For as long as I can remember, I've worn my heart on my face. Joy, love and contentment glimmer in my eyes even when I attempt to hide my smile. The lump in my throat when I'm hurt shows up in the set of my lips and the hoarseness of my voice. My hands move more when I'm excited and shake into fists in anger.

But over the past two years, I've recognized that I'm ashamed of my involuntary displays of humanity.

I can distinctly recall a time when I embraced the world with open arms. I used to wave at strangers. I used to walk into rooms and talk to people and not be so acutely aware of what made me weird or different. I never worried about if I sounded "too annoying" or if people thought I was homeschooled because I talked too much or if I sounded weird.

But now, I worry. I worry about my laughter: Is it too loud? Too high-pitched? Accompanied too frequently by an unbecoming snort? How many teeth am I showing? Do I look like a maniac, or a beautiful girl? I fret over the timbre of my voice: is my voice hoarse because I almost barely speak anymore? Is it too loud for the room? Are people staring at me? Is my manner of speech palatable?

And to abate my concerns, I curate every facet of my identity, inside and out. Every three days, I wash my hair and burn it until it is pin-straight because someone once told me my curls made my face look too round. I suck in my stomach because a friend once offhandedly mentioned that maybe I tie my apron around my back because my waist isn't small enough for the tie to wrap all the way around my front. I wear earrings because I'm afraid that my face doesn't look feminine enough if I don't accessorize. I cover my mouth when I laugh because I've seen pictures of me mid-laugh and I despise the way pure joy colors my eyes and mouth.

This hyperawareness of my every imperfection plagues me incessantly, and I'm not quite sure why. Logically, no one pays enough attention to another human being to pick apart all of their millions of flaws - people definitely have better things to do.

And in an objective sense, I've "fixed" quite a few things already! My voice isn't annoying to me anymore and I'm never the loudest or most talkative person in the room. I make sure to only speak when I've thought through every permutation of the conversation in my head, so that my response is always exactly what's expected, so that I never make a mistake. When I do "mess up" or fall short of my own impossible standards, I know how to rectify it.

I'm not looking for someone else's approval from all these little actions, because I know that I don't need the world's approval. It is my own approval that I haven't quite cracked yet. I have yet to learn how to feel comfortable in my own skin, and I consider this to be my fatal flaw - I have managed to sand myself down into something human-like, but not truly human.

But it seems as though I'm not alone in feeling ashamed of my heart on my sleeve. In fact, this entire rambling reflection stemmed from a conversation with my roommate when she talked about how cool it must be to be "nonchalant."

This sense of belonging in something that is, at its core, an isolating experience, is enough of a contradiction to help me identify the fallacy in the logic behind this hyperawareness. What is it about humanity that makes us so scared to show emotion? When did love become embarrassing? Or is humanity defined by this mental tug of war, between wanting to be understood and wanting to disappear?

I am not a believer in waiting for the New Year to make a resolution. In fact, nearing the end of the year feels like the perfect time to take on new beginnings. So maybe, November 2025 will finally be the year for my own little quiet rebellion. Maybe this year, I will finally laugh too hard or mean what I say or tie my apron behind my back instead of forcing it to the front. And maybe, just maybe, one more slightly more "human" human could make it a little easier for the rest of the world to be human too.

Shreya Tiwari is a junior from Austin, Texas, studying BME. She is a Managing Editor for The News-Letter. Her column, "Invisible Strings," shares stories about all the people, places, and feelings to which she has "invisible strings," intimate hidden connections that she hopes to reveal to readers with each piece.

Letters Without Limits, founded by students at Johns Hopkins and Brown University, connects volunteers with palliative care and hospice patients to co-create "Legacy Letters." These letters capture memories, values and lessons that patients wish to share, preserving stories that might otherwise be lost. By honoring these voices and preserving legacies, Letters Without Limits hopes to affirm the central role of humanism in medicine, reminding us that every patient is more than their illness and that their voices deserve to be heard. As you read these powerful Legacy Letters, we invite you to pause, reflect and recognize the beauty in every life.

Interviewer's Note

Sitting across from Tim Kahoe has been an absolute privilege and a joy. The sarcasm in his wisdom is something special. Tim's a special type of go-getter. He wasn't born with a vision to conquer the world. He's just a man who recognized opportunities when they came and seized them with both hands. Life is going to give you those defining moments. Don't let them pass you by. Tim is a reminder of the difference between planning for the future and ignoring the present.

Introduction

Well, here it is. My whole legacy letter. Never thought I'd be doing something like this, but here we are. You know I started out as a little asshole, running around, not caring much about anything. And I'm probably still an asshole; I try to be better, Lord knows I do, but you can't change everything overnight.

My Heart and Soul

First things first, gotta say how grateful I am for my family. My kids. My grandkids. And my wife, J. Couldn't have done any of it without her. She's been my rock, my partner, my everything. I really hope I get to see my grandkids grow old. That's one of my three wishes, right up there with regaining my health and feeling normal again after my stroke.

I met J. at the ice skating rink by Memorial Stadium back in '71. Her friend wanted to escape with me, so I ended up skating with J. I kind of knew her already because I had a car and drove everyone home. We got married in '74. She's everything. She's beautiful. She's fine. And she cares about me, you know? She'd do anything for me. I couldn't get it done without her.

We got two great kids. Pretty good kids. My son played football, wrestled and did lacrosse. My daughter did crew in college. Now, my son works at a restaurant, and my daughter's an attorney in Michigan. I've got two grandkids from her. They're a piece of work. It's funny, I think I noticed more of my grandkids growing up than my kids. You know when they learn something I can see it in their eyes. It's amazing.

When my kids came along, my focus shifted to my family. I always worked hard, but I also made time for them. If my kids had sporting events, I was there. That's one thing I'm proud of. That we took time off with the kids to go to things and do things. Some people who work hard like I do just can't stop, and they forget about their family. But I never had a single focus. You can work just as hard in less time.

So, what did I accomplish in life? Sure you can read about the rest. But what I accomplished is I got two good kids that are successful. They're upstanding citizens.

Where I Come From

I was born in Baltimore, grew up in Harrisburg, and then came back to Baltimore for high school. Been here ever since. I like Baltimore, though I do love getting away to the beach in the summertime. My wife and I spend as much time as we can down by the water at Assateague. It's really nice there, nothing but beach. I like the silence. Life in the city gets too busy. Out there, you don't think about work all the time. You just gotta be there, fish, go on the water.

As a child, I had three brothers. Four of us in total. We were all a bunch of rascals, to be honest. Didn't care about anything, just did what we wanted. My mother was a nurse, and I saw how hard she worked. After seeing how bad we were, I don't know how she did it.

If I could go back and tell my younger self something, I don't think I'd change anything. Made mistakes, sure, but nothing too big. Maybe I would love my brothers more. My dad wasn't around much, so my mom was everything I learned from because she was working her ass off and trying to teach us to do the right thing. And school, too. College was a hell of an education. You gonna learn one way or the other when you get to college.

I felt most alive when I was a teenager. Those were good times. It's better being a kid. I'd rather be a kid again, because you don't have to worry like you do when you're an adult. I had a buddy whose grandmother had a place in Ocean City, and we'd go down there for the summer. We didn't have adult supervision really, so we got to do whatever we wanted to do. It was a good time to grow up. The music back then was great too: Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, Cream. Too bad they're not on the radio today.

Making it Big

I've been in the film business since 1982. Got into it by pure luck, I guess. I was a grad student at Towson University, and one of the professors, Dr. B.M., asked if I wanted an internship. I said yeah. I had no idea what it meant. But I didn't have a job, so why not? Ended up at this place called S. Productions. They were the big shots in Baltimore back then. We had all kinds of national award winners working together. My plan was to just get a job, but it turned out better than I ever thought it could be. That internship made all the difference.

Before going to college, I worked in a shipyard for about eight years. Good money, but I hated the job. No brain work. Just doing the same thing every day, trying not to get hurt. But it taught me stuff. I learned about how you trust people and make friends. I learned about unions, the good and the bad. After getting laid off for the second time, I decided, I'm not gonna go back again. I don't wanna do this anymore. Went back to school, and somehow ended up in the film business. Crazy how things turn out, right? Seemed bad at the time, but it led me to where I was supposed to be. You don't think any good about it at all in the beginning, but you gotta take the chance to make a difference.

Over the years, I got to work on some pretty cool stuff. It's funny the first commercial I worked on was for Keswick Multicare center in 1982. Now I live here. Worked for most of the major companies in town, and commercials nationwide. I even worked with Prince for five days on his first MTV videos "Baby I'm a Star" and "I Would Die 4 U." That was a big gig. I told you I got to work with some big people. I did a commercial with Joe Frazier. That was pretty cool too. Working near DC, I did some political campaigns as well.

