Some context might be relevant: This time four years ago, I was cobbling together mind-maps and flowcharts for my final university exams, sellotaping notes to the walls of my damp-ridden room, memorising pre-planned essays, and quietly putting to the back of my mind the fact that I wasn't quite sure what relevance any of it might have to my future.
Three years and nine months ago, I stepped down from a stage in an echoey hall, holding my diploma in my sweaty hand, letting it awkwardly flap between my hands as I applauded the next person behind me and wondered if they had any more clue than I did.
Three years ago I moved abroad, and for the first time discovered the joy of speaking languages, of communicating across barriers, of learning the similarities and differences between cultures, and navigating politics, economics and manners in a totally new environment.
Two years ago I Googled "international relations masters degree".
Six months ago I narrowed down a list of about twenty universities down to four, and emailed my old professors to ask: did they remember the girl with the ever-changing hair colours? and would they mind writing her a reference?
Three months ago I was agonising over the wording of the final draft of my personal statement. Is the word "passion" clichéd? Did I spend too many sentences on hobbies?
One week ago, I got the last of the responses from my four chosen programmes. I'd been accepted to three of them, and waitlisted at one (the result of wasting too much time fussing about with the minutiae of the application essay, and getting it in a month later than planned as a result. Don't do this.)
Today I chose one of those programmes, and sent in my acceptance form.
This September, I will be moving to The Hague for two years, for an MSc in International Relations and Diplomacy.
Guess I'd better start learning Dutch.
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