GALWAY LIVING
When Life Hands You Aprons: Surviving Burnout as an International Student Worker
“Order up!!”
Another weekend shift, another tip pool, and another takeaway box of hot wedges and Cuzzin Krier with a side of bleu cheese dip to be guzzled down at the dining table with my roommate/co-worker.
In all the imaginary scenarios I made up in my head about what my life in Ireland would be like as an international student, scrubbing restaurant floors, serving burgers, and standing in front of a hot fryer for six hours a day was NOT a part of it.
I wasn’t exactly navigating uncharted waters, but let’s just say the map I thought I had was more like a vague doodle on a napkin. Life as a student in India and life as a student in Ireland might as well be from two entirely different planets. No amount of research could’ve prepared me for the juggling act of a full-time degree, a part-time job, and the culture shock of uprooting my life to a foreign land. Spoiler alert: it was messy, exhausting, and kind of magical all at once.
In the two and a half years I’ve been calling this land of relentless rain, and aggressive seagulls my home, I’ve racked up four part-time jobs just to keep the rent paid and fund my embarrassingly frequent retail therapy binges. It all started with a stint at Penney’s, a true Irish rite of passage, before tumbling into what can only be described as my personal purgatory: a job at a Chinese restaurant that will remain nameless for my own peace of mind. Let’s just say, life lessons were served piping hot with a side of sweet and sour sauce.
By some random stroke of luck—or let’s be real, sheer desperation—I came across a job listing on Indeed: Part-time server wanted at Scotty’s Burgers and Wings. Intrigued, I took the gruelling 260-meter journey to what turned out to be a little American-style burger joint nestled in the middle of a student residential area. That’s where I met the man who would become my boss, my partner-in-book-geeking, and somehow, the person who always knew when I needed an extra fry on a bad day.
For the next few months, every weekend felt like a blur of burger patties and burnt fingertips in that cosy little diner with 1,000 mugs dangling from the ceiling. If I wasn’t greeting customers at the door with my best “Welcome to Scotty’s!” or heroically ignoring Scotty’s “Careful, that plate’s hot!” warnings, I was parked in my university classroom. There, with my six classmates, we’d discuss research techniques while the hauntingly medieval echoes of Hips Don’t Lie by Shakira inexplicably played in the background.
Twenty-hour shifts every weekend followed by three days glued to my laptop, chipping away at my thesis, started to feel like a full-body workout I hadn’t signed up for. Rent was sky-high, time was running low, and my knees and back were aging faster than I was. Toss in my already fragile emotional stability, and what you’ve got is the perfect recipe for a burnt-out student special.
My experience wasn’t too different from the countless international students who hopped on a plane to Ireland with a suitcase full of dreams and Maggi packets. We were all barely holding it together, swapping dark humour about wishing for a long, coma-like nap until this chaotic phase of life blew over, all while secretly hoping we’d make it through in one piece. Now, as I sit in my corporate chair just five months post-apron retirement, sending emails with BCCs instead of serving burgers with fries, I sometimes marvel at the fact that I actually survived.