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.

"Let's not mince words. This is the insider trading saga for the NBA, that's what this is," Patel told ESPN.

Headlining these arrests was current Portland Trail Blazers head coach and future NBA Hall of Famer Chauncey Billups. Beside him on the pedestal of infamy is current Miami Heat guard Terry Rozier. After the allegations were released, the NBA placed both Rozier and Billups on administrative leave and announced that they will reconsider these consequences after the investigations are complete. Tiago Splitter has stepped up as the interim head coach for the Portland Trail Blazers, and young guards such as Jaime Jacquez Jr. and Norman Powell have seen increased minutes since Rozier's leave.

League officials emphasized that maintaining the integrity of the game is a priority. These cases come at a time when legalized sports betting and prop bets on individual player performance have expanded, creating new oversight challenges. Each state has its own regulations and tax rates for sports betting. A handful restrict where you can place bets, such as only while someone is physically inside a casino or within a certain radius of a stadium. Others limit which betting platforms you can use or what aspects of the games you can bet on.

Experts say the surge in mobile betting platforms has made monitoring player-specific wagers more complicated, increasing concerns about potential exploitation. Because each state is allowed to make its own betting laws, there have been significant discussions regarding the legality of professional athletes betting on professional sports games, including their own.

"States sort of opened up a can of worms, and now some of them are starting to realize just how crazy this sports betting world sort of is," said Wayne Taylor, a professor of marketing at Southern Methodist University, referring to the differences in gambling restrictions between states.

According to prosecutors, the cases involve allegations of wire fraud, money laundering, illegal gambling and extortion. Rozier is accused of sharing private information with others, including a claim that he would leave a game early due to injury. FBI investigators say this information was used to place "under" bets (a bet that a player will underperform in a certain statistic) on Rozier. From this, he received a portion of the earnings. Former NBA player and coach Damon Jones was named alongside Rozier with allegations that he provided confidential player information to bettors. Prosecutors indicated that some of the communication at the center of the case was tracked through encrypted messaging apps, which they say were commonly used to coordinate betting strategies.

In addition, Billups, Jones and other arrestees have been accused of running an underground poker operation. Prosecutors allege that some of these games were manipulated using specialized equipment, such as rigged card shufflers and hidden cameras. Patel noted that the poker operation spanned multiple states, including bases in Manhattan, Las Vegas, Portland and the Hamptons. According to the New York City Police Commissioner Jessica Tisch, the poker ring also involved cooperation between several organized crime rings, including the Bonanno, Gambino, Lucchese and Genovese families. The operations reportedly involved numerous significant financial transactions along with the use of multiple illegal methods to conceal the sources of the funds, such as wire fraud and money laundering.

Despite the controversy surrounding the situation, the NBA has not enacted any more restrictions on athletes placing bets. Currently, NBA players and affiliates are banned from betting on NBA games, but are still allowed to bet on other sports in locations where it is legal. The league generates a huge profit from participating in and advertising gambling services, with estimates from the 2023-2024 season projecting $160 million in revenue just from casinos and betting. In the past few seasons, the NBA has partnered with many gambling services such as FanDuel, DraftKings,and Caesars. These three alone account for over 10% of the total spent on advertising during NBA games.

However, the outcomes of these rulings remain pending as the NBA and federal authorities continue to review the situation. On Nov. 15, multiple teams throughout the league were asked to hand over phone records to the FBI, along with other records tied to the case. Beyond this, the league and the FBI have not released any significant information regarding the investigation. The situation raises questions about how professional sports leagues manage their interactions with different betting organizations, such as Underdog and FanDuel, and how these activities could affect the competitiveness of the league.

Last week, my roommate and I were discussing our favorite early 2000s rom-coms (with "How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days" at the top of the list, obviously), when she asked, "Hailey, are you against plastic surgery?" This question may seem abrupt, but it represented the accumulation of critical bits and pieces of our conversation: Samantha Jones in Sex and the City (Season 2, Episode 3, "The Freak Show"), the popularization of discussing cosmetic procedures on social media and the ways in which the female body has been turned into a trend. Ultimately, we had a meaningful conversation about what it means to powerfully embody or succumb to femininity, and how it has looked for us and those we care about as we enter our twenties. Let's map it out:

1. 1. Samantha Jones and "The Freak Show"

