At 46, I’m an Apprentice Again. Am I a Failure?

The Raw Truth About Starting Over (18 Months In)

Last month, during an online lecture, a fellow student mentioned going to the London Olympics with his parents as a kid.

I almost said: “I was there too, filming it as a journalist.”

I stopped myself mid-sentence. Didn’t want to reveal my actual age.

I’m 46. I’m doing a Level 4 Data Analyst Apprenticeship. That’s roughly equivalent to the first year of university.

I have a degree ( with honours). I’ve trained and worked in the US and across Europe. I spent 25 years as a journalist covering international stories.

And now I’m doing homework. Every week. Like I’m 19 again.

So let me answer the question you’re probably thinking: Am I a failure?

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This is a follow-up to my previous story about jumping into the unknown:[ I Left Journalism After 25 Years. Here’s What Nobody Tells You About Starting Over.](https://medium.com/@ts231278/i-left-journalism-after-25-years-heres-what-nobody-tells-you-about-starting-over-317fcca9e736)

The Question That Keeps Coming Back.

The feeling doesn’t go away. It’s not a one-time crisis; it’s a permanent background hum.

When I add it all up ( the education, the international experience, the career I built) and compare it to where I am now, there’s only one conclusion: I flushed my entire life down the toilet.

That’s what the voice says, anyway.

My friends and family are supportive. They say the right things. But I know what’s behind their words, at best, confusion. Nobody says it to your face, but I can read between the lines.

And honestly? I get it. If someone told me five years ago that I’d be doing an apprenticeship at 46, I’d be confused too.

What I Tell Myself Now.

I have a different life now. It can’t be compared to what came before.

This is a new version of me. Comparisons don’t work. They’re not fair, not to who I was, not to who I’m becoming.

It’s hard. But I’m learning.

A few years ago, I trained for a marathon from zero (no running experience) in one year. I finished it.

I know how to work with myself. I’ve done it before. I’m doing it again.

What’s Actually Hard (It’s Not the Code).

I expected Python to be difficult. I expected statistics to hurt my brain.

What I didn’t expect: the discipline of learning itself.

Every week, I have to sit down and study. Seven hours minimum. Read, practise, and do assignments. Understand. Remember. Apply.

Nobody’s making me do it. No deadline, no editor, no broadcast at 6pm.

Just me, pulling myself out of the swamp by my own hair, like Baron Munchausen.

In journalism, everything was fast. The story airs tonight, so you move. Now there’s no external pressure. You have to create it yourself.

At first, this felt wrong. Too slow. Like nothing was really happening.

Then I started to enjoy it. Thinking takes time. Good analysis takes longer.

What’s Actually Easy (This Surprised Me).

I thought getting time off work would be a battle. “Who’s going to let a shop manager disappear for hours to study?”

Turns out, everyone was fine with it. More than fine. I think they respect it. (Maybe. Don’t quote me on that.)

The support was there. I just had to ask.

The Age Thing.

I don’t advertise my age. But it shows up in weird moments.

Like the Olympics story, a classmate’s childhood memory that overlaps with my professional past.

Or when someone references a song from 2010 as “old school.”

Or when I realise my tutor is younger than some of my ties.

I’ve learned to stay quiet in those moments. Not because I’m ashamed, but because explaining takes energy. And I need that energy for the actual learning.

My First Real Project: 112,516 Grants.

For my first serious data project, I analysed the 360 Giving database (every charity grant in the UK from 2022–2024).

I wanted to answer a simple question: “If I were a small charity looking for funding, what should I actually do?”

At first, I made the classic mistake. I tried to analyse everything. Every grant, every funder, every pattern.

I got lost.

Then I remembered journalism. You can’t write a story about “the problem in general.” You need an angle. A focus. One question that everything else serves.

So I narrowed down. Grants between £1,000 and £100,000. Charities only, no universities, no councils. Real community organisations.

That left 112,516 grants. And suddenly, patterns appeared.

The most common grant? Exactly £10,000.

90% of funding? From private funders, not government.

Top areas? Youth and health.

This project taught me something I’d heard a hundred times but never believed: data cleaning is the real work. Everyone says it. Now I know why.

What I Had to Unlearn.

Journalism trained me to be fast. The story’s airing at six; move.

Data analysis is the opposite. The more time you have, the better your work.

My first instinct was always: “Finish this. Move on. Next thing.”

I had to unlearn that. Slow down. Sit with the data. Let patterns emerge instead of forcing conclusions.

It still feels uncomfortable. But I’m getting better at it.

What Transferred (More Than I Expected).

The core skill of journalism? Finding the right question.

Turns out, that’s also the core skill of data analysis.

In journalism, you can’t cover “politics”. You cover one decision, one person, one moment that reveals something larger.

In data analysis, you can’t analyse “grants.” You analyse one slice, one pattern, one insight that answers a specific question.

Same muscle. Different gym.

And storytelling, that transferred completely. Every analysis needs a narrative. What’s the problem? What did you find? Why does it matter?

I’m still a journalist. Just with different tools.

The Answer: ‘Am I a failure?’

No.

But I understand why the question exists. When you restart at 46, you’re defying a script that everyone — including yourself — assumed you’d follow.

The script says: by your mid-forties, you should be established. Senior. Giving advice, not asking questions.

I’m asking a lot of questions. That’s uncomfortable. It’s also necessary.

Failure would be staying in a career that no longer fit, pretending everything was fine. Failure would be knowing I wanted something different and being too scared to try.

This isn’t failure. This is the long way around.

And I’ve learned to love the long way.

What I’d Tell You.

If you’re thinking about starting over ( at 40, 50, 60) here’s what I know:

The doubt doesn’t disappear. You just stop letting it drive.

The discipline is harder than the content. Build systems, not motivation.

Your past experience will help in ways you can’t predict. Trust it.

And when someone mentions their childhood memory that overlaps with your professional past, just smile. You don’t have to explain everything.

Thinking about a career change? I’d love to hear your story. What’s pulling you forward? What’s holding you back?

Timur Siraziev

Charity Shop Manager | Data Analyst Apprentice | Former Journalist

First published on Medium, February 2026.