Because of its undeniable small-town charm, there’s something surreal about leaving St Andrews on a random weekday in November, when the grey air begins to feel suffocating. Randomly and rapidly, getting out of town does happen, and by sticking to bus schedules and pre-made plans, you can suddenly find yourself in Glasgow, surrounded by neon lights, strangers, and the electric choruses of crowds waiting for artists. One moment you’re sitting in the same library spot you spent weeks in; the next you’re travelling with friends, layers of sweaters and thermals on, backpacks by your side, watching the landscape start to blur into something refreshingly bigger than our three-street town. 

Personally, my mini trip for Lorde’s concert felt impulsive even though it wasn’t — a midweek plan disguised as spontaneity, a subtle rebellion against the monotony of pressuring deadlines, cold winds, and incoming revision sessions. It became one of those unique evenings where everything seems to align: excitement, safety, and that comforting realization that sometimes the only thing you need is to step outside the “bubble” and breathe. 

People joke that St Andrews as a bubble, but anyone here knows just how much the joke represents the truth and a way of life. The town follows a compressed system of overlapping circles: your flatmates become your closest friends, your tutorial group blends into people you see on nights out, and your acquaintance from first-year reappears at every single coffee shop. University culture always reflects a series of bubbles — halls, flats, sports, friendship groups — and in St Andrews they’re tighter, almost too familiar. 

It’s comforting? 
It’s suffocating? 
It’s both. 

And that’s why taking a break — even just for a night — can feel transformative. 

Walking around Glasgow in the evening indeed felt like a relieving exhale. There was a strange sense of ease in the city, a warmth tucked beneath the noise, and surprising amounts of crowds filling the streets. Maybe it’s Scotland itself, a country that, despite its piercing high winds and unpredictable rain, feels particularly welcoming and unified. Going to a major concert in a big city should feel tense. Instead, Scotland’s sense of unity and celebration led us to a safe, carefully organised location where everything – from security checks to merch stands and bar halls – was smoothly aligned in the warmth of an indoor venue. This comfort was as a stark contrast to the usual overcrowded, panic infused, chaotic music festivals in other European cities, where you end up more focused and alert rather than immersed in the moment. 

But then, wrapped in blue stage lights and surrounded by people I trust, I felt none of these fears. Just warmth. Community. A change of scenery and fun I didn’t realise I’d been craving so much. 

Lorde came onstage barefoot, smiling, and soft-spoken in her characteristic way. Her setlist,  practically memorised by everyone, unfolded quickly, and when she sang “What Was That?”, the moving disorientation she describes — the emotional vertigo following the end of an intense experience — washed through the arena. Having listened to the song countless times, it became clear that the question hidden in the title isn’t just about heartbreak; it’s about the confusion that follows any experience overcome, emphasizing the shock of realizing we might evolve quicker than we think. 

Listening to the words, I realised just how often we carry that same feeling into early adulthood. Not just after breakups, but after any moment or phase that destabilizes us. It made me think about how easily life in St Andrews blurs into routine, how rapidly days seem to unfold, and how little space we allow ourselves to step back and ask what we are actually doing, and what it  means.  

Another memorable moment was when “Green Light” came on, inciting the crowd to repeat the iconic “I want it”. Surrounded by collective enthusiasm, I more than ever felt the familiar, restless contradiction of wanting to move forward and mature while still being tugged backwards by personal doubts and insecurities. The song beautifully captures the confusing limbo of healing: wanting the green light but not feeling ready to run through it. Fearing change but knowing you need to move forward.  

Realistically, this tension lives in all of us through our years at university. We can feel it in the repetitiveness of our routines, in the looming pressure of graduation, and in the prospect of future plans forming before we’re ready, while the smallness of the bubble can make our emotions feel disproportionately loud and stressful.  

And yet one single night reminded me how wide our range of choices really is; it’s always a good idea to de-stress and treat ourselves to experiences before starting to feel overwhelmed by the pressure and limitedness of it all. 

Not that we should forget the privileges that come with the bubble: we are safe, held, and constantly surrounded by people who become like a second family. The danger then does not lie in the bubble itself, but in how easily we forget the world beyond it: every routine and even the most comforting habits should never feel like an unavoidable loop.  

Luckily, Scotland makes escapes easy: day trips to Edinburgh for markets and shopping, weekend hikes through the Highlands, art museums and concerts in Glasgow, and half of it free with a YoungScot card. There’s a whole country outside the bubble, waiting to be explored. The first step is simply remembering that everything we need is not always compressed into one tiny place. 

On the bus ride back, ears ringing and half-asleep, I still felt at peace. Maybe it was the concert’s afterglow, or maybe it was the reminder of how good it feels to step out of our own patterns.  

With Lorde’s lyrics still playing in my mind, I finally understood how instead of “waiting for it”, we can take initiative to bring ourselves closer to the “green light” and begin to feel better. 

Maybe that’s the whole point. 
Maybe leaving the bubble, even just for a night, is a powerful declaration of agency. 
A small, soft decision to choose yourself. 

So the next time you feel stuck, or too entangled in the loops of familiarity, take the trip. 
Book the ticket. 
Get on the train. 
Let the world open up around you again. It can be a fun form of self-care, a shot of serotonin we owe ourselves far more often than we allow. 

Because freedom doesn't imply a major life change. Sometimes it can be just a weeknight away, singing in a new crowd with friends, remembering that life outside the bubble isn't a loss of safety – it’s a promise of possibility.