Eventually I got good enough to run my own company for a while, Big Shot Productions. Had 50 employees at one point, offices in Baltimore and D.C. It was amazing. Then, the industry changed, and we eventually closed down. Now I have another company working with my wife at Abell Production Services.

Working in the film business, the most rewarding part was always when you saw the finished product and people liked it. Though I have to admit, sometimes after spending weeks on a project, I'd get up and leave the room when it came on TV. Just got sick of hearing the same old thing again and again. Hehe. But the money was pretty good, and you didn't have to work with a bunch of adolescents. Most people in the industry were very nice.

Mentors Who Shaped Me

I had some really good mentors who taught me everything. Guys who really knew their stuff.

Got into the film business with an internship. S.'s company took me in. The guy was a genius. Eccentric, maybe a little crazy, but a genius nonetheless. Best photographer in Baltimore back then. Taught himself everything. Wasn't afraid to try something new. He knew all the equipment, all the techniques.

When I first started out, I knew nothing. But I got to work with some great people who knew more than me and weren't afraid to teach. Weren't afraid of me moving ahead of them. There was S.M., J.L., B.M. and G.C. All smart guys, all taught me a lot. J.L. really took me under his wing. Can't give enough credit. He was younger, but he just knew his stuff. S.M. was probably the best person I ever worked with in my whole life. Knew everything, always there to help. He worked for me for 20 years. I never had to worry about anything if S. was on it. A fantastic designer. They were all geniuses in different ways. Some technical, some creative. All special.

Now, I see myself as a mentor too. In my role as a father and at work. If people look up to you, you have to pass on what you were given. I tried to mentor everyone I worked with, and my kids too, though not always perfectly. You learn from bad things as much as good.

Life is Short, Sometimes Very Short

Losing my parents young, my mother to failed heart surgery and my father to cancer, just six months apart, that was tough. But not much I could do. Go forward. I just had to go forward. I was almost done with college, and my mother wanted me to finish, so I did. I'm not a quitter. I just don't do things that way. That was a defining moment, losing them both. I was 27.

That made me think about things a little different. I made a conscious decision. I decided I'm not going to wait till I'm done with everything to live life, because then I'll never get to. I always decided to go for it. Once J. and I got invited to a wedding in England, so we just up and went to England for a weekend. Most people wouldn't do that. But we did. Because we knew we might not get another chance. Don't put stuff off. You can't count on a second chance.

My Legacy

For those who read this later, stay focused. Don't be afraid to shoot for a better life and chase your goals if you have them. Follow what your heart tells you, but don't expect that to be a singular focus. Whatever that focus is, whatever you gotta do, roll with the punches and keep going.

I hope people remember that I taught my kids the right stuff. And I was always there for them. I hope they remember me as a hard worker and that I was pretty loyal with people. I had high expectations, but as long as people met them, I'd do anything for them.

Well, I think that's about it. It's been a pleasure talking about all this. Lived quite a life. But that's because I tried.

Letters Without Limits is a student-led initiative founded at Johns Hopkins and Brown University that partners with palliative care and hospice patients to create "Legacy Letters," autobiographical narratives capturing memories, values and lessons patients wish to share. Their primary goal is to spread these stories so that every patient's voice is heard. Follow them on Instagram @letterswithoutlimits and read more Legacy Letters on their website.

In high school, they put you through every career exploration website in the book with endless surveys to fill the time. What are your hobbies? Are you a social person? A visual learner or auditory? After these life-changing questions, small colorful blurbs would appear, possible careers ranging from travel agent to journalist, salesman to entertainer. Over and over, you complete these surveys, for four years. But at the end of the day, the core question is the same one we were given as children for icebreaker worksheets. "What do you want to be when you grow up?" My question in return, stated or not, was often "Can I pick more than one?"

As I drafted my college supplemental answers, a common theme emerged. A little boy from my childhood kept sneaking his way into my paragraphs, and his name was Henry McBride. Who is he, you may ask? As a child, I read voraciously. Hours upon hours spent sitting in the light of open windows, flipping page by page as I followed Charlie through the Chocolate Factory and Peter Rabbit through the garden of Mr. McGregor.

Of the more worn covers and spines in my collection of books was one titled The Bippolo Seed and Other Lost Stories by Dr. Seuss. A set of seven short stories, each zanier than the last. But the story of "The Great Henry McBride," the last in the book, always resonated with me. A young boy daydreams of all the possible things he could be. He isn't satisfied with just one career, and as he continues to add more jobs his title becomes more ludicrous. At the time, it seemed logical to me. Why stick to only one career when the world is so big and time is so endless when you are still in the single digits? On those icebreaker sheets, I would write a list of everything I was going to be.

It started with marine biology. My love of dolphins was sure to lead to an exciting career diving in exotic seas, playing with animals and discovering the depths of the Mariana Trench. Next, astronomy. I loved staring at the stars, dragging my parents out into the cold evening air to search for planets with the naked eye. But what about geology, paleontology or even archaeology? I dug through the flower beds at our home searching for rare pieces of china and brachiosaurus bones, only to find the golf balls of the previous owners. But there was still so much more I could be! A baker, a ballerina, a chemist, a spy! For fun, maybe even a writer on the side. But what type of writer? All types! Plays, articles, poems, stories of all lengths! I paid no mind to my peers as they began to select their classes more carefully in high school, drifting towards paths set so cleanly. There was still time to try everything and anything, I could do it all!

At the end of my high school career, after endless hours spent studying for exams and writing applications for college, I graduated with the intent of double majoring at Hopkins. With complete certainty, the first would be Writing Seminars. The second, Psychology, stemmed from classes like Forensic Science and AP Psychology which introduced a world of unknowns regarding the mind. So little is known about the brain and how we think, and this curiosity has stayed with me beyond high school. But there are so many routes one can go, how do you pick just one? I could study developmental and work with kids, or go the route of behavioral or cognitive. Or both!

The fall semester has quickly taught me that time is not as endless as I had once believed, and that my childish fantasy of three million careers is not sustainable. Yet the idea of settling into only one job for the rest of my life seems so bland, so restricting. What is there to do?

At the end of the story, Henry decides that the best thing for him to do at his age is to just dream away, and let the adult version of himself figure things out. Have I dreamed too long, or do I still have time to dream? As the registration day for the Spring approaches, I have a new goal to focus on. While I continue to research and explore the pathways I could take in life, I also force myself to make time to read, just as I used to during those endless childhood days. Page by page, poems and stories take me from my strange new room to far away places I can immerse myself in and find peace.

When all is said and done, I am sure I will look back to find most of my fears of missing out or wasting time to be unfounded. For now, I will continue to try new things, give in to my curiosity, and imagine myself with so many titles. But as I retreat to my books, I know not to place too much weight on such ambitions. My life will be full of adventure as I make my way through the world as only I can. Just as everyone else does. With (a bit more) time, I know all will become clear.

Saffron Hallett is a freshman from Shelton, Conn. studying Writing Seminars.

"Mostly, we don't want to harm each other," Danusha Laméris avows in her short poem "Small Kindnesses."

Coming across this line made me think of my time spent in observation. I have curated a list of my best takes on kind objects and occasions that are easily swept past in chasing the next glimmering goal.

There is a natural phenomenon where trees in dense areas avoid clashing with each other by tending their canopies at a respectful distance so that each woodland resident may have a fair bid at sunlight. From a utilitarian perspective, it seems strange. Why would evolution select for a behavior where, instead of vying for a coveted resource, trees reach a hushed and mutual agreement of withdrawal? Crown shyness, or canopy disengagement, is abundantly observed in the vegetation that surrounds us. Tree branches arrange against the edge of a pristine azure sky in fractal-like shapes, resembling tiny, sprawling riverbeds.

And while trees cannot speak, or summon up their roots to participate in travel, they somehow have marvelous ways of protecting each other - in silence, and in secret. When one tree falls, pheromones are rapidly released across a shivering thicket to alert others, serving as a warning and call for help. Nearby trees extend their benevolent roots, intricate laceworks of fiber mingled with the gossamer mesh of mycorrhizae, to send aid to the fallen companion.

Take my minerals, nutrients, and all of this good earth along with it, they say. We are lucky to coexist, after all.

Apart from coniferous plants, I like granting ordinary objects expression even in their apparent stasis. Cotton socks hung up to dry on a laundry line yaw against the wind, reaching for their symmetrical halves at a palm's distance. Star anise crushed into fine powder against the blunt edge of a camping knife blooms an oxidized red when acquainted with pan oil. The spent floss of velcro-strapped sketchers is laid to rest after many good years of holding ankle to sole. In the fire of summer, the tassels of my mother's hair gather up the intense solar glare before exhaling back into a placid umber.

"Mostly, we don't want to harm each other."

