Fia McGregor

I stood outside the graduation hall longer than I should’ve, watching people take pictures, toss hats, cry. Everyone kept saying “You did it!” but I felt nothing. Well—relief, maybe. Relief that it was over. Four years of lectures, group presentations, colour-coded spreadsheets, and pretending I cared about quarterly profits. I’ve just finished my business degree at 26, older than most of my classmates. I took a year out after high school, thinking I’d figure myself out. I didn’t.

I stuck with the degree because it felt like the sensible thing to do. My mum cried when I got accepted. I didn’t want to disappoint her. But the truth is, I hated most of it. I don’t dream of offices, promotions, or market trends. I dream of Istanbul at dawn. Of Buenos Aires. Of photographing murals in Mexico City. I want to breathe in places that don’t smell like rain and Greggs.

But wanting isn’t enough, is it?

I live in Livingston, Scotland, a place where people don’t leave easily. Everyone’s always just managing. My dad’s been working in the same warehouse since I was five. My sister’s a hairdresser with two kids and a mortgage. And here I am—degree in hand, no job, no savings, just a stubborn need to not waste any more time.

So I’ve made a decision. I’ll take whatever job I can get—bar work, cleaning, reception. I don’t care. I’ll save every penny. I’ll paint in the evenings, write, maybe start a blog. I’ve already made a list of cheap hostels in Lisbon. I’ve cut up my loyalty cards. No more soft drinks. No more takeout.

I’ve held myself back for too long, tried to be “practical.” It made me small. It made me unhappy. That version of me is gone now. I don’t know where this new path will lead. But I’d rather scrub toilets in Rome than sit at a desk in Edinburgh counting other people’s money.

It’s my time now. Finally.