In Season 2, Episode 3 of Sex and the City, everyone's favorite character (I won't hear out conflicting opinions) Samantha Jones has a plastic surgery crisis. After a younger man she spends the night with comments that she is an "older woman," Samantha decides that she wants to get plastic surgery. Miranda comments, "Whatever happened to aging gracefully?" with Carrie quipping "It got old!" and with that, Samantha is off to her very exclusive, very expensive Manhattan surgeon. With the initial expectation being that the doctor is going to inject fat from other body parts into her face, making her appear "younger," Samantha is surprised when the doctor begins marking up her entire body, recommending a laundry list of procedures that he feels she needs. In the final scene of this Samantha-saga, Samantha stares at herself in the mirror - more marker than skin - while circus music mockingly plays in the background.

2. If Samantha Jones were on TikTok

If Samantha Jones were on TikTok, I doubt she would have been surprised by her surgeon's markings - in fact, she may have just grabbed the marker and kept on drawing. Today's social media algorithms are saturated with surgeries that you just have to get if you want to get rid of your buccal fat and fix your eyelid skin and add to your hips and take away from your waist. We speak about plastic surgery so casually now, with many online influencers preaching transparency when getting work done.

This phenomenon presents the issue that my roommate and I began to discuss: We are living in a world that has begun to reward plastic surgery as a feminist choice, and thus you are either a good feminist if you support it or a bad one of you don't. The thing is, we both agreed that we do support plastic surgery. Not only do we support a woman's choice to do absolutely anything she wants, especially if it's something that improves her quality of life, but it is also, frankly, nobody's business.

What I realized that I don't support, though, is the subtext behind why we live in a society where I will take up arms for women who just want to get botox in peace. No decision is made in a vacuum, and thus while someone like Samantha may tell her friends that her plastic surgery is strictly for self-empowerment purposes, the voice of the man who called her an "older woman" will still ring in her ears, and behind that, an entire culture and industry that has tried to sell away the overwhelming feeling that a woman is never enough as she is.

3. Shapeshifting: from 2006 to 2016 to 2026

Just because we haven't always been able to watch plastic surgery before-and-afters on targeted iPhone algorithms, doesn't mean that these messages haven't been in the female consciousness for decades. As we wrapped up our discussion of Samantha Jones, my roommate and I began to dissect women's bodies in early-2000s media, particularly in the romcom genre, and how public perception of the "ideal woman" has changed. In these older romcoms, the ideal woman is paper-thin, devoid of any curves, just tall and slender. Commentary is constantly being made about what these women eat, which perfectly-normal women are "fat" and what fads the characters are trying to attempt to lose weight. What is so compelling is that these tidbits are almost never the media's main plot, rather they are stitched neatly into the seams of the script, so casually that you might not have even noticed them until you were re-watching. However, when pieced together, the message is loud and clear: you need to eat less, take up less space, to be desirable.

Ten years later, the early-2010s introduced a new ideal woman. Fueled by an explosion in Kim Kardashian's Instagram following, this new ideal woman was all about curves, and plastic surgery fads were more popular than ever. This was an era of BBLs and boob jobs, augmentations in women's bodies that were superficially about confidence, but held underlying messages of needing to have bigger "assets" to be seen as attractive and worthy of social connection. In this world, the early 2000s ideal woman is not the one the men or the people of Instagram want - she is the one in the before pictures.

The thing about trends is that they cycle. In the early-to-mid 2020 period we now exist in, the 2000s it-girl is the ideal again. Our algorithms are flooded with ab exercises and disordered eating content and celebrities in Kim Kardashian's tax bracket are reversing their 2016 procedures and replacing them with new procedures, ones that will help them take up as little space as possible.

We can never win, and I am mourning it. Our curves, our stomachs, our breasts, our faces have become commodities that go in and out of style right along with shoes and handbags. Though we might have once been able to say "You can't buy a different body!" we definitely cannot anymore. I mourn for Samantha Jones crying in her surgeon's office, for the twelve-year-old girls who are saving their pennies for a nose job, for anyone whose eating, exercising or existing habits have been taken apart by "pretty" culture.

Yesterday, another one of my roommates sent me a TikTok with the caption, "Has anyone thought of spending all of their money on plastic surgery to get to level 10 baddie and then just make all of the money back through pretty privilege on social media?" The most liked comment read, "I feel like it's a better investment than a college degree." We were both shocked, ultimately agreeing that, as feminists, we cannot tear down women who feel they must fight their way through life with beauty alone. What we should tear down, though, is the system that makes them feel they have to.

