There is a very specific type of madness that grips a person when a lecturer casually announces, “There will be a group presentation to help build your communication and teamwork skills.” Communication? Teamwork? In an online class? With strangers who’ve all vanished like your will to live after midterms?

No, Professor Karen, what you’ve actually done is handed me a social experiment gone wrong, and I did not sign the ethics form.

Act I: The Beginning of the End

Semester kicks off. I’m fresh-faced, optimistic, probably wearing matching socks. I check the syllabus and BAM there it is. “Group presentation due in Week 5.” Five people per group. Online. Of course it is. Because that’s exactly what I needed to strengthen my trust issues.

I think, “Right, let’s not panic. I’ll give my mystery teammates a week to settle in. Uni just started. Maybe they’re still unpacking their shame.”

Week passes. Nothing. So I jump onto the discussion board, all polite and British

“Hi everyone! Lovely to meet you, looking forward to working with you”

Response: Absolute radio silence.

Not even a rogue emoji. Not even a “lol”. Just me. Screaming into the academic void.

Act II: Ghosted by Education

End of Week 2, still no activity. It’s not a discussion board anymore it’s a digital graveyard. I’m checking it like it’s a crush who left me on read, except it’s worse because this one’s worth 30% of my grade. I start questioning reality. Am I in the wrong group? Are they on a secret group chat without me? Is this an elaborate prank? At last, some lad pops in with a “Hi.”

Just… Hi.

No plan. No structure. No energy. Just a single, lonely syllable. I’ve seen houseplants show more initiative.

Act III: Forced Into Leadership (aka Emotional Damage)

After realising I’m stuck with the academic version of IKEA furniture with no instructions, I say, “Sod it,” and appoint myself group leader. I assign tasks, create a Google Slides, colour-coded because I still have hope, and share it with the team.

And what do I get? The sound of someone breathing faintly through a potato. Nothing. Not one slide. Not one word. At this point, I’m not even mad I’m impressed by their commitment to doing absolutely nothing.

Act IV: Enter Mr. “I Did My Part”

Then one bloke who I swear has the energy of a deflated balloon animal finally replies:

“My slides are there. You can go check.”

I beg your pardon? What am I, your academic secretary? Your presentation PA? Shall I pop the kettle on and alphabetise your ideas while I’m at it?

Sir, if you think I’m about to forage through your vague nonsense and insert it neatly into the group slides like some PowerPoint wizard, you’ve got another thing coming. I am not your mother, and this isn’t Blue Peter.

Act V: The Mysterious Case of the Missing Fifth Member

Now, out of five group members, four of us dragged ourselves across the deadline like survivors of a tragic soap opera. The fifth? Unseen. Unheard. Possibly fictional.

I’m genuinely convinced he’s either

1. A government spy
2. A bot created to study student frustration
3. Or dead. (RIP if so.)

So,

I have always loathed group work, especially online. There’s always one or two eager beavers, one who’s trying but deeply confused, and then a few who belong in witness protection.

In the end, you’re left crying into a spreadsheet while Barry from Group 7 gets the same grade as you despite contributing nothing but vibes and occasional oxygen.

But you know what? It’s Friday. The sun’s out. The group work is done. I may have trust issues and PTSD from this project, but at least my slide transitions were flawless.

To every student out there stuck in a group project with invisible teammates: I see you. I love you. You’re not alone. And no, you’re not being too dramatic this is academic warfare.

Loads of luv

Hannah