Something horrifying happened over the vacation: I turned 23. This step towards my mid-twenties, along with the revelation that Lent marks the midpoint of my degree, prompted a soul-searching that can only be described as a quarter-life crisis. And, suddenly, I found myself pondering my purpose in life, asking who I was beyond facts about Pericles and Gustav Stresemann.

I’ve seen the effects of the quarter-life crisis take hold of many friends. One has become a proud plant parent. Another crochets her own clothing now. Thus, it only seemed right that it was my turn to set off on a similar quest for purpose. And so, over the last few weeks, I embarked on this intimidating venture.

Plant Parenthood

I should preface this by saying I have a disastrous track record with plants, one which first became evident in primary school when I was given a sapling to take care of. I watered that fragile sprout, placed it in the sun, showered it with love – only for it to promptly die on me. I was so upset by this that I made my parents bury it and hold a funeral in the garden. Yet, subsequent attempts at horticulture have yielded similar results.

“The concept of looking after another living creature just seemed like the perfect answer to my search for meaning”

In hindsight, this was a bad idea from the beginning, but the concept of looking after another living creature just seemed like the perfect answer to my search for meaning. Plus, my dad had given me some plants as a moving-in present at the start of the year, which the lady in the shop had assured him were beginner-friendly. So, as I named my new arboreal companions and placed them in my flat, I promised myself: this time, things would be different.

Apparently, they were not, in fact, beginner-friendly, as mould soon started sprouting and the leaves started browning. At one point, drained from the term, I just stopped watering them altogether. Then, when my mum came to pick me up at Christmas, she took one look at the poor, shrivelled things and demanded in horror to know what I had done to them.

In the end, I had to make the difficult decision to rehome my precious plants – it was a tough call, but ultimately they deserved a better life than I could give them. They’re now thriving with my parents, and I’ve finally learnt my lesson: no more green-fingered endeavours for me.

Running

It felt fitting that I follow one clichéd activity with another. Perhaps an achievement-based activity would fill the purpose-shaped void in me?

This time, at least I did have somewhat successful prior experience with the pursuit. Running was actually something I enjoyed until a couple of years ago when, for reasons outside the scope of this article (to borrow every academic’s favourite phrase), I had to stop.

So, Michaelmas became marked by stubborn attempts to run around Newnham and, despite slow progress, I remained determined. The – likely adrenaline-induced – buzz of excitement after every run had me feeling like maybe this could finally be the antidote to my ennui, and I hoped to use the vacation to even further improve my running prowess. This hope was, quite literally, brought crashing down.

“This hope was, quite literally, brought crashing down”

Nothing good happens on Sidney Street. In fact, maybe it had heard me calling it “the worst street in Cambridge” (a statement I stand by) because it decided to exact revenge. It got this payback by bringing me tumbling down, face first, and leaving me sprawled out helplessly on the pavement outside Ryman in front of a gaggle of tourists. And, though I’d like to think I fell gracefully, the stares I received suggested otherwise.

A month later, and my knee is still bruised as I await a physio appointment. Nothing will make you feel old like having to explain that you’re limping because you had a fall. Trust me.

Baking

As with running, I already loved baking. However, since starting Cambridge, the closest I’d gotten to the beloved craft was watching The Great British Bake Off. But, in the darkest days of my degree, when the reading list seemed endless, I’d always dreamed of packing it all in and opening a bakery. So, I figured, maybe now was finally the time to listen to that inner voice and indulge my passion.

“I can hardly tell my supervisor I haven’t written my essay because I was too busy perfecting choux pastry”

Reader, I’m happy to announce we had a success! Cracked and glossy on the top, gooey in the middle, these brownies were worthy of a Hollywood handshake (if I do say so myself). But, much as I’d love to say I’ll keep this hobby up throughout term, I just can’t see how I’d find the time. I can hardly tell my supervisor I haven’t written my essay because I was too busy perfecting choux pastry. Alas, my Bake Off dreams will have to wait another day.

So, did I learn anything from this experiment? I don’t know. Perhaps trying to find my life’s purpose at 23 was overly ambitious. Maybe that’s the moral of the story, though: right now, despite my feelings of existential dread, it’s ok not to know.