A more recent addition to this ongoing directory of kind happenings, I've decided, is umbrella communication in the rain. When a downpour begins and I walk past others fleeing a storm, there is an instant where the metal axes of our umbrellas tilt in avoidance of canopy collision, flicking clear, marble droplets across the pavement. The wetness variably hits an eyelash, and as I blink, the world splinters into a foggy kaleidoscope. When it rains, I think so much about escape, about seeking warmth and dryness in the zip-up of my felt coat and trembling skin, away from harsh weather, a small puddle pooling around my feet. Even so, rain is a way of the sky giving back the water that evaporates out of breath, out of unfurling sapling leaves, rushing through creeks and reservoirs.

While I've made note of occurrences that touch me happily, I cannot omit the objects from my view that appear to have a pointed voice. Like, the anti-roosting spikes with their protruding spiny fingers on adorned door frames, or park benches segmented with too many armrests. We have found ways to circumscribe others, using such designs.

Consequently, it is always important to look, to peer around with wide eyes at objects and people alike, with the enormous sense that we are inhabitants of the same brush, often never coming into direct contact. But in our quiet neighbor-ness, there is so much capacity for reciprocal care.

Crystal Wang is a sophomore from Baltimore, Md., studying Molecular and Cellular Biology.

It is 6 a.m. and my roommates and I have had a total of eight alarms go off from 6:00 to 6:40 a.m. for the Freshman Cohort's Spring Semester Registration. (Can be read as: none of the alarms actually got anyone out of bed, but all of them successfully jump-started the kind of frenzy that feels like work even though it accomplishes absolutely nothing).

Fast forward to an hour later: it's 7:30 a.m. and the adrenaline of freshman registration has me wide awake in the most unproductive way possible. Everything is done: our next semester's classes have been finalized, calls have been made to anxious parents across time zones and laptops have been shut in finality, but there's a very specific kind of collective exhaustion that doesn't come from doing too much, but from thinking too much despite not having worked at all.

Not energized, not focused, just overworked in that strange, brain-buzzing state where you're technically awake but emotionally unprepared for the rollercoaster that is your freshman year. And it's not the useful kind of thinking that leads to decisions or clarity - it's that loop of re-decided decisions, backups for backup classes added to an overloaded SIS cart and unnamed feelings that somehow keep expanding into full-blown spirals.

Over this past semester, I've learned that overthinking is clever like that. It makes you feel like you're moving toward an answer when really, all you're doing is pacing in circles inside your head. You call it "processing," but it's more like a brooding cloud of anxiety that makes you feel like your achievements mean nothing and your time spent doing nothing but worry is an achievement. Because it means you care, right?

Somewhere, as I stare up at my ceiling riding the wave of post-SIS registration adrenaline, I come to realise that freshman year makes overthinking a hundred times worse. Academic burnout doesn't always look like dramatic breakdowns or nights spent crying over your laptop. Sometimes it looks like waking up tired even after sleeping. Sometimes it looks like avoiding assignments, not because they're hard, but because your brain has already exhausted itself rehearsing how they might go wrong.

In an academically rigorous environment like Hopkins, what makes it worse is that overthinking is often culturally rewarded. We live in a bubble where analysis is linked irrevocably to emotional depth, and where second-guessing is worshipped as intellectual responsibility. We romanticize burnout as if it's proof of ambition. Why do we look up in awe when someone tells us they're on their seventh coffee of the day, as though caffeine-induced panic is the new GPA booster? Somehow, spiraling has become a personality trait. Being overwhelmed is "relatable."

Stress is an aesthetic of its own.

But here's the thing: this inherent instinct to think a thousand things at once and make mental checklists for what is to come instead of working in the present comes from wanting to do things right. To show up. To matter. To make sure you don't disappoint anyone, most of all, yourself. In a world where constantly analyzing your emotions is praised as maturity, it's easy to forget that real maturity also includes letting yourself actually rest. Rest could mean letting a moment pass without dissecting it. Grabbing a coffee with friends and calling it a catch-up instead of a study-break. Letting yourself laugh without wondering which assignment you should be working on. Letting yourself be human without running diagnostics. The truth is, caring deeply isn't the problem. It's carrying everything all at once that is.

Emotional First Aid for overthinkers begins by practicing to see overthinking not as a flaw, but as a web browser overloaded with too many tabs that need shutting. One must regularly clear the cache. You have to face the noise before you can create space between the thought and the story. And if you forget to clear the cache or take that brain break (because it is only human to forget and err), you begin again. This time, with no self-lecturing, no mental scoldings, no elongated beratings over time lost that could be used on studying. Just a quiet: "That's enough for today."

And so here I am, writing this article while sitting on the Gilman couches, ten minutes past its deadline. Was I totally productive post-registration? No. Did I finish everything on my to-do list? Also no. But did I have fun writing this article and ultimately produce something I am proud of? Yes. And sometimes, that's enough.

Samika Jain is a freshman from Mumbai, India, majoring in Molecular and Cellular Biology. Her column holds onto things she probably should've forgotten by now, but she writes them down anyway.

Everyone who really knows me knows that I am ethically non-monogamous when it comes to careers. Even majors. At the end of all the one-night stands with strangers that I don't have, I hear wedding bells and buy joint burial plots before the sun rises. The way that you imagine moving to a city after spending two days visiting, I flirt with the idea of dedicating my life to a career after one tenuously relevant experience. When I stitched closed the neck of a decapitated stuffed doll the other day, I imagined my name towing the credentials MD.

I've suffered this lifestyle for a long enough time now. In middle school, my career aptitude test came back with four "excellent" matches: OB/GYN, midwife, coroner and funeral director. (Crane operator ranked last.) I don't know what I answered to inform those results; but somehow, like a reading from an off-base psychic, this made me trust it more.

My results were like scarlet letters. Few people demand more men to involve themselves in women's health, or at least no one seemed thrilled at the thought of me in pink scrubs. On the other hand, adults were wary of encouraging a middle schooler to set his sights on dead bodies. Lively company is important.

Nowhere on my list do I remember seeing writer. Perhaps I didn't earn it, or maybe the quiz makers didn't want to encourage that behavior - like those signs in parks, "please don't feed the geese." Maybe the odd menagerie of OB/GYN, midwife, coroner and funeral director was as close as the test could come to saying writer. Or maybe I should apply myself to earning a useful degree with a return on investment as much as I do to practicing alchemy with these test results, creating my own conclusions from mismatched evidence pointing in different directions.

The thing is, as with writing, these careers are all about beginnings and endings. As an OB/GYN or midwife, you're there for the beginning of life; as a coroner or funeral director, you're there for the end. Cutting a newborn baby's umbilical cord may not be the same as world-building or writing exposition, and embalming a corpse is surely different than tying together loose ends in a conclusion. However, the propensity to be present for these milestones granted to every life is shared between all of these careers, writers included.

I have a hatred for things that follow me, but then again, that isn't completely true. I hate things that follow me that I already don't like, or things that I'm lukewarm to at best. As a child, I remember feeling stressed when my grandma told me that the sun she sees at her house is the same one that follows me, but I was comforted when my aunt told me that everyone sees the same moon. I'm soft for dogs who follow me, but obsessed cats put me on edge.

The thing that's been following me throughout this article is the same thing that follows me every time I write: the feeling that, no matter how hard you try, you're always saying everything wrong. Have you seen the Reddit post about the immortal snail? That's how I feel. A question that I've never been brave enough to add to the discussion: What if I have a crush on my snail?

Of course, I'm not talking about the snail. Rather, I have a crush on the maybe malicious thing following me. Ever since I was a junior in high school and feeling pretentious returning from a school trip to Paris, reading Jacques Lacan's psychoanalytic theories on the plane, I've resigned to the fact that language is a leaky ship trying to communicate our ideas to one another across violent oceans. Then again, that middle school test told me I could be bringing in almost $300,000 per year as an OB/GYN, and here I am majoring in creative writing. I must have a good reason, so why?

Because I like when things I like follow me, like the feeling like I'll never be able to communicate myself through writing well. Isn't that sentence proof enough - using the word "like" four times in two different meanings? Did my words even make sense in the end?

In a talk I gave to a first-year seminar on poetry the other day, I had to answer "Why poetry?" Honestly, for something I'm majoring in more or less, I had never given it serious thought. The thing I can't escape - the fact that it's impossible to communicate yourself with full accuracy through writing - showed itself to me once more as I thought through my answer. I believe that language inevitably creates some level of misunderstanding in every instance it's employed, so why do we value language arts in equal measure as wordless arts, like painting or music? Wordless arts, by nature of avoiding language, avoid miscommunication. Why do I choose language arts above all else, even those wordless arts with which I've rendezvoused?

