Life can seem a little grey every now and again. And by that, I’m not referring to 50 Shades. (I mean, that’s fine too, but…) What I mean is that ‘meh’ feeling which tends to float above you like a personal cloud of discontent. Grey, heavy, imposing.

You can try your best to prod it with the end of an umbrella, to blow it way up into the sky. Yet it remains, floating above you like a permanent headache, the remedy just out of reach. No one and nothing is capable of blowing the cloud away, revealing the sunshine it tries so hard to obscure. No, it is not a someone or a something. It is, in fact, bravery.

This panacea is difficult to come by.

If there’s one thing that my term and a half at this social experiment called ‘university’ has taught me, it’s that in order to be the best possible you, to be true to yourself and send that cloud spiralling into oblivion, you must be brave.

It’s a pretty weird place, Cambridge. Groups of over-achieving, often privileged, deep-thinking 18-year-olds, clumped together in a corridor, expecting to take over the world and in reality ending up eating Sainsbury’s ready meals, handing essays in late or stumbling back from Cindies with cheesy chips and a desire to open a bottle from their prized port collection. Cambridge is strange. To master it, you must be brave. And by this I don’t mean Danger Spoons.

“To try knowing that you are the wordsmith is surely better than to be idle, waiting for someone to pen your story”

During a particularly cloudy day a few weeks ago, a friend of mine told me the best way to be brave was to “be my own sovereign”. As a politics student, this was an intriguing concept. Surely to be my own sovereign is to be one of the multitude, scrabbling in the state of nature, clawing for glory, distrusting others? Ha ha, no.

To be one’s own sovereign is not to be selfish, to be sceptical of others, to push one’s own agenda – to be one’s own sovereign, is to be brave.

I’m not referring to venturing into the gone-off-fried-chicken-reeking gyp to steam one’s own green beans, despite the glares of suspicion, but to (ahem) taking back control, to being the writer of one’s destiny. To try knowing that you are the wordsmith – succeed or fail – is surely better than to be idle, waiting for someone to pen your story.

Bravery and truth, therefore, go hand in hand – as exemplified perfectly by the fearlessness of Labour MPs who defied the bonkers three-line-whip imposed by Jeremy Corbyn to vote in favour of triggering Article 50 and thus setting the wheels of Brexit in motion. They remained true to themselves and to their constituents. They trusted the sovereignty of their own morality, their own judgement, and they pursued it for the greater good. They knew the consequences of their actions: they were prepared for the words of angry constituents, hell-bent on ensuring our swift exit from the EU. They were aware of the way in which the media would attack them; they knew that others would brand them betrayers, traitors of Britain’s independence (puke). In the face of all of this, they were brave.

The same can be said about the Six Nations. (Tenuous link there, Marth. Bear with.) Recall Wales vs England on the weekend – the loss still raw. Wales, the underdog, the tiny nation with a population smaller than Yorkshire, were brave, fearless, valiant. After being under the English yoke for centuries (long story, Google it), victory in this arena is the only way in which the nation is capable of some form of retribution.

A victory for the little man. A victory for being true to one’s self and being brave in the face of failure. So, as hundreds of grown men donned in daffodils and dragons blubbed and bawled in pubs, working men’s clubs, sofas throughout the land, England’s win was not a wound on the Welsh psyche, but a reminder of the bigger battle, a calling to be brave.

As such, being one’s own sovereign doesn’t mean that things will always go your way. Oh no. Take last week for example, when I was ‘brave’ and went to Life for the first time. Ironically, I have never ventured into such a lifeless place – and although I appreciated the Pina-Colada-From-a-Carton and the group rendition of Beyoncé’s ‘Single Ladies’, I realised just then that although I was being brave, I wasn’t being true.

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This was not me. Give me a cup of tea over cheesy chips, any day. Give me EastEnders over house music. Give me truth and bravery over half-hearted dancing and a contrived smile contorting my face.  This balance is key to being one’s own sovereign; they are tools from which you can construct and maintain your kingdom and your sense of self.

I sang at a bar night this week. I basked in the warmth of my sovereignty. I was brave and I was true – and I waved goodbye to those clouds of grey as they lifted from my shoulders. It felt good