The cohort Cambridge admits is growing progressively more diverse (though state school admissions did drop this year, for the first time in a decade). Among them are students who arrive in Cambridge as the first in their family to have been to university, from areas and schools where attending Oxbridge is near unheard of. They arrive at an institution that continues to put up barriers – whether unfamiliar cultural codes, expectations to fork out large sums for expensive events, or a pervasive snobbery and subtle classism that, unfortunately, still persists. Three students weigh in on their own experiences of being working class students at Cambridge, and ask what the university – and, indeed, us, as a student body – must do to enable people from all backgrounds to thrive.
Keane Handley: It isn’t true that it ‘doesn’t matter where you’ve come from’
What matters isn’t where Cambridge has progressed but where it, more consequently, still lags behind – not just in admitting students from underrepresented backgrounds, but in what happens after those students walk through the gates. Access, in its current form, often ends at the admissions stage. What’s missing is the equally vital conversation about inclusion, support, and transformation during and after the Cambridge experience.
Access doesn’t mean the same for every student who gains entry into this institution. The assumption that a student’s journey becomes a level playing field the moment they receive their offer letter is a dangerous one. For many working-class students, entry is just the beginning of a long and sometimes isolating experience. There’s a myth that once we’re here, we’ve ‘made it’ – as though entry equals arrival. But for students from less privileged backgrounds, it can feel like we’ve stepped into a world that was not designed with us in mind.
“Access, in its current form, often ends at the admissions stage”
It’s crucial to start by acknowledging that the working-class experience at Cambridge is not monolithic. Class intersects with race, gender, disability, geography, and other axes of identity in complex ways. Some of us come from council estates, others from rural areas. Some have parents who’ve never been to university, others are carers, or have worked jobs alongside school. Despite these differences, there are common threads that run through this Cambridge experience.
There’s the culture of presumed knowledge – the idea that everyone has read the ‘right’ books, understands the etiquette of formal hall, knows how to dress for a May Ball, or even how to approach a supervision. These are not academic challenges, but cultural codes. Codes that aren’t taught, but expected to be known. For many, there’s a steep learning curve that others don’t even realise exists. We aren’t just catching up on reading lists – we’re catching up on norms, on how to navigate a space that wasn’t built for us.
This links to imposter syndrome as another common thread, and in my experience, it’s as much – if not more – social than it is academic. It’s not just about questioning whether you’re smart enough to be here; it’s about walking into a room and feeling like you don’t quite know how to exist in it. It’s intimidating environments that go beyond the ancient architecture, but sometimes the conversations that take place within these buildings. Even though you are told that you are just as qualified to be in these buildings and conversations, be at these fancy dinners – you can never quite feel it. There is also, as part of this, a sense of not being taken seriously. One key issue in this is accentism, an issue at elite universities that remains a well-documented problem.
Moreover, there’s the paradox of returning home, more of a paradox than for other students. A loosened sense of belonging develops at home as you’re perceived through a ‘Cambridge’ lens. Yet truthfully, you don’t feel like you belong at Cambridge either. You end up trapped in the middle of an almost dual identity. That kind of alienation can be as disorienting as any essay.
And yet, despite these challenges, it is often working class students themselves who create the most meaningful sources of support. It’s the solidarity, the shared understanding, the quiet generosity and empathy that we show each other that can make the experience survivable – sometimes even transformative. Student-led networks, informal mentorship, late-night conversations that reaffirm our worth: these moments matter.
“There’s a myth that once we’re here, we’ve ‘made it’”
But the onus shouldn’t just be on us to carry each other through, nor approach Cambridge as a place to survive as opposed to thrive in. While this solidarity is powerful, and can create strong bonds and lifelong friendships, the institution must do more. Inclusion should not be a side project or something students are left to build themselves—it should be embedded in the culture, in the curriculum, in the conversations happening at every level of the university.
So, no – it’s not just about where you’re going. Where you’ve come from matters. It shapes how you experience the journey. A more just, equitable Cambridge would recognise this not just in rhetoric, but in action. The Bridging Schemes at some colleges are a great example of the beginnings of this, but there are many more rivers to cross in this regard. True access means sustained support, active listening, and a willingness to reshape the institution—not just to open the gates, but to create a more comfortable path for all students to walk through once inside them.
Maddie Wills: May Week is unachievable as a working class student
It is impossible to talk about the working-class experience in Cambridge without some consideration of May Week, the most lavish seven days in the Cambridge calendar. While the majority see this as a week for fun and friendship, which it can be, it is important to recognise how isolating it can feel for students who simply cannot justify ticket prices. May Week 2024 marked one of my loneliest weeks in Cambridge, and this was partly due to the stinging disconnect I felt between my circumstances and the circumstances of my wealthier peers.
As a bursary and near-full maintenance loan recipient, I consistently feel a gap between me and some of my wealthy, publicly-educated peers. It always stings when, to be able to enjoy some of the same things as them, I sacrifice revision over the vacation and work full-time. I manage to stay afloat, coasting just above the minus numbers in my bank account. As a working-class student at Cambridge, you’re continually confronted with not being able to have things that others do, and feeling like you’re missing out on parts of life that your wealthy friends don’t even consider to be a significant cost. But generally, with full-time work and financial assistance, you can engage in social life in Cambridge, and making your peace with the things you can’t do tends to sting a bit less.