Consider if the tortoise never beat the hare. If the hare were still a feckless jackoff, and the tortoise still tried with all his might only to be beaten out by the hare centimeters before the finish line, would we suddenly prefer the hare in favor of the tortoise only because of the outcome? Just because the underdog only comes close to succeeding but ultimately fails doesn't cause us to retire our loyalties. We root for the writers and poets not because they succeed in overcoming language's fated misunderstanding, but because they come the closest to it and fail proudly, landing among the stars and closest to the moon compared to the wordless arts who enjoyed comfort on Earth. Yes, wordless arts work as tirelessly as language arts, but I believe the tools they use - colors, sounds, motions... - are closer to our prelingual understanding of the universe than the words that writers necessarily employ.

I may never be an OB/GYN or midwife or someone who knows about beginnings in speechless and unwritten irrefutable ways. I may never be a coroner or funeral director, who's knowledgeable about the end like a bend in a familiar road.

Instead, I'm a writer who awkwardly attempts to communicate these themes and more like carrying buckets of restless water, and when I stumble and spill it all just before my destination, everyone laughs. No one blames me, and everyone is maybe a little bit happier because of it all, even if their lips are chapped and mouths dry.

Riley Strait is a sophomore from Olathe, Kan. studying Writing Seminars and English. He is an Arts & Entertainment Editor for The News-Letter. His column, "In Medias Res," translates from Latin to "into the middle of things," shares narratives that bury occasional insights within fluffthat often leave the reader wondering, "Did I ask?"

Hey Alan,

I hope sophomore year is treating you well. I know my sophomore year of high school was the eye of a hurricane. It felt a little bit like a calm, trial period of being a pseudo-adult before you get hit by junior year lock-in and college applications. Sophomore year was also about when mom started giving me what would become her favorite lecture.

"Don't miss the train," she would always chide me. "Get on the train now and your life will be easy. All you have to do is ride. If you miss the train now, you'll spend the rest of your life running after it." Somehow, no matter how many times I heard them, the words always seemed to sharpen themselves into acupuncture needles on their airborne journey to my heart. Even hearing them for the hundredth time in the midst of college applications, her advice kept a certain rawness simply because it came from her. After all, mom really has spent her whole life thinking she missed the train.

Imagine those words coming from your own mom, whose entire career direction hinged not on some idealistic internal drive or a childhood dream, but on the fact that a graduate school entrance exam was an order of magnitude cheaper than taking the medical board exam. Even now, mom's not shy about telling me all the opportunities she was denied simply for being an immigrant: the scholarships and conferences nobody told her about, the little nuances that made transitioning from Chinese to American education so difficult.

I hope you understand, then, why I ended up placing those words so close to my heart. All she wanted was to see me grab a hold of the opportunities she never saw; how could I let her down, especially when it seemed so simple? All I had to do was get into a good college and my ticket would be secured. If I worked hard enough, maybe I'd even get a window seat.

So, the day Hopkins' Early Decision results came out, I was clouded by an all-consuming existential worry. My only relief was a gentle Ethiopian Orthodox prayer and the feeling of erratically dancing to Flume in the middle of Multi. It seemed to me that at exactly 3:00 p.m. Eastern Time, I would either receive my little slip of cardstock reading "Admit One" or get hit by the glass door on the way in and be forced to watch my dreams chug on away without me.

Evidently, I did end up seeing that blue congratulations in a band practice room, and for a second, it really did feel like I managed to hop on the train. I jumped around and screamed so loud my laptop stopped picking up the audio. I celebrated with my friends and they celebrated with me.

But then I actually got here.

The funny thing is that, if the movies are to be believed, college is a time for active reinvention. You walk in lost but with some vague idea of a dream and college is a time to search for some way to realize your ambitions. Supposedly, people come here to become the person they've always wanted to be.

I couldn't imagine a college experience further from the truth. There is no steering wheel here.

MIT has the saying "drinking from a fire hose" to describe the academic experience at their school, but the implication has always been that you're supposed to learn to step away from the fire hose long enough to catch your breath. We are supposed to lean in just enough to only have our lips blasted off.

I don't think managing such a feat is possible. We all open the door to the rest of our lives only to find 200 pounds-per-square-inch of water straight to the face waiting for us on the other side, and even if you try to lay in bed doomscrolling your days away or to dodge every campus event and school club you can, you can never move out of the way.

The mere fact of college is existentially strange. You have to experience life and the world and free will for the first time ever and it makes you feel completely naked everywhere you go. You get to point in any direction you want to, but all the cool classes and amazing clubs you're in spare you no time to ever stop and think about where it is you're headed. You get into weird situationships and ignore elephants in the room until you're finally drunk enough off of sleepless nights and CharMar slop to spill it all out in a couple late-night conversations.

I am lucky that my friends here have reciprocally afforded me enough vulnerability to acknowledge that none of them really know what they're doing either. In fact, I've never seen a group of people as clueless as the matriculants to top American universities. I used to be utterly in love with that sentiment: the idea that "we are all lost." It must be ironic, then, that it's become something of a banal platitude to me. I'm tired of it.

Not because I've suddenly decided that it's just another pretentious pseudo-insight - it's still very much true - but because I don't think it's even possible to not be lost anymore. To really live, to truly experience the existence in the world, is to be permanently lost.

Growing older is realizing that you've been making mistakes your entire life. No matter how well versed you think you are in the nature of the universe, I promise you these coming years will show you just how blind we all are.

I liked to think that I was emotionally aware when I got here: that I knew a lot about how I felt and how to communicate with those I loved. But there are ways to mess up that you haven't even imagined yet. You can be a shitty, absent friend even if you feel like you've been there. You can think you're being a communicative, emotionally responsible romantic partner when all you're doing is running away from your internal turmoil. I can believe all I want that I have something new to write about life, but all I am is just some dude trying his best to land on his feet.

In four years, you may very well look back and wonder how you were so foolish. I know I do, and I'm well aware that in four more years I might read this letter back and wonder how I was so pretentious. We are all stuck in the process of becoming wiser fools.

That's why I think I have such a problem with the idea that, given enough willpower, we can just become different, better people. No. All we can do is become the type of people that have the potential to be better.

Your friend is going to piss you off in a specific way that gets you angrier than you should. You are going to experience a rejection that will make you feel like the sky is going to come down on you. You are going to be a bad person sometimes.

So why in the world would you make it your job to be a good person? Your only job is to find your own method of reacting to whatever comes at you and grabbing up just enough flying debris along your journey to build yourself something approaching a life's work.

There is nothing in our lives that is not sand, and the tighter you try and hold on to all of it, the more of it that slips right through your fingers. In high school, the world is small enough for it to really feel like you could do it all if you tried - the classes are all standardized, the clubs are all accessible and the faces are all familiar. In college, that's just not the case. There's enough here to fill a hundred lifetimes and you can drown in the general body meetings and weekend functions if you're not careful.

Even if you're not ready, the train's gonna hit you anyways. It doesn't care where you want to go or even if you're ready to hold on; it's already on its way to somewhere over the horizon. You just have to be ready to step off with a smile when it gets there.

I never really got on the train myself. I just stepped in front of its headlights, and now I'm trying my best to hold on long enough for it to arrive somewhere, wherever that is.

I believe in you. Hold on tight and enjoy the breeze.

Always your older brother,

Steve Wang

Steve Wang is a freshman from Missouri City, Texas majoring in Biomedical Engineering. His column tries to put words to the things that exist just outside the language of our daily lives and make everybody feel a little less crazy.

Every morning I wake up with an ache in my body that makes me wonder if monsters really do exist under my bed, and if they take turns using me as a trampoline through the night. If I turn my head slightly the wrong way, I fear it'll just break clean from my neck; when I sit still in class for any longer than five minutes, my back will creak and crack loud enough to scare my classmates around me.

I bought a new mattress the other day, thinking maybe it would solve my issue. But even before I slept on it for the first time and woke up the next morning with the same soreness running beneath my skin, I already knew why I was in this constant state of pain: dance.

This year, I am the choreography co-chair for Eclectics and also a member of Motion, two dance teams whose combined practice time means I'm dancing for around 13 hours a week. I'll be performing for TASA's Taste of Taiwan the day after writing this, and for SLAM's annual dance showcase exactly a week later, which means even more dancing than usual. Each of those hours are filled with sliding on the floor, dropping to my knees and an array of fast-paced movements that leave me bruised and panting. I'm probably one bad fall from breaking apart like a chandelier falling from the ceiling, and yet every day I show up to practice ready to risk it again and again.

I've been thinking about this a lot recently - each time I feel the tweak in my neck or brush against the bruises on my knees, the question pops back into my mind: why am I so willing to cause myself all this discomfort for dance?

Truthfully, in the same way I already knew why I was sore all the time, I knew the answer to this, too: I am simply glad to have something I am dedicated to and passionate about; something worth aching for.

When I got to Hopkins, the first thing I looked for was any opportunity to dance. My high school dance team had shown me it was something I loved, and so joining a team in college was something very, very high up on my list of priorities. I found Eclectics pretty much immediately, and joining them has had such a huge impact on me that I can't imagine what life would be like without them.

In the first Eclectics events I went to, I met two of my current closest friends (love you, Crystal and Jiani), and everyone else was so welcoming that there wasn't a moment where I felt like an outsider. Going to practice meant sweating and getting tired and hurting myself on occasion, but mostly, it meant laughing and learning and enjoying the art of dance in a room full of people who just get it.

At the end of my freshman year of college, someone in Eclectics suggested I choreograph for them next semester. In high school, my biggest fear was making my own choreography. It was the only assignment we had in dance class, and though my teacher would give us whole class periods to work on it, I would spend the time hiding in the corner because I was too embarrassed and scared of looking stupid. In the end I would only embarrass myself more when it was time to show the class my choreography and I wouldn't have anything.

I was insanely nervous and it took me weeks to come up with anything substantial, but sophomore fall, I sent in my choreography, and we performed it twice that semester. Since then, I've made two more choreographies (one of which I will be performing at TASA tomorrow!) and somehow wound up as Eclectics' choreo chair. My high school self thought choreography was something I'd never be able to create; I would've been floored to know people ask me for advice on choreography now.

Last semester, I twisted my ankle the day before our showcase. I wasn't even rehearsing; we were just doing old dances for no other reason than fun. I probably should've seen a doctor, and I probably shouldn't have continued dancing on it because the pain persisted for three months after it happened, but I wrapped it in a bandage wrap (that a fellow dancer lent me!) and performed like it didn't happen. Afterwards, when the adrenaline wore off and I was left to wallow with my burning lungs, the heat and sweat tingling on my skin and the sharp throbbing of my ankle, I only felt satisfaction.

Tonight, I'll take a warm shower and do some stretching to soothe my muscles and work out the kinks in my back to prepare myself for the performance tomorrow. Still, I know the ache will persist, and I'll carry it with me to the stage and off it as well. It can serve as a reminder for the love I have for dance.

Harmony Liu is a junior from Queens, N.Y. majoring in English.

I plop onto my seat in Hodson 110, flipping the light gray foldable desk over and laying my favorite mechanical pencil and eraser on top, catching the pencil with my index finger as it threatened to roll off the edge of the table. There are 30 minutes until the first ProbStats midterm.

I've spent a large chunk of the past few days studying for this exam - working through review problems (though, a more accurate description would be erasing my work and scribbling over the lightened graphite), timing myself as I did backtests and even spending a couple of hours fixated on a counting proof I still haven't figured out (even after a TA explained it, I wasn't sure if I fully understood). Slumped back into my seat in the exam hall with one leg crossed over the other, I filtered out the doubts from my mind and gave myself the pep-talk I do before every exam: "I can do this, I know the material." Moments from the past few days began to flood my mind, not the times when I was studying alone and plowing through questions, but memories of reviewing the concepts and completing problems with friends.

Studying for exams is daunting. In high school, the idea of doing homework with friends didn't make a lot of sense; I thought that I should be able to do all of my homework by myself, as that was the only way I would truly understand it. Besides, I would be doing the tests by myself. In college, I began to adopt the same mindset, and hole myself either in my dorm or in a reading room, flipping through packets of problems.

But slowly, I started forming study groups with classmates. Once, I spent at least half an hour wrapping my head around a Bernoulli distribution problem; I scribbled down all the related concepts but the solution wasn't clicking into place. Finally accepting that I may not be able to figure this one out, I asked my friend for a hint, and her intuitive explanation made me realize what concept I was missing. Usually, when I'm stuck on a problem, I continue mulling over it, applying different approaches - too stubborn to move on or ask for help. Yet, knowing when to pause and ask for help is a strength, not a weakness - and has often helped me build a deeper understanding of the course material.

For a long time, I saw "studying with friends" as a way to get through the work - a temporary support system that would surely fade when the class concluded. Recently, I've begun to see it as something more. Strangely enough, some of my treasured memories from this semester have been studying with friends after our ProbStats discussion section. We would explain concepts to each other, holding slightly different ways of viewing the same idea. We would disagree on homework answers, and try to convince each other of the right one, gasping when we realized that the problem really was that simple. Eventually, the conversation would spiral into anything but ProbStats - a well-needed break.

My days of studying shouldn't just be reduced to my score. Rather, they should be defined by the process of preparation - those little moments of satisfaction when concepts clicked, or of using the Pomodoro method with my friends to stay focused on problems. When I look back at these times, I realize that studying wasn't just a bearable chore that had to be fulfilled; it was an experience that could be enjoyed and savored.

Right before that ProbStats exam, I shifted in my seat a little, running through my cheatsheet to make sure I didn't miss a formula or a challenging problem we covered in class. I felt some anxiety rush over me and the familiar fear of, Oh what if I can't solve a problem? I remembered when my friend made the comment that, "Exams are just problems that need to be solved. They come and go." We solve problems every day - some more interesting than others - and exams are no different.

Sareena Naganand is a sophomore from Piscataway, New Jersey majoring in Biomedical Engineering. Her column, "The Daily Chai," is about finding happiness in simple, insignificant moments: the kind that makes us smile, wrapping around us like the warmth that comes from drinking a cup of tea.

It is 5:08 a.m., and I am absorbed in a Freida McFadden book, having just discovered the joy of being invested in a psychological thriller. I am surrounded by LED cherry blossom lights and fairy lights to make my tiny dorm space cozy. No, I didn't decide to wake up at 5 a.m. to start my day with something therapeutic, I stayed up until 5 a.m. to do something therapeutic.

Earlier, I woke up at a reasonable hour for my 9 a.m. class and spent my afternoon in my research lab. Back on campus, I headed straight to the MSE Annex for a very intense lock-in session, scrutinizing lecture notes, making almost a hundred Anki flashcards and sketching mindmaps on the whiteboard, studying for Cellular and Systems I. Later, I had a club event and then a GBM. The day moved in a blur, each hour packed with demands and expectations, each task competing for my attention. Time just seemed to accelerate as I got back to my dorm at about 11 p.m. with more housekeeping responsibilities. Between lectures, labs, events and meetings, there was barely a moment to pause, eat or even process what I had done. Emails, messages, deadlines all demanded my attention pulling me in every direction.

At midnight, as I fulfilled my responsibilities for the day, a strange mix of exhaustion and restlessness settled over me. I didn't have a midterm in another month and my only rigorous class was Cellular and Systems I, so there was no looming demanding late-night cramming; I didn't need more hours for productivity. I could just go to bed and get just an adequate amount of sleep to wake up for my morning class. And yet, the idea of simply lying in bed just felt suffocating.

So I stayed up. There was this TikTok trend I found really funny that I desperately wanted to watch to get a good laugh, just to feel a spark of joy that had been crowded out by the constant demands of the day ("Sometimes you just gotta read your mom's text and go about your day"). One video led to another, then to another and, before I knew it, I was scrolling endlessly, maniacally laughing at literally any Tiktok I watched (like those Subway Surfer chaotic voiceover storytimes). My For You page was a chaotic mix of absurdity and brainrot, and in that past-midnight haze, I experienced this sudden, euphoric giggliness.

I was just uncontrollably, completely lost in the joy of the moment. My scrolling became like an addictive psychoactive drug as I wanted to keep experiencing this sense of euphoria. I started picking up other late-night hobbies, hence, that thrill I mentioned earlier, deeply invested in a gripping psychological thriller (shoutout to Freida McFadden). During those stolen hours of night when it's the quietest on campus, I exist solely for myself as I chase joy, curiosity and thrill in whatever catches my attention.

This is revenge bedtime procrastination: something I learned while doomscrolling at 3 a.m. As we are bombarded with high expectations and responsibilities, especially attending a rigorous institution, there is basically no time to exist solely for ourselves. So when the night falls and everyone's asleep, we cling to the hours that were never truly ours, sacrificing a basic necessity and staying awake as a quiet act of rebellion as we strive to reclaim control over the moments that belong to us.

I've always thought I was just a night owl, but now I see it differently. These stolen hours are simply my refuge where expectations and commitments can't reach me. This is when I can let my curiosities wander freely and entertain whatever impulse or distraction my brain throws at me during the day. I don't keep track of time as I just mindlessly slip from one thing to the next. All day, I'm rushing to keep up with time, but the second the world finally goes quiet, I flip and run the other way as if the clock just stopped running.

And yet, the consequence is predictable. With morning classes, I wake up with half the sleep my body actually needs as I am running on caffeine and adrenaline instead of rest. This exhaustion builds throughout the day as I can barely keep my eyes open during my 9 a.m. class, and I even have to use the JHMI ride to take a nap. As my alarm blares, my bed suddenly becomes the most luxurious thing in the world. The same blankets that felt suffocating at 3 a.m. now feel impossibly soft, warm and forgiving like I'm cocooned in a cloud in heaven. Do I love sleeping? Yes. Do I avoid it? Yes. Do I regret it when I have to face the consequences? Yes. Will I repeat this cycle? Yes.

