The Student Years

In September 2019, I walked into a university lecture theatre for the first time. I was nearly 40 years old, surrounded by people half my age, and felt like I’d just stepped onto another planet. Up until then, my life had been two decades of sawdust, bacon rolls, and hard graft on building sites. University? That belonged to other people. Not blokes like me.

But there I was, backpack on, foundation year student at the University of Bedfordshire. Because I’d been out of education for so long, I had to do an extra year just to catch up. That first week was brutal. Carpentry had almost institutionalised me — wake up, work hard, go home, repeat. Suddenly, I was expected to sit in lectures, write essays, read journals, and talk about health science. My anxiety came roaring out of nowhere.

I could handle the exams. I could handle the essays. But presentations? Absolute hell. Standing in front of a group and trying to sound confident when inside I felt like a terrified 12-year-old… I never really cracked it. And the truth is, I never felt like I got enough support for that side of things. Most of my classmates were barely out of school, fearless with tech and public speaking. I felt like the old guy fumbling around at the back.

But I stuck at it. I told myself the same thing I used to say on site: “head down, graft on.” Slowly, I found my footing.

One lecture in my second year changed everything. It was run by a dietitian, and they were talking about disordered eating. As I listened, alarm bells went off. They were describing Binge Eating Disorder (BED) — eating huge amounts of food in a short time, feeling out of control, ashamed, and then doing it all over again.

I sat there thinking, “That’s me.”

It didn’t come as a massive surprise. Since childhood, I’d always been the fat kid. I was the heaviest in my year at junior school, constantly feeling like I had an inferiority complex compared to everyone else. My weight had yo-yoed for decades, and now I finally had a label for it. BED.

It didn’t fix anything overnight, but it gave me understanding. I wasn’t just weak-willed or greedy — my brain worked differently when it came to food. From then on, I managed it the only way I knew how: numbers, discipline, accountability. Sometimes obsessively so, but it kept me afloat.

My weight swings didn’t magically stop just because I had a diagnosis or was studying nutrition. Far from it.

• 2019: I started uni at around 240 lbs.
• 2020 (COVID lockdown): With gyms shut, I set myself a crazy goal: cut 100 lbs from my heaviest weight. By sheer force of will, I dropped all the way down to 179 lbs. It was a psychological high — I’d hit that magical 100-pound mark. But the truth? I didn’t feel great. I was too light, weak, and honestly a bit miserable. As soon as gyms reopened, I bounced back up to the 200s.
• 2021–22: A blur of lectures, essays, training, and weight creeping up and down. I still hadn’t cracked the code.
• 2023: The final year. Stress was through the roof, and my weight ballooned again. I hit 247 lbs, just months before graduation. I panicked. I couldn’t stand the thought of being “the fat guy” in my graduation photos. So I went extreme again — six weeks of eating under 1,400 calories a day while still doing carpentry in peak summer heat. It was brutal, but I dropped 30 lbs and hit 217 lbs in time to get those all-important photos with my parents.
   

That’s how messed up my relationship with food was. Even with a degree in health and nutrition on the horizon, I was still trapped in the same cycle.

July 2023. Graduation day. My parents were there, proud as anything. I walked across the stage in my gown, shook hands, and took my scroll. I graduated with a BSc (Hons) in Health, Nutrition and Exercise.

I’ll admit it: I was gutted not to get a first. I’d worked so hard, and I was so close. But perspective is funny. Back when I started, if you’d told me I’d even pass, I’d have bitten your hand off. Walking out that day, scroll in hand, parents smiling, I felt like I’d climbed Everest.

The degree gave me something I’d never had before: confidence. Not just the knowledge of nutrition and exercise science, but the belief that I could actually change my life.

So what did I take away from those four years?

• It’s never too late. I was pushing 40, terrified, and out of my depth — but I did it. If I can go back to school after 20 years on site, anyone can make a change.
• Knowledge is power, but not perfection. Even with all the textbooks in the world, I still struggled with binge eating, yo-yo dieting, and self-control. A degree doesn’t make you bulletproof.
• Health is messy. The Instagram version of “fit life” is clean meals and smiling gym selfies. My version was panic cuts, binges, anxiety, and clawing my way through lectures. And that’s okay.
• Struggles create empathy. My classmates with six-packs and perfect discipline? Fair play to them. But my battles mean I can relate to people who don’t find it easy. People like me. People like you.