“May Week 2024 marked one of my loneliest weeks in Cambridge”
However, the same cannot be said when May Week rolls around. Watching friends spend exorbitant amounts of money on May Week events, when you know you’ll struggle to afford even one, cements this sinking feeling of disconnect and the unachievable standard of socialisation that Cambridge can often seem to demand.
From my experience, this tends to drive working class students one of two ways. Last year, my May Week plans as a fresher cost me around £250, which I admit is still not a small amount of money, but was an amount that I felt able to confidently finance through full-time work. I went to my college’s May Ball and bought a cheaper, secondhand event ticket the week of. I thought this would be sufficient to enjoy May Week without spending ridiculous amounts. However, May Week last year was one of the loneliest weeks I’ve ever experienced in Cambridge. I never saw my friends, as a great deal of them were at May Week events every night.
This year, I’ve made decisions I wouldn’t advocate. My overdraft has taken a beating in aid of multiple May Week event tickets that I absolutely cannot afford, because my experience last year was so isolating. It will be brilliant, but I will also spend the rest of the summer working full-time to play catch-up with a nearly maxed-out overdraft. I’ve succumbed to pressure to put my financial situation in danger, because the alternative is so incredibly socially isolating.
May Week as a working class student thus seems, to an extent, unachievable. And it will only become more unachievable, with rising ticket prices and cancellations of smaller, cheaper events. The solution to this requires acknowledgement from college and University financial aid services that May Week experiences do constitute an access concern, because they are so central to the student experience at Cambridge. This comes from personal experience, as at Gonville & Caius, the May Ball has been removed as a use of the Co-Curricular Grant, a grant that is supposed to make extracurricular activities accessible to students, citing that it is an optional event.
“I’ve succumbed to pressure to put my financial situation in danger, because the alternative is so incredibly socially isolating”
While participation in these events is theoretically optional, I can say that it certainly doesn’t feel optional. I always feel that I’m being a spoilsport when I decline May Week plans due to cost, and the alternative is putting myself in a financially dangerous position in order to have the same experiences as wealthier peers.
The exponentially increasing cost of being a student in May Week is attracting coverage, which will hopefully encourage colleges to address the deep class disparity attached to this historic week. However, the extent to which the May Week debacle speaks to wider class disparity and working-class alienation in Cambridge does need to be addressed.
Willow Nugent: The price of belonging
Before arriving at Cambridge, I’d spent £40 on a gown, £30 on my summer reading list, and several frantic afternoons scavenging through charity shop rails for a matriculation dress. Without even taking my first steps into my college, I’d already begun to feel like it wasn’t mine to step into.
By the end of my first term, the feeling had sharpened. Cambridge admits students from a range of backgrounds, but still operates on the assumption that everyone can pay to belong. From the daily necessities to social life, almost everything carries a cost. Formals, a cornerstone of college life, quickly become expensive, especially with the added cost of wine or dining in another college. Joining the Cambridge Union, even on its access scheme, means paying £90 upfront. Just existing here comes with hidden surcharges: kitchen fees, rent, bike repairs, formal attire…
“Cambridge is far more inclusive in who it admits, but now it must stop being exclusive in how it operates”
The culture at Cambridge is one where spending becomes social currency. May Balls can cost over £150 for a single night: more than I’d ever spent on one experience before Cambridge. While I’ve gone and enjoyed myself, I’m constantly aware of how absurd that price would seem back home.
Cambridge offers “one of the most generous bursary support packages in the UK.” One in three students receive financial aid, and approximately one in six gets the maximum amount. But the more you reflect on it, the more these figures seem like a diagnosis of the issues rather than a solution. The fact that so many students need financial aid to function here is a sign that the system remains unaffordable, whether by inertia or design.
This divide at Cambridge is subtle but constant. It’s not just about who can afford a May Ball ticket. It’s about who doesn’t sharply inhale when finding out how much they cost. It’s whether rent increases feel like a manageable nuisance or a threat to your place at the University. It’s how ‘normal’ it is to spend money to belong, participate, and meet expectations.
At Cambridge, upper middle class remains the default. Disposable income is expected. Financial security is assumed. The contrast between the ‘Cambridge Bubble’ and the reality for an increasing number of people in the UK is jarring. At home over Christmas, I sleep in three hoodies and pairs of socks. Back in Cambridge, I can turn on the heating without a second thought.
“The culture at Cambridge is one where spending becomes social currency”
Over the past 20 years, Cambridge has made significant demographic shifts. State-educated students have risen from 56% of undergraduates admitted in 2005 to 72.6% in 2023. But the culture hasn’t caught up. Students from lower-income backgrounds are not just trying to keep up financially; they are also trying to fit into an antiquated stereotype of what a Cambridge student is supposed to be.
I like the mystique of Cambridge; the candlelit halls, the gowns, the May Balls. In a strange way, the exclusivity can feel like validation. What I don’t love is the cost that comes with it. Not just the money, but also the pressure of sustaining the lifestyle.
Cambridge is far more inclusive in who it admits, but now it must stop being exclusive in how it operates. If a third of students need financial aid just to participate in university life, then that life is still structured around affluence, not access. Opening the gates is only the first step. If you still have to pay to stay inside, they aren’t really open at all.