Because deep down, I know this isn't just about bad time management or being lazy: it's a very human response to feeling like our days don't belong to us, especially in a place where we strictly live off of routine with every hour scheduled and an immense pressure to excel. In the daytime I am a student. At night, I am a person. I simply exist without feeling evaluated. In other words, the night is just honest, and I'm not sure which one I'm supposed to prioritize: my day time productivity or night time joys.

No matter how much I complain, the universe doesn't care about my philosophical crisis. I'll always have deadlines. I'll always have sleep debt. The cycle will continue no matter how much I hate feeling groggy and disoriented. Maybe I am my own biggest opp after all, but I'm simply just trying to feel whole in a life that measures my self worth on midterm scores and the appearance of constant productivity. Revenge bedtime procrastination isn't just a habit: it's just a way to reclaim the hours just to be true to myself even if it costs my sleep, my focus and my future self.

Grace Wang is a sophomore from Tuscaloosa, Ala. majoring in Neuroscience. Her column chronicles life's unpredictable, beautiful mess - never neat, always honest and willing to show the chaos, contradictions and awkward truths we usually try to hide.

When the sun has slipped beneath the skyline - circumscribed in a rectangular panel beside my peripheral vision - I am beside my desk, index finger tendon taut with tension as I tap against a mouse pad. The time is 9:19, or 21:21, displayed on my blinking digital clock that's two minutes ahead. Its glare spreads from the glassy confines of the LED display.

This isn't a particularly interesting scene - most things are fixed in place, as if captured by a single, static shot, except for the small movement that accompanies an insistent clicking.

As I block an orderly new wave of tasks into my calendar, I prepare my arsenal of equipment against the steady force of deadlines and assessments. Sometimes I am victorious, and other times I sit alongside a familiar sense of paralysis. The feeling huddles in the subtle corner where drywall meets bed frame, and sifts through my laundry, gathered loosely in small piles of afterthought.

Some hours present themselves more formidably than others to this quiet giant, I think.

Here, the fear of an imminent penalty defeats my resolution to finish my assigned labor, where I am often left questioning my position in space and time, fiddling with a computer that has begun to bear teeth.

In these instances, I am reminded of my first swimming lessons taken at seven years old, where I had once viewed water as a hostile element. Put plainly, I was scared of being subject to an environment where I couldn't breathe freely. Of course, this instinct must have been wired into my brain from some primordial origin, in attempts to protect me from venturing into dangerous currents and mysteriously deep puddles alike.

A rapid surge of adrenaline is released from the adrenal gland when animals of prey sense nearby danger-their pupils dilating to catch any telling slivers of threat - but also during the minutes prior to flipping over the pale cover sheet of my exam. A cascade of unfurling booklets rustles in concert with the warm surge of blood pumping through veins.

Somehow, my body has difficulty distinguishing between what is and isn't dangerous to me.

I recall standing outside a faded brick building with a flickering blue "KIDS FIRST" neon sign, my rubbery pink goggles and swim towel dangling from my fist. During these summers, the distinct humidity brought on by storm clouds clung to my cotton tank, piling a little near the seams, and muffled the thrum of my heartbeat. As I returned weekly to learn correct form and basic strokes, the feeling of danger subsided. I readjusted the way I understood water, and it became an interesting state of matter, capable of flux that transported orange bobbing ducks across the deep end to my swim instructor.

Although adrenaline and cortisol are useful chemicals, I concede it wasn't fear that allowed me to swim. Instead, it was the simple joy I found in understanding the buoyancy found naturally in the human body's design, in how quick baby kicks broke the surface of water into sinusoidal waves, in the cold rush of gasping for air when oxygen had depleted from my lungs.

It was the act of childish wrestling, where my attempts at making stabs into the rippling unknown were prompted primarily by curiosity rather than potential danger.

And while "childish" is charged with characteristics like naivety and gullibility, it is an adjective that points towards how my spirit was often left dangling outside of my chest like a ripened cherry when I was younger. It was subject to grit stuck in the foam underbellies of shoe soles, beads of sweat clinging to my forehead like mustard seeds, or a kind of cheek flush that resembled a rash. All in good trying.

So now, when I feel the shell of my exterior hardening or amplified fear over something insignificant, I try, instead, to draw up the legacy of childish wonder, letting it poke through as I continue to peer at wildflowers with pearly eyes and probe fortunes from fine lines marking jagged rivers across my palm. Rather than chastising fear when it wells up inside, I try following it to its hiding place. Because most of the time, fear comes from a place where we feel smallest, where we have shrunken up the memory of bright ducks and glowing cheeks. And, it is incredibly important to nurture that smallness until it grows up, puts on a pair of shoes, and walks away. To see if it skips a little as it leaves its home.

Crystal Wang is a sophomore from Baltimore, Md., studying Molecular and Cellular Biology.

"Austin! Marilyn! Come downstairs!"

That's always the first thing I yell when I walk through the door to my house. I don't even take my shoes off sometimes. I just drop my backpack, dig through whatever bag I've brought home and call them over.

There are a lot of things that can make me happy. Academic hard work, a compliment from a stranger, a concert where I lose my hearing, a spontaneous hangout with friends… This list is never-ending. But nothing beats the feeling of watching my little brother sprint down the stairs with his little socks on or my sister pretending to be nonchalant, even though I can see her face light up, as I hand them my personalized gift every time I go back. That specific happiness - of being the big sister who came home and thought of them - is on a whole other level.

I don't contact my siblings all that much. My sister is 16 and in her own world: school, friends, homecoming, new internet memes. We text here and there, usually a "Can you buy me UGGs?" or "Can you look over an email?" But I can only reach my 5-year-old brother when I actually go home. He's living his best kindergarten life with his pumpkin patch trips and Halloween class parties. But every single time I'm home, the routine is the same. He always gives me a hug and says how much he misses me, then asks, "Did you get me the blue ship?" I've never known what blue ship he's looking for.

I've been on the search for that mysterious blue ship model for quite a while, from the Beijing International Airport to Copenhagen's toy stores to Miniso. I still have not found that blue ship model he is looking for, but I kept finding alternatives. Bringing back a red bike model, a BMW 1/20 car model, plushies ranging from the aquarium axolotls to Sanrio's Kuromi. And every time I hand my present to him, he lights up anyway, almost forgetting about the ship for a second.

Maybe that's me showing my love for them… through gift-giving because I can't be there to spend time with them in person. I can't go on walks with my brother and get him a chocolate donut. I can't annoy my sister by going into her room and doing absolutely nothing. I realized that when I walk past cute stores, I don't think, "What do I want?" Instead, I look for things my siblings would love. My default shopping setting is not me. It's them.

What really hit me recently is this: in my memory, for the first few years, my family was just my parents and me. But for my sister and brother, I've been there literally their whole lives. They don't remember a time without me, and moving to college means taking away a part of their picture of family. I was initially so excited to be away from home and only going back during breaks. But I realized that I want to be there to watch my siblings grow, to make them happy, to guide them to achieve what they want to achieve, to be a constant mentor and pillar for them to lean on.

Being the eldest is weird. You grow up faster not because you want to but because everyone kind of expects you to. You're the one who helps translate, who helps fill out tax forms, who explains to your sister what "AP" actually means, who lets your brother use your arm as a train track even though you're exhausted. You're the one they watch. You become the experimental child and the example at the same time.

And with that comes this really strong protective instinct. I know it sounds dramatic, but I'll say it anyway: I will protect them at all costs. I want to be the person they call when something goes wrong. I want to be the person they text after achieving something big and want me to be proud of them.

So yeah, I'll keep hunting for that blue ship. I'll keep buying plushies and makeup bags and random models from airports. I'll keep yelling their names when I walk in. And I'll forever be honored that I was born first and get to love them first.

Linda Huang is a sophomore from Rockville, Md. majoring in Biomedical Engineering. Her column celebrates growth and emotions that define young adulthood, inviting readers to live authentically.

The morning I lost my voice, I thought it would be a minor inconvenience - a sore throat, maybe a quiet day or two. Nothing I hadn't survived before. I had forgotten that I was in college now, where when I'm sick, I can't rely on the comforts and silence of my home. Speaking, something that had always felt like such an effortless task, was more imperative than ever, so I guess it took losing it to understand its value.

At first, though I was annoyed by my throat, I didn't think too much of it. Maybe this would be a good break to get my head down and study a little, I had thought. But as it turned out, I was grossly underestimating the extent to which language pervades my day-to-day. I felt rude when, after holding a door for someone, they'd thank me and I only had the ability to silently nod back. When people greeted me, I could do nothing more than smile and wave back. I couldn't answer simple questions about what food I wanted at FFC, or give detailed instructions if someone asked for directions.

