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I was told it’s time to start saying my goodbyes in Baltimore.
They called me Mr. Riley.
From the outside, I look like everyone else.
I think we take the sun for granted. I mean, yes, we would most certainly be dead without it, and then, well, I wouldn’t even be writing this, but there is a certain warmth, separate from physical, that we receive from the sun. It is always there, always rising from the east to the west.
I used to hate silence. The silence of taxis, elevators and long lines unnerved and perplexed me. So did the eyes desperately darting downwards, plummeting into isolation as soon as someone stepped into an elevator. Short, cordial greetings met with even shorter goodbyes during taxi rides. A person standing a foot away from someone else in line for an hour without acknowledging they exist.
Recently, I participated in The News-Letter’s weekend-long election process in which we appoint the board for the following year. This is an annual (and mandatory) tradition; helping to elect those who come after us is an indispensable part of our role as editors, as it ensures the strength and stability of the paper. I won’t be here next year, but The News-Letter will.
I’ve been trying to find time in my day to “just breathe.” That’s what everyone tells me to do when I’m feeling sad: “just breathe.” But no one tells you how to breathe when everything feels like it’s caving in, when your brain is just static noise and your heart’s doing Olympic flips over your to-do list.
I’ve spent the last few months of college lounging in my roommate’s room. Her walls are full of tidbits, posters, postcards and two photo strips: one of us and the failed attempt right before. As I lazily lay in her bed and stare at her sitting cross-legged on her giant gray chair working on her laptop, I feel a sense of longing despite only being a few feet away.
Some people move through life like it’s a test they didn’t study for. They try hard (harder than anyone sees) to be kind, to be useful, to be good. But beneath the polished surface, there’s a quiet ache. Not the kind that cries out, just a hum of sadness that settles in the bones.
Sometimes the universe stitches itself together in improbable ways that make normal people wonder: Is this one large, elaborate prank the world is pulling on me? Like you’re a baby again, but this time the square peg really does fit inside the circle hole. What to do then? What to make of this?
There’s this quiet noise in my brain that never really leaves me. It’s not loud or aggressive, but it lingers, telling me to do something. Not in a productive way. More like a continuous tap on the shoulder reminding me that whatever I’m doing is probably not enough.
I will forever be a momma’s girl.
There’s a peculiar exhaustion that clings to us these days. Not the kind cured by a nap or even a week off. It’s deeper — spiritual, maybe. Existential. The soul equivalent of endlessly refreshing your email and still waiting for something good.
On an average day where I have an exam, I tend to devote every single second to consuming, absorbing and mastering any knowledge that’s slightly relevant to the topics that will be on the exam. On such days, I don’t function as a human and rather turn into a machine — I pump up my anxiety, compress my soul and condense my knowledge with hopes of converting my spiritual energy and zest for life to something even better: a decent grade from an engineering class.
I have never experienced a more ridiculous sensation than purchasing a Sausage, Egg & Cheese sandwich from Gilman Hall’s cafe. For some reason, when I tread the halls of the clock tower, my patience always wears thin. Maybe it's the impossibly long cafe line that never fails to make me late to class or the daily trek to the first floor bathroom, but time passes by at a pace reflective of my train of thought during a Genetics exam. Sometimes, I have to question if the $9 Sausage, Egg & Cheese is worth what I endure.
Every evening during our trip to New York, my friend asked me for the highlights — what she defined as the best parts of our day, or the worst. The stories we’d want to tell our friends and family.
Last week, I was riding the bus to the med campus with a friend when we started talking about why we ultimately chose to go to Hopkins. In explaining her college application process, she told me that she had only applied to schools that would excite her to attend; there were no “just in case” safeties on her list, she was content to try again in the next application cycle if it meant preserving her desire to attend a college where she could constantly have intellectually stimulating conversations with her peers.
At some point, I think every student who gets into Hopkins encounters questions along the lines of:
Writing my Voices column has been really therapeutic for me. It’s surprising, because I’m someone who has tried and failed to get into journaling for her whole life, which I’m sure is not a unique experience. But I’m also someone who has been drawn to books and reading and writing for her whole life, so I guess I just had to find a form of journaling that works for me.
A few weeks ago, I submitted a poem for a workshop at around 10 p.m. I’d revised it, refined it, read it out loud to myself and my friends — I was ready to submit. This was a pretty busy week for me: various responsibilities for The News-Letter, creeping philosophy deadlines, a growing pile of history readings. So, when I emailed my poem to my entire class, I didn’t review it. I submitted it. Then I turned to my readings, called my friends, and went to sleep. Everything was alright. My poem was okay, and I’d submitted it by 11:59 p.m.