I have been watching The Lord of the Rings for as long as I can remember. Long before I knew what a university was, long before I imagined myself leaving home, I knew Middle-earth.

It was the landscape of my childhood imagination—misty mountains, ancient forests, and the quiet courage of ordinary people thrust into extraordinary journeys. Maybe that is why, when I arrived in Oxford for the first time as a student, the place I most wanted to visit wasn’t my college, or the Bodleian Library, or even the Radcliffe Camera. It was a bench in University Parks—the J.R.R. Tolkien Bench—tucked near High Bridge.

To get there, I walk a route that has quickly become ritual. From the bustle of Broad Street, I pass Balliol College—its sturdy walls and serene quad giving the type of gravitas that only a place founded in the 13th century can hold.

A few minutes later I find myself near New College, its medieval cloisters whispering stories older than most nations. Linacre College, more modern but no less thoughtful in its presence, comes next. Then the path opens, the noise softens, and University Parks unfolds like a deep breath.

There are grander sights in Oxford, more photographed, more talked about. But this walk is mine. It is the one that leads me back to a childhood dream and into a present I’m still learning to believe is real.

The Tolkien Bench is simple—weathered wood overlooking a gentle sweep of green. There is nothing ostentatious about it. Perhaps that is what I love most.

Tolkien valued the quiet things, the small things, the unnoticed beauties of the world. Sitting there, listening to the River Cherwell move with unhurried certainty, I feel a sense of peace that is hard to find anywhere else.

Whenever I have time between classes, or when studying feels overwhelming, or when the wider world presses too hard on my shoulders, you’ll often find me there. Just sitting. Just breathing. Just letting the enormity of everything settle.

Because the truth is, studying at Oxford still feels unreal. There are days when I walk through Radcliffe Square and feel the ancient stones under my feet and wonder if I am dreaming. There are mornings when I open a book in the Bodleian—its pages crisp with centuries—and think of how unlikely it is that my life led me here.

I study hard, not just for myself but because I know that when I sit in a lecture hall or step into a tutorial, I am carrying more than my own hopes. I am carrying the hopes of my community, my family, and the Indigenous group I belong to—people who have shaped me, loved me, taught me to be grounded even when walking through unfamiliar worlds.

There were not many people from my community who made it to institutions like this. Some never had the chance. Some never had the access. Some never dared to imagine it. And that is why I work—why I give my best, why I hold myself to standards that sometimes frighten me. I want to be a good representation of where I come from. I want more people from my community to know that these paths, these benches, these quiet corners of world-famous universities can also be theirs.

Oxford has changed my life. Not by making me someone new, but by showing me the possibilities of who I could become while still honoring who I am. Every time I sit at the Tolkien Bench, I think of little-kid me watching hobbits leave the Shire—nervous but brave, ordinary but capable of extraordinary things.

And I realize: that journey wasn’t so different from my own.