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(09/16/26 4:00am)
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.
(09/17/26 4:00am)
I was sitting with a group of people, some familiar and some unfamiliar, at my first-ever Thanksgiving in the U.S. As we went around sharing what we were grateful for, I took my sweet time. I am generally not a grateful person. I nag. I complain too much. I demand more from my life. God. The universe. Science. The power above us! Or in general, from me!
(09/14/26 4:00am)
This will be my fourth semester volunteering at a Baltimore hospital. In that time I’ve gone from a wide-eyed and scared pre-med fascinated with the theoretical “patient experience” to looking forward to listening, connecting and being with patients. I’ve picked up skills and strategies to be more present with patients. Thinking back I am almost surprised at the number of patients I do not remember. I see hundreds of patients a semester, but even though I can recall the emotions an encounter elicits, I have realized the specifics of most interactions have escaped me. I do not remember my first, and I don’t remember most of the brief cups of water, fetching of blankets or restocking of gloves, nor the muted interactions that prompted them. But I do remember the patients who ask questions, who ask me to stay. I remember the pride staying 10 minutes over my shift to talk a patient down from a panic attack brought me. I remember the wonder in the eyes of a woman as she outlined her son's adventures across Laos on tuk-tuk.
(05/24/26 6:34pm)
This Easter, I went back to church. Sitting in a side pew with my roommate, bumping into unexpected friends in the basement and trading candlelight with smiling strangers had me thinking about faith.
(05/25/26 4:00am)
In chemical engineering, we are taught the technique of process optimization. Simply put, any process — like making the adhesive for the dinosaur sticker on my laptop — can be analyzed and broken down to the various inputs, outputs and parameters involved. These variables can then be systematically adjusted to find some combination that produces the best result. Given a set of parameters, you can always carefully tune the knobs you are given to find an optimum.
(05/26/26 4:00am)
With the end of my first year drawing near, I have taken it upon myself to explore and experience the little things: from entering the everyday buildings I pass by, but have yet to step foot in, to finally trying out the dining options at the student center. One such little thing I didn’t experience until recently was building a sandwich at the Hopkins Café deli bar. I’m not entirely sure as to why it took me almost the whole school year to finally decide to visit this station as it is a go-to for many students. In fact, it’s a little ironic as well because one of my favorite places to eat at is Panera Bread. I love getting their sandwiches, accompanied with a side of your choice, and I always without fail get their in-house chips. A sandwich and a bag of chips — it satisfies your appetite and is an easy grab-to-go meal. The perfect pairing. Unfortunately, there is no Panera Bread on Charles Street or St. Paul Street (it would be a dream come true if there were though!), so naturally it would make sense that the sandwich station would be the one I gravitate toward the most. Although that wasn’t so at the start of the semester, it is the case now.
(07/16/26 5:03am)
Growing up, I knew that I loved music. This was not solely informed by piano lessons (never forced) or all the time I spent squeaking out “Canon in D” on my plywood violin. I had an affinity for the lyrical and melodic in life — and it was the first thing I looked for when I came onto campus.
(07/16/26 5:03am)
I learned about traditional herbal medicine during the last year of my enrollment in Chinese school. I remembered feeling that most subjects covered in class were historically distant, like memorizing Confucian proverbs that more often doubled as tongue twisters, or reciting ancient poems contained in their perfect, rectangular stanzas. But herbal medicine felt important to become attuned to, as I had already begun to see a strange resurgence of such methods in contemporary culture, where shifting away from traditional Western medicine and toward Eastern “healing practices” had become popular. There appeared to be an appeal to using simple tools, such as stones, teas or cupping treatments, to achieve healthier complexions and detoxify the body. More notably, these means were rendered an enigma to the masses, making Eastern medicine compelling, while discourse grew questioning its empirical validity.
(05/01/26 5:03am)
A few friends and I have been carrying on the same open conversation for a few months now about what makes art. It is a very important question for a bunch of students at Peabody, where I am studying vocal performance. To be frank, the thing we’re discussing at this point isn’t simply “What makes art?” We dance around that question as we talk about the things that are happening in our lives, like lessons, concerts, competitions, rehearsals and even practice sessions, but our conversation always comes back to art, its purpose and our place as artists.
