I just watched My Oxford Year on Netflix, and it hit me right in the feels—so romantic, so painfully beautiful, and so easy to relate to.
Picture this: a brilliant, crisp-planned life suddenly unraveled by an unexpected spark. Anna De La Vega (Sofia Carson) is that friend turned real—super focused, off to Oxford for her dream master’s in Victorian poetry, with a Goldman Sachs job waiting at home. Her world is tidy, ambitious, mapped out. Then she meets Jamie Davenport (Corey Mylchreest)—tall, effortlessly charming, and oh so mysterious. He’s not looking for romance, but fate (and Oxford’s magical architecture) has other plans. Their chemistry? Instant. “Meet-cute in reverse”—he splashes her with his sporty car. I couldn’t help but grin, thinking, “Yep, this is how romance starts”
They banter over rare poetry books and sneak kisses in ancient oxide-colored libraries—My Oxford Year unapologetically serves up college-era daydreams we all once had. It’s that longing gaze across a lecture hall or shared laughter in a dimly lit pub that turns every glance into a memory.
But then life—never the generous romantic—throws in a heartbreak twist. Jamie reveals he’s terminally ill, and the tone shifts gorgeously from playful to profound. Watching Anna wrestle with ambition versus the pull of the moment hits differently when you, too, have felt life’s unpredictability tug at your plans.
Their love isn’t storybook perfect—it’s fragile, loud, whisper-soft, and achingly real. When Jamie chooses to stop treatment to spend time with Anna, calling it "living in the moment" instead of planning for the future—I felt it in my bones.
My Oxford Year still resonates because it’s not just about falling in love—it’s about letting love disrupt the perfect plan. It’s about fleeting moments—shared cake, cobbled lanes, stolen kisses—that shape your heart forever. And even when the ending brings tears, it also leaves you hopeful. Love, after all, is sometimes just that—unexpected, intense, and transformative.