The crisp £350 bill felt heavy in my hand as I watched the stranger drive away in my old Renault Clio. It wasn’t a fancy car, prone to leaks and dodgy speakers, but I was sad to see it go. Just a few hours earlier, I’d driven myself to Durham University to embark on a law degree, a feat that felt momentous for someone like me – an estranged student.
Being estranged means having little to no contact with your parents during higher education. It’s a reality for around 10,000 students in the UK, and it presents a unique set of challenges. My initial weeks were a whirlwind of navigating social gatherings and academic expectations while simultaneously grappling with the harsh reality of my financial situation. The financial burden of university was immense – rent, food, textbooks, and the dreaded guarantor scheme for housing, all without the safety net of parental support. My maximum student loan, secured after a grueling process of proving my estrangement, barely covered the basics.
The financial pressure was a constant companion, leaving me feeling anxious and isolated. I couldn’t afford the social outings that many of my peers enjoyed, and the thought of expensive balls or college formals was a distant fantasy. With 84% of estranged students reporting constant money worries, my experience was far from unique.
To make ends meet, I took a job as a bartender, juggling long shifts with my studies. The academic toll was significant. My grades suffered, particularly in subjects with Tuesday lectures and seminars, a consequence of working Monday nights until 3 AM. The frustration of feeling ‘not good enough’ was compounded by the knowledge that estranged students are 13% less likely to achieve the 2.1 or above needed for many graduate schemes.
The financial strain wasn’t my only struggle. The social isolation was just as painful. Overhearing me lamenting my exhaustion to the bouncer during a particularly grueling shift, a fellow student sneered, ‘You’re tired? I’m doing a law degree!’ He didn’t recognize me, his bags under his own eyes a testament to his own late-night studying. His comment highlighted the disparity in our experiences. While he felt the pressure of academics, I was wrestling with financial anxieties and the grueling demands of my job.
The isolation hit its peak during the winter break when my peers headed home for Christmas. I had nowhere to go, and my maximum dosage of antidepressants couldn’t erase the profound loneliness. My plan was simple: work as much as possible and avoid any questions about my holiday plans.
Navigating the awkward conversations about ski trips and family gatherings was emotionally draining. The anxiety of feigning normalcy while pouring pints for jolly, unassuming customers was immense. After each shift, I’d walk home with a lump in my throat, collapsing into bed only to wake up a few hours later for the next shift. Self-care was a luxury I couldn’t afford.
The isolation took its toll. I started to question my place at university, feeling like I didn’t belong. The thought of dropping out crossed my mind. After all, estranged students are three times more likely to drop out than the average student.
A part of me hoped for some form of targeted support, but it never materialized. So, I made a decision: I was going to leave university. A full-time job as an election organiser, with its stable income and 12-month contract, seemed like a better option.
I deferred a year, worked full-time, and saved diligently. Living in a cramped house share, with my bedroom being a living room converted into a makeshift sleeping space, was another hardship I endured. Many people assumed I’d simply found my degree too challenging, but I rarely shared the full extent of my circumstances.
As my savings grew, I realized I couldn’t abandon my dream. I had to go back and finish my degree. Thankfully, I returned with less financial anxiety than before. But my journey was far from typical. Unlike the 30% of estranged students who face prolonged homelessness before starting their degrees, I never experienced that level of hardship. I never needed to rely on food banks or live in substandard housing. But, as my story clearly demonstrates, the path for estranged students can be fraught with difficulties.
The combination of financial pressure and social isolation takes a significant toll on mental health, social life, and academic performance. Simple solutions like removing guarantor scheme fees for students without homeowner parents could alleviate a significant financial burden. These hidden costs have a profound impact on students’ wellbeing.
Organizations like the Estranged and Care Experienced Network are working tirelessly to establish support networks, but they shouldn’t bear the sole responsibility. Government funding is essential to ensure that estranged students receive the support they need.
Research by the Unite Foundation reveals that the attainment gap between estranged and non-estranged students closes to just 3% when money worries are addressed. Targeted bursaries, grants, and improved mental health provision would make a world of difference for students who have already overcome immense obstacles to reach university.
With a potential change of government on the horizon, it’s time to turn warm words about social mobility and leveling up into concrete action. Estranged students like me shouldn’t have to endure unnecessary suffering. It’s time to prioritize their needs and create a more equitable system that allows them to thrive.
If you have a story to share, please get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk.