(05/01/26 4:00pm)
Note: The name of the security guard I met has been anonymized to Ms. T for this article.
(04/24/26 7:00pm)
1. 家 (jiā) / home
(04/17/26 9:00am)
I despise small talk. And it’s all over social media, too. When did it become necessary for “friends” I haven’t spoken to in years to flood my comments section with “gorgggg,” or “you’re so adorable” or “marry me pls.” I don’t really want to marry you, random stranger whose Instagram handle I barely recognize.
(04/23/26 11:29pm)
I’ve never had a reason for wanting to be a writer. My relationship with writing has always been that of a high-school love your parents don’t approve of, in part because it reminds them of all their old mistakes — that is to say, fueled by contradiction and inexplicability. Every time someone assumes I want to be a writer, I don’t, and when they think I must want to become something else, then I’ve only ever wanted to be a writer. I’m not saying this is a good way of life, but I am claiming it as mine. At least I’m honest — until you call me honest, and then I’m a liar.
(04/13/26 8:00am)
After a very busy half-semester of rewatching all of Bridgerton and Emily in Paris while studying for my organic chemistry midterms (I am only half-kidding), I got to spend a glorious nine-and-a-half days frolicking around London and Paris with two of my best friends and my mom. I know, I am the luckiest girl in the world.
(04/23/26 4:41pm)
Two weeks ago, I decided to go to Hong Kong over spring break. It was impulsive. I had been there before — once as a child, and again in 2019. But somehow, I barely remembered any of it. This is the second time in a relatively short span that I have found myself writing about Asia, which probably says something about the kind of year this has been. More than ever before, I have been thinking more seriously about identity, what feels like home and how much of it is something I only recognize once I’ve been away from it.
(04/18/26 7:00pm)
When the summer heat has subsided, and the sun casts a liquid saffron in the rippling bank waters of the Loch Raven Reservoir, my father and I gather up hooks, lure and rods to set out fishing. After the back trunk of the car pops open with a metallic creak, we load up the equipment and begin a leisurely 9-minute drive from our house. My father is steering our beige 2008 Toyota Camry, proudly bearing a sunburnt bumper sticker of the Beijing Olympics, where our seatbelt buckles still radiate the heat of noon, and the entire interior smells of melting velour. He cranks on the radio to WEAA 89.9, my least favorite station, due to being young and not understanding the “allure of jazz,” but my father insists it reminds him of the gate lounges of the Louis Armstrong Airport in New Orleans, waiting for flights home. We mainly drive along one monotonous, lazily winding road that escapes to the outskirts of Timonium, brushing past the whipping scenery of foliage in the reflection of the approaching basin.
(04/23/26 11:34pm)
I was relatively late in getting a driver’s license. I realized this when I met up with some old friends in my senior year of high school, and I was the only one who still had a permit.
(04/15/26 12:00pm)
I’ve always been a picky eater. Perhaps not “picky” in the traditional sense, but rather that I am very specific about the food and nutrition that goes into my body. Even at twenty-three, I still diligently adhere to my parents’ rules about no caffeinated drinks and only eating instant ramen once per month, I still avoid artificial sweeteners (even if the science on that may be coming back now), and I always ensure every meal consists of a sufficient balance of carbs, veggies and proteins.This mindset has always seemed like common sense to me; after all, the food that nourishes my body will ultimately determine a big part of my physical health, so why wouldn’t I be picky about it?
(04/18/26 4:00pm)
Founded in 2009 by Brandon Doman, The Strangers Project began as a simple yet powerful idea: to collect anonymous, handwritten stories from people around the world and share them in a space where anyone could read them. What started as a small project has grown into a global collection of human experiences stories filled with honesty, vulnerability and emotion. It creates a space where people can express themselves freely, without judgment, and where others are invited to simply listen.
(04/18/26 3:34am)
Two weeks ago, I had an incredible stroke of bad luck. Nothing was ever that serious, but minor inconveniences and unfortunate happenings followed me around like a fever I couldn’t shake. The list of these inconveniences goes as follows:
