Every autumn our kitchen table turns into an admissions office. Prospectuses slide under the fruit bowl, someone's laptop is open on a virtual tour, and my teenager says the name of a course as though it were a country she has already decided to emigrate to. And every autumn there is a fresh wave of headlines about graduates struggling to repay what they borrowed, about which institutions leave students worst off. The headlines are useful only in one way: they remind us that borrowing for education is a financial decision, not just an emotional one. The trick is having that conversation early, once, properly, and then going back to being excited.
Start with the total, not the yearly figure
Teenagers process the cost of education the way they process a monthly phone contract: in small, survivable slices. Parents do the same, because a single year of tuition sounds manageable in a way that the whole thing does not. So the first job is arithmetic done out loud, together. Write down tuition for every year of the course, then add the parts that never make the brochure: rent for the months she'll actually be there, travel home at holidays, a laptop, course materials, a deposit, the first month before any part-time job starts paying.
Then separate that total into three columns: money that already exists (savings, family help, whatever you can genuinely commit without straining), money that has to be earned during term time, and money that would have to be borrowed. Seeing the borrowing column as one number, in her handwriting, does more than any lecture. It also opens the far more interesting question, which is not "can we afford this?" but "is there a cheaper route to the same place?" Commuting for the first year, a local institution with a strong department, a course that includes a paid placement, or starting somewhere less expensive and transferring are all real options, not consolation prizes.
Questions worth asking before you sign anything
Open days are designed to make you feel welcome, which is lovely, and slightly unhelpful. Send your teenager in with questions written on her phone. What proportion of students on this specific course finish it? What do graduates of this course actually do afterwards, and how does the department know? Is there a placement year, and is it paid? What does accommodation cost in the second and third years, when students move out of halls? Does the department have its own hardship fund?
Then ask the money questions of the financial aid or student services office, not the marketing team. What grants and scholarships exist, and what is the deadline? How is the loan paid out, and what happens if she changes course or takes a year out? What repayment terms apply to the borrowing being offered, and are there other, less flexible products in the mix? If a recruiter is vague, or pushes you towards signing quickly, treat that the way you'd treat a pushy salesperson at the door. We are not financial advisers in our kitchens, and there is no shame in taking the paperwork to someone who is, or to a free advice service, before committing.
Make the first salary real
The part that catches young adults out is not the size of the loan; it's the shape of a first payslip. So do a mock budget for the year after graduation. Pick a realistic starting salary for the field she's interested in, subtract tax and any repayment that would apply, then subtract rent in the kind of city where those jobs are, transport, food, phone, and something for a social life, because a budget with no joy in it is a fantasy. Whatever is left over is the honest answer to how the borrowing will feel.
This exercise isn't designed to frighten anyone. Most of the time it simply reframes the decision: a course that leads somewhere is worth borrowing for, and a course chosen because the prospectus photography was nice may not be. My daughter's version of this budget ended with her deciding she wanted to live somewhere with a tram, which is as good a reason to research a city as any.
How do I talk about money without crushing their excitement?
Separate the two conversations in time. Have the dream conversation first, with no numbers in it at all, so she knows you're on her side about the future she wants; then, on a different day, say plainly that you want to spend an hour on the money so it doesn't follow her around for the next decade. Framing it as "let's make sure this is affordable for the person you'll be at twenty-three" keeps you allies rather than opponents.
Is it worth borrowing for a course with no obvious job at the end?
Sometimes, yes, but the borrowing should be proportionate to the uncertainty. If the path after graduation is genuinely open-ended, that's an argument for keeping the debt small, choosing a cheaper city, living at home for a year, or picking an institution where the same subject costs less rather than abandoning the subject. A degree you love and can repay comfortably will serve you better than a "safe" one you resent, and better than a beloved one that takes twenty years to pay off.
