Change is not a topic I like writing about, let alone contemplating. It is unsettling and anxiety-inducing – an unpleasant departure from order and safety into the unknown turbulence of chaos. It demands bravery and resolve to overcome an inertia I had called home and one I am increasingly reluctant to abandon. Essentially, change requires effort and as a lazy lounge-on-the-couch-with-a-book-or-a-movie-type-person, effort and I are not what you would call close acquaintances.

But the most maddening, infuriating thing about change is its inherent hopefulness. As a concept, it makes no assumptions about the present but dangles the tantalising possibility of ‘betterness’ and whatever ‘betterness’ entails. Of course, things can always change for the worse, but living in a glass-half-full world, delusional as it may be, has its perks.

I find there are 2 months of the year that are particularly prone to change: October and February. A significant reason behind this lies in the shifting seasons. October marks the slow descent of autumn into winter, the vibrant fiery tapestry of September’s close fading into something colder, sparser, more muted. Scarves return to fashion, the soft glow of fireplace ambiance becomes socially acceptable background noise, and as the leaves fall, so too does the last vestige of summer’s ease, replaced by winter’s inevitability. But beyond the seasonal, October usually brings the start of the academic year and the end of the interminably long summer break. October means eagerly waiting to see friends again, listening to their summer adventures as you search their faces for traces of change while quietly reassured by their continued friendship. More pragmatically, October ends summer’s languidity and smartingly spurs us into a state of term-time routine and productivity, a state all too familiar to ICSM students.

On a more macroscopic scale, 4th year itself has been a lesson in change. No placements, minimal full-cohort lectures, no CSI. A year focused on research and reading research, on critical analysis over memorised regurgitation, and a seemingly endless parade of overlapping deadlines, replacing the once-familiar rhythm of end-of-year summatives. Yet even within this maelstrom of changes, February feels like its own microcosm of transformation. It signals start of Module 3 and the beginning of the end of our BSc.

With it comes another identity shift. Having already morphed from medical students into a more “generic university student” – who stresses about coursework, Turnitin deadlines and citation styles – we now attempt to embody the title of “research student”. We walk down hospital corridors into laboratories, scanning our newly updated ID cards as we enter a world of hypotheses, results and discussion, only briefly looking back as we close the door on the world of diagnoses, differentials and management that we used to be ushered around. February fractures the reassuring closeness, regular meetings and shared goals of our January Literature Review Groups. Separated, everyone’s everywhere except where you are, reminding you once again of London’s enormity and TfL’s inadequacy. The comfort of seeing familiar faces daily is replaced with sporadic encounters as fond farewells noticeably change from “see you tomorrow” to “see you next time”. But with research projects gathering momentum such changes are relegated to a back-of-the-mind worry.

At least the weather’s looking up. The mornings are still crisp and chill, the rain has lost its ferocity and is settling into the more regular but lighter spring showers. The skies are occasionally blue. Scarves are still in fashion, but raincoats are no longer a must. The woodpeckers have started drumming and even the screeches of the parakeets are strangely soothing.

As I write this, February is already half gone. We are, as The Doctor says, “halfway out of the dark”. Whatever this month and the rest of the year may bring, whatever changes lie ahead, I choose to keep my glass half full.