These were all small things, but the inconvenience compounded over the few days I couldn't speak. Doing anything had suddenly gained an extra step and it was all so much more of a chore now. Sometimes I'd point to my throat and gesture that I had lost my voice before engaging with someone. It feels like people often assume that everyone has access to spoken language and these moments began to reveal how I didn't speak to just talk, but to be understood.

This extended to interacting with my friends too. I found that almost all the thoughts I deemed worth conveying were too complex for nodding and hand gestures, which often left me frustrated. I'd have a joke to crack, a thought to share, but be left struggling to find a way to make people understand. So many notions would be born and die in my head - I had become the ultimate listener, but not by choice. At first I was coerced by my physical inability to make noise, and then just habit as my larynx slowly healed.

Each morning, I'd awake hoping to produce a sound that didn't sound like it came from an enraged frog. I counted numbers, exclaimed greetings and tried to sing. Slowly, I could notice my throat healing and the range of sounds I could make increasing.

But before I was fully able to talk again, my days were marked by silence. It was surprising how social so many seemingly-mundane aspects of college life can be. I hadn't noticed, but eating, studying, going to class - they all seemed so much quieter, and made me feel so much more boxed in when I couldn't talk. I don't think silence is necessarily a bad thing, but there is something to be said about the uneasy tugging in between your ribs when you're unable to do the simplest of things. I couldn't catch up with the people I saw in class or have a conversation over lunch. Instead, a loud silence would build, drawn on by confusion. What can we talk about when one of us can only nod or shake their head? My interactions left me feeling distant, despite all my efforts to be polite.

I wouldn't want to get sick and lose my voice again. So many things about it made life more rigid and it imposed on me all these constraints. Now, I can finally go up to the counter at the Hopkins Cafe and say what I want to eat or ask my roommate about a homework question I'm stuck on. But I also learned about how important my actual voice is - it can convey manners, help social bonds flourish and accelerate logistical tasks. I'm grateful to those who sat with me on a Tuesday evening in comfortable silence, unbothered by my inability to speak. Though, I wouldn't want to lose my voice again, I think you should stay silent for a day and see where that gets you.

Jerry Hong is a freshman from Toronto, Canada studying Public Health.

Chapter 1: Feet, meet floor

A little after I learned how to walk, my parents began helping me search for a particular passion that I could occupy my time with, so, like many other young girls, they decided to first sign me up for ballet classes. Every Saturday morning, I would excitedly put on my pink leotard and ballet shoes, and my mom would tie my hair back into a bun, securing it with a million bobby pins to make sure no strand of hair was left out. On every ride to the studio, my anticipation for what would be in store in class never died down, as no class was ever the same. The studio was a room full of possibilities; there was no limit to the dance movements that could be produced in it.

For the next few years, I spent countless hours learning the fundamentals of ballet, such as pliés, pointing my feet (which I often rebelled against doing), chassés, the list goes on. Reflecting back, I think I definitely underestimated the importance of the technical side of ballet when I was little, as I was naturally more enthralled with the ability to move and stretch my body in various ways. I simply enjoyed dancing and was confident that it would be an integral part of my life.

Chapter 2: Embracing movement

At a local arts festival in my hometown, I was captivated by ribbons, flowers and vibrant colors. This was no arts and crafts activity. Adorned with bejeweled floral headpieces and intricately embroidered gowns, the dancers gracefully leaped and twirled on the stage while waving their ribbons, painting the air with vivid hues. In awe of their movements and costumes, which were much different from the pink tutus and leotards I was accustomed to, I wanted to be just like them. So, my mom signed me up for their cultural dance program. Since I was already taking ballet classes, dance was no foreign concept to me - or so I thought.

Perfect posture, pointed toes and elongated lines - this was the mantra instilled in me from ballet for each pose or movement I made. However, when I attended my first class, I was shocked that the corrections I had been drilling myself with had to be erased. The choreography for a fan dance required me to swiftly open and close silky fans while gracefully positioning and twirling them in midair to create the illusion of flower petals flowing along a breeze. In contrast, the choreography for a dance to high-beat music was the opposite, requiring me to create sharp and dynamic shapes with my body and execute each movement with power while wearing a large, rounded and embellished silver headpiece.

Since we learned dances from ethnic groups all throughout East Asia, there was no one set of rules to follow. Instead, each dance entailed its own set of rules, so I was constantly learning and changing techniques. This regular adjustment was challenging, but also surprisingly the most rewarding. Together, as a dance group, our movements illustrated the meaningful stories passed down from generation to generation. This is where I realized that I didn't just merely enjoy dancing because it "felt good," but because of the power it had to tell a story without having to say a single word.

Chapter 3: Reclaiming the floor

Considering how much my younger self enjoyed dancing, I bet she would never have imagined that there was a period of time when I didn't dance at all. Rather, I became more invested in the sport of competitive swimming, which I picked up a little later after dance. I quickly became obsessed with getting faster, so I decided to quit dance as a whole to focus all my energy on swimming. To this day, I don't regret this decision, as it ultimately led me to the realization that movement through water was not enough to fulfill me.

My high school had an annual dance production, so instinctively, I auditioned, not thinking much of it, as I hadn't seriously danced in a while. In a shocking turn of events, I made it all the way to the last round of callbacks and was cast in various dances ranging from hip-hop to lyrical pieces. Luckily, most of the rehearsals were during my lunch break, so it didn't interfere with my swimming schedule, and I was, instead, finally able to pursue both of these passions to the extent I have been yearning for.

When it came time to perform, in what seemed like the first time in forever, I felt like a missing piece of me had come back. From being in full makeup and costume to the lighting effects and music, I forgot and was depleted of the exhilarating feeling of being able to just live in the moment and dance; everything else happening in the world seemed to fade away once I set foot on stage.

Chapter 4: Next Moves

Now that I am in college, I no longer do competitive swimming with a club team or participate in high school productions. It's as if I have to start out fresh and rediscover a way to balance my two hobbies/passions/interests amid the already busy schedule of being a Hopkins student. I don't know exactly what the future has in store for me, but I think it has been evident through my experiences that, although I may encounter it in different forms, dance will never leave my side.

Catherine Chan is a freshman from Potomac, Md., studying Molecular and Cellular Biology. She is a Social Media Manager for The News-Letter.

I used to think closeness was a grade I had to earn. If I were easy, uncomplaining, funny on demand and bent to their interests, then friends would keep me. On bad days, I'd check notifications as if they were emergencies. On good days I told myself I didn't need anyone at all. Between those two postures, constantly anxious or apathetic, was a yearning: I wanted to feel safe with people, and I wanted to feel safe with myself.

I started reading Attached by Amir Levine and Rachel Heller. They describe three attachment styles: secure, anxious and avoidant. It's mostly discussed in the context of dating, but I started seeing these patterns long before I recognized them on any first date. I've seen myself in the midst of all three. The anxious parts of me show up as a quick scan for signs: Did that "okay" sound annoyed? Have they been responding slower? And then I have the urge to fix whatever I imagined I had broken. The avoidant parts show up as a quick, polite escape into "I have to go to my class." And the secure voice, when I can hear it, tells me that nothing catastrophic is happening.

The book traces these styles to early experiences; how our needs were noticed or missed as children often shows up later in our lives. It explains so much to me, why silence sometimes feels louder than it should and why certain tones reassure me and others do the opposite. Levine and Heller are just as clear that these styles aren't destiny. We are not defined by them - they're just what we relate to, and we can work to outgrow them.

Somewhere along the way I confused emotional support with validation. I wanted people to encourage me, but I also wanted them to define me: tell me I'm kind, driven, smart, in perfect control of everything I do. Say it until I believe it. The problem is that compliments evaporate when they're covering a hole only I can patch. I can and should seek emotional support from others, and I'm not built to do it alone. But my core confidence, knowing who I am when no one is clapping, can't be outsourced. When I treat the people I love as proof of my worth, I stop relating to them as people and start performing for them. It's exhausting for all of us.

Attached calls this the dependency paradox: when our needs are predictably met, we don't become clingier. Depending on trustworthy people makes us more independent, not less. I've seen it in small ways. Receiving a comforting text such as "I've got a lot on my plate, taking a rain check" keeps my brain from inventing anxious scenarios. And it goes both ways. When I answer consistently, I become someone else's soft place to land. That's what healthy dependence looks like.

Of course, these habits still come up from time to time. I want to triple text, apologize for existing and call it "communication." But I want to be able to describe how I'm feeling without depreciating my own self-worth or disrespecting the other person. Family is trickier. The same people who taught us our first attachment lessons are the ones we're trying to re-learn with. I don't expect a family group chat to transform into a therapy circle, but I do think we can change how we show up.

