Leaving school at 18, it felt like the world was crumbling around me. It was 2008, and every evening the news reported high unemployment rates, businesses collapsing and currencies plummeting.

None of this meant much to me, really. I was a teenager with big plans ahead: I was moving from my home city of Belfast to study literature in Liverpool. I followed in the footsteps of so many other Irish teenagers who made this journey across the water to work and study. Nights out in Liverpool had become legendary, with those recently returning to Belfast relaying stories of bars open right through until morning and all the shops you could dream of. But all of this came with a cost that spread long beyond my graduation. 

Like many graduates, I am left with a hefty student loan bill. Last month, it was revealed that 1.8 million people in the UK are living with over £50,000 worth of student debt hanging over them. Keir Starmer, via his inaugural King’s Speech, announced a whole raft of reforms that will make Britain a more equitable place to live – and many students were hoping they might hear that loan repayments and fees were coming down. However, Starmer had previously announced in May that he would not be abolishing tuition fees, stating that the money needed for this would be used to tackle the NHS crisis.

University should not be reserved for the rich or for students whose parents can shell out on ever-increasing rents, grocery shops and tuition fees. But it’s little talked about how the culture of student loan debt drives a fear of mounting bills, especially in our current cost of living crisis. When a BBC investigation found that the highest outstanding student debt in the UK is more than £230,000, it becomes clear that such sums could easily be isolating people who can’t rely on their parents. “Student debt discourages people from working class backgrounds from going to university, no matter how much they may thrive there or how much they want to go,” says Chloe Field, vice president for higher education at the NUS.

The psychological impact of debt is colossal. An Office for National Statistics study asking students for feedback found that many felt “anxious, stressed or worried about their spending, debt and future plans” while 46% of students said their mental health has worsened since the start of the 2022 academic year amid the cost of living crisis.

In these situations, even the most necessary transactions, like paying for prescriptions, becomes an internal battle of balancing the books. And it never left me, that little voice in my head which tallies up what is owed. Back in 2008, it was boom and bust for me. My student loan would hit my account and I felt loaded. Quad vods for a fiver. Three VKs for the same. Neon blue liquids left my tongue stained. Everything was measured out in £5 notes. It felt like free money, magicked into my bank account for the express purpose of allowing me to live an adult life. At that time, that meant paying my all-bills-included rent and buying pints. But it was short-lived.

The money dried up quicker than I could have imagined. I’d find myself turning over packs of pasta in my hands, tallying how many extra grams I’d get for 50p more spent on the bigger bag. Then there was a friend who would routinely apply for credit cards while we sat on the sofa watching Countdown, half-full cups of tea going cold on the table. They would max out one card and then bounce to the next. And this friend was hardly an anomaly: research has found that 27% of students have credit card debt and a quarter rely on an overdraft. 

The cards my friends used paid for groceries and rent, which is to say the basics: food and shelter. And for me, the debt racked up, now more vast than I could have imagined. I know owe thousands of pounds from a time when I was barely able to think about anything other than getting my degree and enjoying nights out. Later, I received scholarships and further loans for a Master’s and a PhD. While lecturing during my PhD, I stood in front of a classroom of students. Some of them were there in body only, their heads wishing they were still sleeping off that hangover. I recognised myself as an undergraduate from the looks in their eyes. But when I was new to the city and student living, the yearly fee to attend university was only a third of what the students pay now, so if I still have this debt, what will it be like for them?

I’m lucky to make a living as a writer; it’s my dream job, but a by-product of this career is that it doesn’t come with riches. And I’m hardly alone: government forecasts for students who started their university courses in 2022/2023 predict just 27% of them will pay back their loans in full, showing just how many people aren’t earning enough to ever clear their debt. Unless something is done to tackle this, it will always be a part of my life – and part of the lives of millions of others too. In the meantime, the letters will continue to drop onto my doormat, advising me that the interest is outweighing even my best efforts to free myself of this debt. 

Images: Pixabay