Hailey Finkelstein is a junior from Ardsley, N.Y. majoring in Medicine, Science and the Humanities. Her column shares miscellaneous prose on current issues, the collective Hopkins experience and growing up with a pen in hand.

When I was little, I always hoped I would get glasses. I used to believe that somehow my vision would diminish enough for me to wear them, that my braces could match the lenses perched on my nose. Only with glasses, I thought, could I truly see who I wanted to become. Perhaps then, I could see the future clearly.

I remember lying at appointments, purposely mixing up my D's and O's, hoping to trick the doctor into prescribing lenses. But the lies never worked. In time, life gave me glasses anyway, and now, how I wish I could go back to seeing letters clearly. No amount of lying can retrieve the vision I've lost.

My frames have changed four times. The first pair was purple; after that, they remained a consistent shade of brown and cream. When my world was enclosed in purple, I believed I could see my future clearly. But those lenses soon reflected only the glow of screens when the pandemic hit, and my world shrank to four walls. The same walls I meant to paint, wishing it would fix something, make it stick to the cement. I watched my future slip from my grasp, and I let it.

Eventually, I changed my prescription. My new frames, in shades of brown, helped me see clearly again, but this time, my vision filled with college applications. I started wearing them less and less. My future was there, but I couldn't bear to look at it, at the possibility of failure that haunted me. Each time I took my glasses off and tossed them into my bag, they grew more scratched, waiting for the moment I'd accept that my future needed to be faced, not feared.

When I came to Hopkins, I changed my prescription once more. For the first time in years, I wore my glasses consistently. I even adjusted parts of my personality to fit in with others. But a few months in, I realized my prescription was wrong. The headaches and the unease within me were signs that I was failing to look my future in the eye. I was staring at the ground instead, letting my insecurities walk all over me.

So, I stopped wearing them again. I squinted in classrooms, excusing my fears by saying I didn't have my glasses, even though they were right there in my bag. I walked across campus without them, sacrificing the chance to enjoy the beautiful trees lining the walkways. Sometimes, I left them off just to avoid saying hello, afraid people could see right through me.

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. If that's true, then glasses must be the enhancers. When I wore mine, it felt like people could see that I wasn't being honest with myself, and that terrified me. It was frightening to live a life of hiding and not seeing.

I was diagnosed with myopia and astigmatism; I see the world in lines, blurs and confusion. Only now do I realize that I've been seeing my future in the same way, unfocused, distorted. The lies I told myself about who I was and what I needed only clouded my vision further.

I still have an inner debate every morning about whether to wear my glasses. But as my future approaches and the pressure builds, I'm beginning to understand that wearing them is the best choice. Even if they get scratched, they still allow me to see ahead, to look toward a future I can finally be proud of.

Johnalys Ferrer is a junior from Arecibo, Puerto Rico studying Medicine, Science and the Humanities. Her column explores how culture, identity and the fight to belong live on, reminding us that heritage is not only remembered but echoed daily.

Most days, you can find me in a child's pose on a yoga mat either at the studio, next to my bed at home or on the hardwood stretching before my ballet class. It's nothing extravagant, and often my stretching varies from a few quick minutes before class to an hour and half before bed. No matter what time of day or where I'm at, yoga and my stretching routine have given me stability and structure during times of tumultuous change.

My stretching routine has quietly followed me through the years from my childhood home to my first year of college, in the shared space of my college dorm. I'm not exactly sure why I started over 10 years ago. As a young child, I was not naturally flexible. I couldn't even reach my toes at a doctor's visit. Maybe, my desire to become more flexible grew with my interest in dance. Or maybe, per my natural temperament, not being good at something ignited a spark in me to work toward becoming better. Ultimately, I think it was probably a combination. The steadiness of having something to return to and a routine that gave me purpose and kept me grounded.

I learned how to stretch from YouTube videos. Just like how the modern world has become digitalized to our fingertips, the list of videos were nothing short of abundant. I'd sit on the hard tiles in my basement each day, following tutorials and using footstools in place of yoga blocks. My initial interest turned into a habit as I realized stretching was a practice that demanded consistency and gradual work. While there are many days where stretching felt like a chore, it taught me early lessons on how to show up for myself even when I didn't want to. And even if I wasn't feeling up to it, the act of following through and "finishing" always made me feel better than when I had started.

