others that we're just as cool as the international kids, and that, yes, we totally understand their cultural references.

Alternatively, we might happen to find a group of fellow Scots and form our own microcosmic version of the Bubble. But even then, escaping the occasional “OMG I love your accent” can be a tall order. 

Stage 4: Depression — “What if I just went home now?”

We've now established ourselves socially, to some extent but something is still missing. There is a hole in the comfort of being somewhere we understand instinctively. The humour, accents, and cultural references that don't require a five-minute explanation suddenly become things we notice for the first time.

It's a strange sort of homesickness when we're technically still at home. We're in Scotland, surrounded by familiar landscapes and unpredictable weather, yet somehow feel disconnected from the culture around us. We know we're lucky to be here, but can't help wondering whether we'd feel more comfortable in Edinburgh.

Stage 5: Acceptance — “Thanksgiving food maybe isn't so bad.”

Gradually, we acclimatise without even noticing. November fills with one Thanksgiving dinner after another, and we might even start looking forward to them. Once we've found our friends, introducing them to Scottish culture becomes exciting: teaching them how to ceilidh, cooking a proper roast dinner, hosting Burns Night, and watching their faces when we explain what haggis is.

There really is something unique about having both a Scottish and international university experience. We probably won't stop internally rolling our eyes when Americans converse in outdoor voices in coffee shops. But I suppose it's rather nice to be surrounded by different cultures. Americans included. It really is with the deepest regret that I must admit: my boyfriend is American.

You really can't escape them.

Illustration by Anna Dickson