What I keep returning to is permission. Not just permission to feel, but permission to need and to stay. To let people in without asking them to carry my whole identity. To receive reassurance without making it a condition for existing. To be the friend who replies, the sibling who calls, while holding my own center when I receive responses that are imperfect and human.

Maybe that's what security really is - being with people without dissolving into them and being yourself without pushing everyone away. On campus, at home, in all the spaces in between, it looks ordinary - answering texts, showing up when you said you would, saying "I need a minute" without disappearing. And in that balance, closeness stops being a test I'm destined to fail and starts feeling like a place I can rest and still be myself.

Linda Huang is a sophomore from Rockville, Md. majoring in Biomedical Engineering. Her column celebrates growth and emotions that define young adulthood, inviting readers to live authentically.

The boy carries a white trash bag in his outstretched, open-palmed hand. Four distinct strands of hair stick up, like he's been held upside down before being gently placed on the ground. He's beaming as if he's just heard the funniest knock-knock joke ever told; I can't help but wonder what I'd say to him, if I had the chance. A decade-old relic, the view is asymmetrical: one of us triumphantly gazes into the camera as if to say, 'we did that,' while the other sits in a dorm room, the curved edges of a smile forming at the corners of his face.

If you had five minutes to talk to an eight-year-old version of yourself, what would you say?

That's the question I've been grappling with as the semester comes nearer to a close. Not solely because of a newfound obsession with finding purpose, but also as an exercise in simple reflection. Imparting wisdom is tough in a time crunch, and with only 300 seconds, I'd have to move quickly.

Pressure is a Privilege

That gnawing feeling at the back of your head before you take a test is a gift. The tiredness in your eyes after a late night is a gift. Your life, your parents and your microscopic problems are all blessings. Take them. Hold them in your hand. Consider how many people would kill to be in your shoes. And not in the don't-throw-your-food-out-because-children-are-starving-in-Africa-way. Or because of that killer collared shirt and khakis combo, either - the one that hastily accompanied many formal family dinners (as shown above). The breadth of experiences you will endure in the next ten years will shape you in the best way possible. And however much you think the world may be conspiring against you, I promise it isn't. Life lets you learn by forcing you to grow. That's privilege.

You Aren't the Underdog… and That's Okay

It often seems to be a point of pride when you indignantly tell others, "I will never be the smartest in the room, but I will always work the hardest." There's a certain amount of comfort stemming from the presupposition that you aren't intellectually gifted, simply a hard worker. Your 'smart friends' are a safety blanket; for every ten minutes they spend studying, you work for hours to stay on the same page. Truth be told, one of the things you love most about yourself is the ability to work. An endlessly perseverant mind is your superpower, even though a lot of people will note a particular propensity to overdo it. When dad tells you, "You can do anything you put your mind to," don't roll your eyes. Know that achievement is only bound by your ability to believe. Failing is part of it, but you don't need to repeat some mantra to make the wins even sweeter. You're just as worthy as anyone else, act like it.

Fall Forward

If you knew all that was going to happen in the next ten years, I think you'd be a little surprised. You fall on your face a lot for a kid who waited until he was 17 to learn how to ride a bike. Luckily enough, you'll get to experience familiar cliches of growing up in classics such as 'families are complicated' and 'getting your heart broken.' Still, the most important lesson you learn is how to recover. Every band-aid rip-off makes you feel more whole; each experience will show you how to love your life a little more. If you knew me now, you'd probably think we're pretty cool. Surrounded by people who make us better and a place fueling that restless drive for more, you have all you could ask for. I'm making us proud every day. So are you.

P.S. Don't try to put concealer on your acne - you're colorblind, idiot.

After the breathless rush of five full minutes of talking, I'd hug that kiddo. He's sensitive, so I try not to hurt him while folding him into a careful embrace. I hold tight to his fears and ambitions in that brief space before putting him down gently, so as not to disturb the four hairs still standing straight up. I want to think that I'd then vanish into thin air, disappearing in a Wicked Witch of the West-esque cloud of smoke. Eight-year-old me wouldn't be able to understand half of what I told him, but I would hope he'd be smart enough to write it down for later. After all, that's one thing he seems to be good at.

Bryce Leiberman is a freshman from Madison, Conn. studying Political Science and Philosophy. His column records a search for authenticity exploring the past, present and restless work of becoming oneself.

There's something so deeply human about making something yourself.

It doesn't have to be big or impressive. Sometimes, for me, it's just cutting out a small sticker using parchment paper, markers and white printer paper for my journal; folding paper into something pretty; baking a fresh batch of cookies; or just writing a letter in cursive by hand.

I like the process of it. The way you start with nothing - a blank page, some string, a lump of clay - and somehow, after a little while, there's something that didn't exist before.

I've never made things because I was forced to. It hasn't been about saving money or doing it "the hard way." I just like the feeling of creating something from scratch, especially when it's for someone I care about. When I make gifts for my mom, I almost always end up with something handmade, including cards, drawings or tiny things I spent hours putting together. It's not perfect, but that's what I like. You can feel the time and thought that went into it. It's like giving someone a little piece of how you see them.

I think we forget how much we can make with our own hands. Everything can easily be bought or downloaded now that creating something yourself almost feels old-fashioned. But to me, that's what makes it special. When I draw or build or craft something, I'm reminded that I can bring an idea into the real world. That's kind of amazing, when you think about it. Humans have been doing that forever, and it's still just as satisfying.

At Hopkins, I've also been spending time in the PAVA Center Makerspace. It's where people can design things, 3D print models, handle wood and learn how to use machines and tools. It's weird that so much of it involves technology but still feels very human. You're still shaping something, still thinking about form and balance and texture. I like watching an idea slowly become tangible, piece by piece, print by print. Sometimes it fails completely, and you have to start over. But even that's part of the fun. You're learning how things come together, or sometimes how they fall apart, and you start over.

Making things teaches patience. You can't rush a project or force it to look exactly like you imagined. In fact, most of the time when I'm making something, the end product looks completely different from what I envisioned at the start. You learn to let the process happen, to accept imperfections and find joy in the attempt itself. And when it's done, no matter how small, it's yours. You know every step it took to get there.

I think that's why it feels so meaningful. Making something yourself isn't just about the final product. The sounds of the scissors cutting paper, spreading sunflower oil over a canvas before putting on oil paint, the hum of a printer, the way time slips by quietly and fast when you're focused on something you care about. It's one of the few times where doing feels just as good as finishing.

I like that. I like that I can create, not just consume. It reminds me that effort, even small effort, adds up to something beautiful. Maybe it's just a sticker, a painting, a card or a tiny piece of decor for my desk. But I made it, and that feels enough.

Kathryn Jung is a freshman from Silver Spring, MD, majoring in Biomedical Engineering. Her column reflects the process of creating and how the small things we make, notice and hold close bring meaning to everyday life.

Friday

Christmas Village in Baltimore, 501 Light St., 12-9 p.m.

Kick off the season at Christmas Village, the Inner Harbor's holiday market inspired by the traditional German Christkindlesmarkt. Wander through more than 60 wooden booths glowing with lights, try festive treats like Bratwurst and hot Glühwein, and visit the heated tent, beer garden and rides including the carousel and Ferris wheel. Admission is free, and the market runs through December 24.

Saturday

Nutcracker! Magic of Christmas Ballet, Hippodrome Theatre, 12 N. Eutaw St., 3 p.m. and 7 p.m.

The Nutcracker returns to the Hippodrome with an international cast, lavish costumes and hand crafted sets that bring Tchaikovsky's score to life. Featuring whimsical puppetry and classic holiday magic, this production offers a warm escape into a world of snowflakes and sugarplums. Tickets range from $44 to $219.

Holiday Makers Market, Harborplace Light Street Pavilion, 2-8 p.m.

Harborplace transforms into a festive shopping hub as dozens of Baltimore artists and makers set up for a weekend of handmade gifts and local creativity. Browse everything from jewelry to ceramics to zines while enjoying food vendors and pop up performances, all under the holiday lights of the Inner Harbor. Admission is free.

Art Market Holiday Edition, MICA Brown Center, 1301 W. Mt. Royal Ave., 11 a.m.-6 p.m.

MICA's three floor holiday market returns with work from students, alumni, faculty and staff selling prints, ceramics, jewelry and handmade pieces of every kind. Visitors can meet the artists, shop local and support creative entrepreneurs, with a suggested $5 donation benefiting MICA's Entrepreneurship Scholarship Fund. Admission is free.

Sunday

Elf in Concert, Joseph Meyerhoff Symphony Hall, 1212 Cathedral St., 3 p.m.

Celebrate the season with Buddy the Elf as the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra performs John Debney's magical score live while the full film plays on the big screen. Expect big laughs, bigger holiday spirit and festive lobby activities before the show. Tickets range from $31 to $109.