Hilary Term at Oxford

On surviving the ‘longest’ term with the shortest days

By Kamakshi (@kam.at.oxford)

Not to scare anyone, but there is something inherently cruel about Hilary term. Not because it is harder than Michaelmas or more demanding than Trinity (academically, every Oxford term asks a lot of you in its own way) but because Hilary arrives when your body, your mind, and the sun all seem to be conspiring against you.

The Christmas lights have come down. The adrenaline of a new academic year has worn off. Your bank account is still recovering from the festivities of December. And somehow, it is dark by 4pm.

Welcome to Hilary term at Oxford: eight weeks of winter and deadlines.

The architecture of melancholy

Oxford in winter is breathtaking in theory. Honey-coloured college roofs dusted with frost. Libraries glowing softly after dusk. Complete dark academia vibes. The kind of beauty that looks cinematic on an Instagram feed but is deeply isolating in real life.

Also, beauty does not cancel biology. Seasonal affective disorder (aka SAD unironically) is not simply “feeling a bit low.” Reduced daylight lowers serotonin levels and affects sleep, appetite, and motivation. Even those who have never experienced this before can find themselves suddenly exhausted, emotionally numb, or unrecognisably irritable.

At Oxford, these symptoms are amplified. The university runs on intensity: reading lists that never end, tutorials that arrive faster than you can process feedback, and expectations that assume constant brilliance. Hilary term compresses all of this into cold mornings and dark afternoons, when getting out of bed already feels like an achievement.

The quiet comparison trap

There is another layer to Hilary sadness that rarely gets acknowledged. This is the term when comparison becomes loud.

By January, everyone seems to have found their rhythm. Your cohort speaks fluently in theory that you’re still googling. People present their projects, publish articles, secure funding, run societies, and somehow still attend formals twice a week.

And because Oxford normalises exceptionalism, struggling feels like personal failure rather than a predictable human response to burnout and winter. When everyone else looks productive, cheerful, and intellectually alive, it becomes harder to admit that you are simply trying to survive the week.

The breakdown of productivity regimen

Hilary term has a particular obsession with productivity. New Year resolutions bleed seamlessly into academic self-surveillance. You promise yourself this will be the term you wake up at 6am, read six monographs a week, write consistently, exercise daily, cook properly, maintain friendships, and maybe even enjoy Oxford.

When the cold hits, these ideals collapse. Suddenly getting out of bed feels monumental. Your reading speed drops. Concentration evaporates. Guilt replaces curiosity. But I feel the danger is not reduced output; it is believing that reduced output means reduced worth. Oxford rarely teaches you how to be unproductive without shame.

Small mercies that help

You do not need grand solutions. Small ones are good enough.

•  Walking, even without purpose. Especially along the river and through the University Parks, when nature still thrives.

• Studying in warm rooms. Cold libraries drain energy faster and bring more imposter syndrome than we admit.

• Letting preparation be imperfect. Skimming is still reading. Showing up confused is still showing up.

• Finding one anchor ritual. Morning coffee from the same café. A daily phone call home. A comforting meal on Sundays. Anything warm.

• Taking daylight seriously. Sitting near windows. Walking outside at noon. Treating light as medicine because frankly, it is.

Lastly, the permission to struggle

What no one tells you about Oxford is that struggling here does not mean you do not belong. If anything, Hilary reveals the limits of the endurance culture. It shows that brilliance does not exist independently of rest, warmth, nourishment and light.

You are not weak for finding this term hard. You are not behind when moving slowly. You are not failing because the weather touched you.

Perhaps the problem is not that we struggle but that we expect ourselves not to.

If you are reading this in the middle of Hilary term, you are not alone, even when it feels like everyone else is coping better. Winter is not a personal ‘failing’. It is a season and seasons pass.