Why My Teen Is Questioning University (and How We’re Handling It)
The conversation started in the car, as most of our serious ones do. We were sitting outside the school gates, engine running, and my daughter had one hand on the door handle. Then she said, “I don’t think I want to go to university anymore.”
I turned off the radio. “Okay,” I said, trying to sound neutral. “What’s making you say that?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Everyone talks about it like it’s just the next thing. But I don’t know if I actually want it.”
I heard myself say the thing parents always say: “You don’t have to decide right now.” But underneath that calm sentence, my mind was doing the maths. If she didn’t go, what then? Was she making a mistake? Was I letting her make one?
That moment got me thinking about what I actually believe about university. Not the brochure version, but the real thing. I went. I don’t regret it. But the reasons it worked for me had nothing to do with why I chose it. I picked a course because a family friend said it was “safe.” I stayed because I liked the library and the quiet. The degree itself took years to connect to any actual job. By the time I graduated, I wasn’t more confident than my friends who went straight into work. I was just older and more in debt.
Last month, we went to an open day together. I watched her pick up a glossy prospectus, then put it back down. She asked one of the student ambassadors what she does on a normal Tuesday. The girl talked about lectures, a part-time job, and a society she didn’t seem all that passionate about. My daughter nodded politely. In the car on the way home, she said, “I don’t think I’d like that.”
“What exactly?” I asked.
“All of it,” she said. “Sitting in halls. Moving away. Starting over. It feels like doing something because everyone expects me to.”
It would have been easy to say, “You’ll love it once you’re there.” But I don’t know that. And I’ve met enough young adults who spent three years feeling homesick or lost to know that university doesn’t automatically fix anything.
Since then, I’ve started to think about university less as a destination and more as one decision among many. That sounds obvious, but it changed how I talk to her. Instead of asking, “What do you want to do?” I’ve started asking, “What do you want your days to look like?” She doesn’t always know. But it gives us something real to work with.
We also stopped focusing on the course title. Courses with the same name can look completely different. One might be mostly exams and essays. Another might involve placements, portfolios, and group work. When we looked at the actual modules online, she found that some courses she’d been curious about were full of things she hated. That was useful information. It meant we could stop debating the idea of university and start talking about what her week would actually be.
Another thing that helped was talking to people who didn’t go. A friend of mine left school at eighteen, did an apprenticeship in electrical installation, and now earns more than most of our university-educated friends. He didn’t take that route because he failed. He took it because he didn’t want to sit in classrooms anymore. Hearing him describe his work changed something for my daughter. She started asking what other paths exist. Some of them she had never even heard of.
We looked at apprenticeships, work experience, gap years, and the idea of applying next year instead of this one. The point wasn’t to make a final decision. It was to help her see that university is a choice, not a verdict on her intelligence or ambition.
One evening, she said, “What if I don’t go and then I want to go later?” I told her that happens all the time. Mature students exist. You can apply at twenty, thirty, fifty. The idea that university has to happen before you’re nineteen is a scheduling habit, not a law of nature. That seemed to make her breathe easier.
I also had to sort out my own feelings. I had to admit that part of me wanted her to go because it was familiar. It was the path I knew how to support. I didn’t know much about apprenticeships or portfolio interviews or taking a year off to work in a cafe. But not knowing something isn’t a reason to avoid it. I started doing the same research I was asking her to do, and it made me less anxious. The more I understood the alternatives, the less scary they felt.
We’re still in the middle of it. She has applied to two universities, but she has also applied for a graphic design studio apprenticeship that starts in September. Some days she’s excited about earning a wage and building a portfolio. Other days she talks about halls and orientation week like she’s already packed. I don’t know which way she’ll go.
The question “What do you think about university?” used to feel like a question with one right answer. Now I think it’s a question about who my daughter is becoming. And that doesn’t have a deadline.
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