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Feb. 17, 2026, marks three years to the day that I got into Hopkins, and this anniversary has me thinking so much about the things that’ve stayed the same. In the process, I’ve discovered that I have trouble letting go.
All of this has happened before. Right now, I am drinking a 16 oz. Watermelon Celsius because CharMar ran out of Blue Crush. I am writing another article about riding a train slightly less than a year after the first because my mind ran out of other ideas. This article will be less interesting because I did not venture outside Union Station this time in Chicago, and instead of reading books to spark cognitive shifts I watched Wicked. And Dear Evan Hansen. And Criminal Minds. Call this a sequel, the type that’s worse than the first. At least this time, no one called me Jack Harlow — only something worse. You be the judge.
Chinese New Year is coming up, so I’ve been thinking a lot about my relationship with my culture. This will be the third year where I haven’t celebrated it because I won’t be home with my family to do so. It is especially frustrating when I think back to how I sat around at home on the 25th of December, spending the day doing my very best to become one with the couch because there wasn’t anything worth celebrating on that day for my family, and yet that is the day we all had off.
When I was in my junior year of high school, my AP Calculus teacher played a video for us the day before winter break. It was a TED Talk by Tim Urban, the popular blogger behind “Wait But Why,” who delved into the mind of a procrastinator: featuring the Instant Gratification Monkey (the one who replaces the Rational Decision Maker in our mind and takes us on quests such as doomscrolling when there’s an impending deadline, eliciting a mix of anxiety and unearned gratification) and the Panic Monster (who eventually takes the wheel from the Instant Gratification Monkey when a deadline comes too close, leading us to pull all-nighters to save ourselves from the consequence of an unfinished task).
The sound of a blender at seven in the morning is usually the herald of a New Year’s Resolution. It’s the sound of frozen blueberries, spinach, protein powder and milk being pulverized into some slush; the kind of health smoothie that promises a fresh start with a healthier body and mind.
We were stranded in North Carolina after a delayed flight caused us to miss our layover. I was sitting on a metal chair stolen from a nearby Starbucks. There was a numbing pain in my arm, suggesting to me it had been a mistake to use it as a pillow. Drowsily, I attempted to focus on the fan of cards in my hand and the voice of a friend as he tried to explain the rules to a game we were too sleep deprived to understand properly. Nevertheless, we huddled around the deck of cards, shuffling and dealing until the rising sun signaled us to go catch the next flight. Somehow, the chaos of travel had shrunk into the small space between us, captured and organized by fifty two pieces of paper.
When I was twelve, I wrote a children’s book called What’s In My Lunchbox? for my sixth-grade English class, which detailed the origins of a B.L.T. sandwich, an apple juice box and a bag of potato chips. As I put together drawings of a little ant crawling his way through the genesis of my lunch, I learned that Mott’s apple juice is bottled in my home state of New York, that the potato chip factories often throw away entire truckloads of potatoes if too many are found to be blemished and that the crispy bacon in my sandwich was produced in a massive industrialized farming facility run almost entirely by an underpaid migrant workforce. My book was celebrated with many prestigious literary awards (check pluses, gold stars...). I became a vegetarian shortly afterwards.
Nanjing, China. I thought I would eventually write this. It’s just too emotional for me. It’s hard to put into words, which is funny, because you’re also where my words began.
To me, my memory of March 2018 sounds like the sizzling of my mother’s cooking in the room over, my fingers rested upon the calloused wooden table as I sat down, waiting after setting up the table. March of 2018 smells like the wildflowers and fresh soil beneath my feet after playing freeze tag at the park. I remember the feeling of the breeze on my skin and the metallic monkey bars in my hands.
My signature “early riser” alarm probes the depths of my subconscious, infiltrating my dreams with an irritant tap, softly encouraging a labored rise off the Twin XL and onto my feet. Yawning, I scratch my sleep-deprived eyes before opening my phone to what is always a text from my dad:
Letters Without Limits, founded by students at 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.
True to my Minnesotan roots, I grew up playing hockey. I spent my nights lacing up my skates and my Saturday mornings shooting pucks in the garage. I often tell my friends I am more comfortable on ice than I am on land.
Snow has a way of transforming the world, turning even the most ordinary day into something soft, quiet and full of magic.
My thumb flipped the page, and I sat up straighter, holding my breath as my eyes glossed over the next page. Wait — what? How did the main character’s brother just get killed like that? He was alive in the last chapter...
From the outside, nothing looks wrong. I reluctantly get out of bed, go where I’m supposed to go, yap, laugh and dillydally. It doesn’t seem that anything has changed. I’m still me: I deliver the same jokes and remarks, I have the same competitive spirit, I have the same interests I am very vocal about. However, underneath the noise, it’s just silence.
I’ve always found peace in the sky. When I was younger, I’d look up at the clouds during long car rides and let my imagination go wild with stories of a fictional man jumping through the clouds. Even as I got older, my appreciation and admiration for the sky only grew stronger. I am from an area known as the Sun City. As such, I’ve always been able to define my home through beautiful sunsets and sunrises. When I came to Baltimore my freshman year, I was surprised by how different the sky was — sunny days felt like a cage and cloudy days were only dreary. I felt as though I was caged up by an unseen force that prevented me from being able to relax and take in my environment.
When I was a child, I thought that eating turkey on Thanksgiving was a historical myth, like finding a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow on St. Patrick’s Day or getting hit by Cupid's arrow on Valentine’s Day. Each November, I would make as many hand turkeys as I could possibly fit in my sparkly pink backpack, and then go to my Abuela’s house to eat a traditional feast of pan de bono, empanadas, ajiaco, mazorca, platanos, arroz con leche and jugo de maracuya. Like we all do every year, right?
As expected, my first semester at Hopkins yielded a welcome amount of intellectually stimulating conversations. Yet one that occurred recently has stuck in my mind. It prompted a thorough self-examination of my beliefs, which is a place I didn’t think I would reach after only a few months on campus.
When I was little, I always made sure to turn on my nightlight before heading to sleep. From the concept of monsters hiding under my bed to other unknowns in the darkness, I had my fears and suspicions. However, a tiny, dim light capable of warmly illuminating my whole bedroom was all that I needed to give me the assurance that it was probably just my mind trying to play tricks on me and that if a monster were really hiding underneath my bed, I would at least be able to foresee it instead of being blindly frightened by it.
Another sunset seeps through my windows, staying for a moment. It paints my white walls with an orange and pink tinge, the type of color you think of when a warm hand rests on your shoulder. Each ray of sunlight finds its place: on the mirror hanging from my door, on the boxes filled with my belongings and on the suitcases leaning against the wall.