The Gap Year.

At some point in modern civilisation  roughly around the time avocado toast became a personality type society collectively decided that young people should take something called a Gap Year.

This is a magical period between school and university during which a teenager is expected to “find themselves,” even though most of them can’t find their own socks!

Back in my day, a “gap” was something you fell into while not paying attention. Now it’s a lifestyle choice. Parents talk about it in hushed, reverent tones, as though their child is embarking on a spiritual pilgrimage rather than spending nine months wearing the same pair of shorts and losing expensive electronics in foreign hostels.

The idea, allegedly, is that the Gap Year builds character. This is because the child travels to distant lands, meets new cultures, and learns important life lessons such as “hostel showers are a war crime” and “never trust a monkey with your sunglasses.” They return home transformed, wiser, and with a bracelet made of ethically sourced twine that they will insist has deep personal meaning until it snaps two weeks later.

The modern Gap Year typically begins with the young person announcing, “I just need time to figure out who I am.” This is interesting, because five minutes earlier they couldn’t figure out how to operate the washing machine. But now they are apparently ready to navigate the jungles of Southeast Asia armed only with a backpack, a water bottle, and a vague sense of entitlement.

Parents, meanwhile, react in one of two ways. Either they become emotional wrecks (“My baby is leaving to explore the world!”), or they become so enthusiastic that you suspect they’ve been planning this moment since the child was born (“Yes! Go! Explore! Take your time! No rush coming back!”). These are the same parents who, three months later, will receive a panicked message reading: “Mum, how do you boil rice?”

The Gap Year itinerary is always the same. First, the child flies somewhere very far away, ideally a place with a name that sounds like a yoga pose. Then they join a group of other gap‑year travellers, all of whom are named things like Amber, Finn, or Nectrine, and together they embark on a spiritual journey that mostly involves drinking questionable cocktails and taking photos of themselves doing handstands in front of famous landmarks.

At some point, they will volunteer. This is mandatory. They will spend two weeks “helping the local community,” which usually means painting a school wall that was already painted last week by another group of gap‑year students. The locals have stopped asking why. They simply hand out brushes and wait for the next wave of enthusiastic teenagers to arrive.

The child will also send updates home. These messages fall into three categories:

1. The Inspirational Update: “I’m learning so much about myself.”  

2. The Philosophical Update: “Time is an illusion, and we are all connected.”  

3. The Emergency Update: “I’ve lost my passport.”

Eventually, after months of travel, introspection, and eating things that would make a nutritionist weep, the child returns home. They step off the plane looking like a cross between a seasoned explorer and someone who has been living in a hammock for too long. They speak in a new, worldly tone. They say things like, “In Bali, we don’t rush,” despite having spent only 48 hours in Bali.

But here’s the thing: the Gap Year works. Somehow, through all the chaos, the child does grow up a bit. They become braver. More confident. Slightly better at boiling rice.

And yes, they still can’t find their socks. But now they can’t find them in three different time zones, which is progress.