There's something restorative about being able to reset just by working through a few stretches or pedaling out your feet in a downward facing dog. As The Body Keeps The Score thoughtfully articulated and from brain science courses, stress shows up in many unconscious ways within. Whether it's with a tight jaw or furrowed brow, chronic stress puts the body system in an overdrive fight or flight mode and restructures the brain (structurally and functionally) over an extended period of time. Personal goals of flexibility aside, having some form of movement where I can play my favorite music and decompartmentalize has done wonders to help me reconnect with myself.

Learning to take up space for myself was one of the greatest lessons I've learned in college. Taking up space to stretch doesn't require any more than the length of a yoga mat. But learning that I am deserving to take up space as a person has been a lifelong journey. It's important to take up space, give energy when deserved, and as I've learned from stakeholders in my life, it's possible to hold space for more than one thing at a time.

Below are some of my favorite stretches and a 10 minute flow that have become a staple in my daily routine. Feel free to copy and paste into your browser for visuals.

• In a seated position, start with head, neck and shoulder rolls
• Ankle circles/rolls
• Cat/Cow back stretches
• Seated hamstring stretch or a pike (both legs extended with flexed and pointed feet)
• Standing forward fold
• Half Pigeon (both sides)
• Crossed leg seated forward fold (Optional: stack one knee on top of other, then switch)
• Deep lunge, then elbows on ground
• Quad stretch in lunge (grab back foot)
• Press into hamstring stretch half split
• If you can: Side split (both sides, pointed and flexed, upright and leaning/folding forward), then middle split (Optional: use props to get further)
• To finish, Bridge/Backbend

Note: I like to do roughly 30 seconds for each stretch/side.

Anne Li is a junior from Brooklyn, N.Y. majoring in Neuroscience.

Amid the usual onslaught of midterms and essays, it becomes startlingly easy to lose your grasp on time. The clock hands turn a little too fast for our liking, hours slip away to Brody study sessions and anxious Gradescope submissions, and days become measured not by sunset or sunrise but instead how many energy drinks you've downed.

During one lecture, my friend leans over, while we're not focusing on plane-to-plane transformations, to ask: "Can you believe it's already Halloween? What are you doing this weekend?"

The question stings. How is it almost November? How is it that I've already spent two and a half months scrawling down Baltimore, MD on addresses for envelopes? How is it that so little and yet so much time has passed, and nothing feels changed?

Time is strangely doubled in college. Each day stretches on, labored and asymptotic, but each week disappears with a quiet violence.

You tell yourself - you'll go back to that one restaurant. You'll call your mom and your dad and your brother and tell them you love them. You'll walk that one tree-lined block again before the leaves lose themselves to the cold cement, and then you'll blink. You'll remember all the leaves have already fallen, crunched to a fine brown dust. They're gone: Everything lives in hindsight here.

So then, what happened during that lost time? Have I changed: become smarter, kinder, better? Or have I performed the motions of growing up, to keep moving forward even when it all feels suspended?

Think on how it all happens so rapidly and imperceptibly: the person I was in August, back home in Oklahoma, still lingers somewhere, faint but not gone. That's the strange mercy of it: Our younger selves cling to us, just barely discernible. We don't notice as younger parts of us slowly molt away; we only realize our new changes when it's too late. It's not transformation so much as quiet erosion, and that's what softens the inevitable blow.

Still, there's that faint, persistent ache that comes knowing each version of myself is temporary. That this very moment, even this sentence, is already in the process of leaving me.

But even as the leaves mottle, the days collapse into themselves, and my hair inevitably turns brittle in the shower's silver gleam, there is still something bright and lovely in simply being here, awake and uncertain, yet alive with the weight of it all.

"Yes, Lord, I come to you today pleading for all of the aches of age, all of the permanent and immovable damage you have to offer.

Yes, there are moments I have spent and will continue to spend in a mirror, massaging products onto my skin and slowly washing them off, if not to delay the very things I am now welcoming, at least to make them as luminous as possible.

Do not be fooled by the weapons I refuse to lay down.

I come to you today with gratitude in knowing the fight cannot be won.

Let the hair turn its drab colors and, perhaps, slowly begin to depart down the drain."

- Hanif Abdurraqib, There's Always This Year

Thansi Garikipati is a freshman from Edmond, Okla., studying Biophysics.