Why the busiest term always feels the quietest?

I always find term three goes surprisingly quickly. It’s strange really, because on paper it’s the most pressured part of the university year. Exams, assessments, deadlines — everything tightening into a short window where it feels like everything suddenly matters at once. It’s the term most students dread, the one everyone builds up in their heads long before it arrives. Revision after revision, exam after exam. It can feel like walking through a tunnel with the end just out of sight.

And yet, when you’re actually in it, it often feels different. More contained. More structured. There’s a rhythm to it that doesn’t always exist in other parts of the year. You revise, you sit the exam, you move on. One thing at a time. And for a long time, I found that really interesting. Why does something that feels so heavy in anticipation often feel more manageable when you’re actually living it?

At one point, I thought it was the seasons. I used to genuinely believe that winter had a kind of emotional weight to it. The grey skies, the rain that seems to hang around for days, the cold that settles into everything. I thought that was what caused low mood and heaviness. And then I thought the opposite must also be true — that spring and summer naturally lifted everything. The daffodils pushing through the ground, colour returning to the streets, lighter evenings. It made sense in my head that the world outside must be shaping the world inside.

But over time, I started to question that a little more.

Recently, I was out in my garden digging over a flower bed, just taking my time with it. Pulling weeds, turning soil, deciding where things might go. Lavender, rosemary, curry plant — simple things, but things that slowly start to shape a space. There was no rush to it. No real plan beyond just being in the moment and seeing what felt right as I went along. In a strange way, it reminded me of revision. Small, repetitive actions. One thing at a time.

And somewhere in that process, something shifted. I realised I wasn’t really thinking about much else. I wasn’t analysing how I felt, or what the weather meant, or trying to make sense of the day. I was just there, fully in it, moving from one small task to the next. And it struck me how quiet everything had become. Not because anything outside had changed, but because my thinking had slowed down enough for me to actually notice where I was.

That’s when I started to see something more clearly. It’s not actually the season that creates heaviness or ease. It’s the speed and direction of my thinking about the season. When term three arrives at university, everything becomes very structured. There isn’t much room for the mind to wander endlessly because you’re anchored in what’s directly in front of you. Revision notes, practice questions, exams that are happening now rather than being imagined weeks in advance. It’s a bit like stepping stones across a river — you just move from one to the next without overthinking where each step might lead.

And because of that, the mind naturally quiets. Not completely, but enough. You’re in it, rather than observing it from the outside and building stories around it.

In quieter periods, like winter, it’s different. There’s more space for thought to move around. And if you’re not aware of it, that space fills quickly. Not with the reality of what’s happening, but with interpretation. Questions begin to form. Why do I feel like this? What does it mean? Should I be doing more? Should I be feeling different? And slowly, without noticing it, you’re no longer just in winter. You’re in your thinking about winter.

It’s a bit like standing in a quiet room and hearing your own voice echo back at you. The room itself hasn’t changed, but the repetition of your own thoughts starts to make everything feel louder than it actually is.

Standing in the garden, I could see it more clearly than I had before. The lighthouse I used to imagine pointing at the weather wasn’t really pointing at the weather at all. It was pointing at the speed of my own mind. When it’s steady, everything feels more grounded. You see what’s actually there. But when it starts to sweep too quickly, everything gets amplified. Everything feels heavier, more uncertain, more complicated than it really is.

And I think term three reflects that in its own way. It feels intense from the outside, but when you’re in it, it often brings you into the present moment whether you intend it to or not. It has its own rhythm. Revision, exam, reset. Revision, exam, reset. There isn’t much space for spiralling when your attention is anchored to what’s right in front of you.

So maybe it was never really about the seasons at all. Maybe it was never the weather shaping how I felt. Maybe it was just how much space my thinking had to run, and whether I was caught inside it or simply moving through the day itself.

Because when that thinking slows down, even slightly, everything changes. Not because life becomes easier, but because I stop narrating it long enough to actually be in it.