I think modelling was like the university of life, really. You

Hear, O seeker, the words of Agyness Deyn, who reflected upon her youth and said: “I think modelling was like the university of life, really. You get to travel but you get thrown into this adult world, which is kind of quite scary.” This is not only the voice of a model speaking of her career, but the voice of one who learned that wisdom does not always flow from books or lectures, but from the rough and sudden immersion into the realities of existence. For she names her path not a university of stone halls and parchment scrolls, but the university of life itself.

The heart of this saying lies in the truth that experience is the sternest teacher. The young who enter modelling are thrust into a world of travel, contracts, negotiations, appearances, and expectations. While others of their age sit in classrooms shielded from life’s harsher edges, they are cast into the fire, forced to learn by doing. Deyn confesses that this world was both dazzling and frightening—a realm of opportunity, but also one where innocence was quickly stripped away. This is the paradox of the adult world: filled with both promise and peril, both beauty and burden.

The ancients too understood this lesson. Consider the story of Alexander the Great, who as a boy of twenty was thrust into kingship after his father’s death. He did not ascend gradually but was hurled suddenly into the adult world of armies, diplomacy, and empire. For him, as for Deyn, the world itself became the classroom, and mistakes carried a cost far greater than failing marks. And yet, such an education forged greatness—though at times, it also demanded sacrifices too heavy for the young.

Deyn speaks also of travel, that double-edged gift. It offers the chance to see new lands, to meet new peoples, to experience the vastness of the world. Yet it also uproots, disorients, and exposes. For the one who travels without the anchor of maturity, the journey can be overwhelming, the demands too many, the temptations too near. Thus, while travel is a form of learning, it is also a test, a crucible that forges or breaks the spirit.

The fear she names—the “quite scary” aspect—is the fear of being unprepared. Many young souls long for adulthood, imagining its freedom, yet when it arrives suddenly, they tremble at its weight. Modelling, for Deyn, was not simply glamorous work but a battlefield of identity, responsibility, and survival. This is why she calls it the university of life—a place where tuition is paid not in coins but in courage, where lessons are not optional, and where graduation is survival itself.

What lesson, then, shall we take from her words? It is this: life itself is always teaching, and often its most powerful lessons come not when we are ready, but when we are unready. To be thrown into the adult world is frightening, yet it is in these moments of fear that growth begins. Those who embrace the discomfort of being unprepared emerge stronger, wiser, and more resilient. Those who hide from such trials risk remaining forever children, never tested by the weight of life.

In practice, embrace the challenges that cast you into new worlds. Do not flee from opportunities simply because they are daunting. Step forward into the “universities of life” that appear before you—be they work, travel, responsibility, or hardship. Know that fear will accompany you, but let fear itself be your teacher. Keep your eyes open, your spirit humble, and your will steady, and the lessons of life will shape you into something no ordinary classroom ever could.

Thus, Deyn’s words echo like a timeless teaching: that the university of life is vast, unrelenting, and sometimes terrifying—but it is also the forge of greatness. To live fully is to attend this school, to learn from both its joys and its pains, and to emerge from it not merely older, but wiser, stronger, and more truly alive.