Don't wait to be called on: Finding your voice at university

By Jieyu (Allie) Chen, Senior Project and Engagement Coordinator / 24 September 2026

Why finding your voice is one of the most important things we learn in higher education. 

Every summer, my partner teaches pre‑sessional courses for Chinese students who are about to start their degrees at UK universities. It's a bridge programme that helps them adjust to academic life here. Near the end of the course, he often invites me to join a video call with the students. His reasoning is simple: I spent nearly ten years as an English teacher back in China, and I've now lived, studied, and worked in the UK for many more years. Having experienced both systems myself, I hoped I could offer a perspective from somewhere in between. 

I turn off the slides, switch on the camera, and there they are: a grid of young, earnest faces. They sit up straight, hands neatly placed on the desk, eyes fixed on me as I speak. When I say, "Feel free to ask me anything," they nod politely, but few actually speak up. In that moment, I don't need to be told: the posture, the alert stillness, the look of someone waiting to be called on, it's exactly the same as the high school students I used to teach in my Chinese classroom. 

In Chinese classrooms, silence means discipline; speaking is something you're ‘permitted’ to do. You raise your hand, the teacher gives you the nod, and only then do you have the floor. These students carry that habit with them when they arrive. They think that if they listen carefully, take notes, and never interrupt, they're being "good students." 

But they soon discover that in a British university seminar, ‘silence is a kind of sin’. 

Tutors here won't wait for you to raise your hand, nor will they assume you've understood just because you're scribbling away. They expect you to interrupt, to question, to say "I don't get this" or "I disagree”, and to do it in the moment. Here, asking a question isn't a disruption; it’s a contribution. Challenging an idea isn't rude; it's evidence that you're actually thinking. 

I spent that entire hour trying to help them shed that instinct of waiting for permission. I told them: part of your tuition fee buys you the ‘right’ to speak up. If you go through an entire year without saying a word in class, it's not modesty, it's a waste of your own money. 

As I said that, I was suddenly taken back to my own first days here, years ago. 

I landed in the UK like a fresh exchange student, dragging two heavy suitcases, my head full of romantic images: ancient colleges, brilliant professors, students debating philosophy on sunlit lawns. Everything felt like a pilgrimage. My anxiety was mostly about whether I'd understand the lectures, not about what I'd do after graduation. 

Fast‑forward ten years, and the questions I get from these students are completely different: 

"When should I start applying for internships?" 

"Will this degree be recognised if I take the civil service exam back in China?" 

"How do I 'land on my feet' after a one‑year masters?" 

"What's the realistic path to staying in the UK after graduation?" 

They're not worried about fish and chips, or about missing home. They're worried about one thing: ‘one year from now, how am I going to compete with millions of other graduates in China?’ 

In the past decade, the world has flattened. Xiaohongshu (Chinese social media) and TikTok have already given them a live preview of UK University life, the mystery is long gone. With that information gap closed, all that's left is cold, hard calculation. 

Meanwhile, the competition back home has become a relentless pressure cooker. An overseas degree is no longer a golden ticket; it's just an entry ticket, and maybe not even that – just a raffle draw. These kids know they have only one short year, not a year to "experience culture," but a year to burnish their CV, pad their résumé, and lock down a future. Romance? That was a luxury for the previous generation of overseas students. 

I never give them platitudes like "enjoy the moment." Instead, I tell them one thing they truly need to hear: you have to learn to make your own voice heard. 

Can't follow the lecture? Raise your hand and say so, right then. Can't get a word into the group discussion? Jump in and say, "I have a different perspective." The tutor's office hour is empty? Walk in and tell them what's on your mind, even if it's half‑baked. 

Because in this country, no one is going to call on you like a Chinese teacher does and ask, "Do you understand?" If you stay quiet, they assume you're fine. If you don't put yourself forward, the opportunity goes to someone else. Participation isn't a personality trait, it's a skill you have to deliberately practise. 

I closed the laptop and leaned back in my chair. 

Their anxiety is so real, so palpable, it tugs at my heart. But I also think they're luckier than we were: they set out with their eyes wide open, which means they'll waste less time nursing broken romantic illusions. 

If they can combine the diligence they honed in China with the assertiveness they'll learn here, that one year will be worth far more than a degree certificate. 

And all I can do, before they even board the plane, is give them the simplest piece of advice I have: 

‘Don't wait for someone to call your name. Stand up. Speak out. Your voice carries more weight than you think.’ 

Creating environments where every student feels able to contribute is about more than participation. It's about belonging. If your university is looking to strengthen student voice, inclusion, and engagement, get in touch. We'd welcome a convesation with you.