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Dear Yana,
I had my fair share of misconceptions about college. As a first-generation college student, I thought college was going to be like high school. I didn’t have anyone in my family who went to college to tell me otherwise. I got A’s easily in high school; I barely needed to study, rarely reviewed my notes and coasted through Honors and Advanced Placement classes that claimed to “prepare” us for college rigor.
What makes a clichéd farewell letter?
As a two-year editor for the Arts and Entertainment section of The News-Letter, I’ve received some flack for my approach to art criticism, especially in my coverage of Hopkins events. Though rarely said to my face, I’ve heard that my articles haven’t always been received well by certain student artists. I suppose this shouldn’t come as a surprise — one shouldn’t dish out what they can’t take — but it’s hard not to be reflective when I hear about it. It’s hard not to ask: Why did I even decide to publicly critique Hopkins art in the first place?
I know that I’m a sentimental person. I tend to hold onto the very bits of all my memories, littering my room with the edges of ticket stubs and plane tickets, books that have been bent in a million ways and bills from dinners out with friends. As I add to this collection, I find that my last semester at Hopkins has made me feel more nostalgic than usual. I’m thinking back to all my memories — from all the seemingly insignificant ones that now define who I am to the tears and frustrations that I think have made me more resilient. To be honest, it hasn’t been easy; I’m sure many at Hopkins can relate to how this school has pushed us to the brink. However, at the end of the day, I think my four years here will hold a special place in my heart.
As a healed doomscroller, I don’t remember when exactly I became addicted, but I do recall why.
Dear Kaitlin,
Your life is recorded in the millions of trillions of muggy fingerprints you leave behind in every decision you make: Innermost secrets spill out in the non-privacy of your internet searches, the political party you voted for last election and the text you sent your mom yesterday.
Through my veins runs a liquid similar to everyone else's, but as a Philadelphia Eagles fan, the sustenance has a unique color and composition we sum up as “green.”
I’d like to think that I’ve done many hard things in life: I moved to a new country; I learned to speak English fluently in a household that did not; I got accepted into the college of my dreams as a first generation student. But learning to love myself was the hardest thing I’ve ever learned to do.
I was around ten when I first heard the phrase “comfort zone.” It was uttered by my favorite YouTuber at the time in her Monthly Favorites video, and I decided that I wanted to build up my comfort zone — now, at 21, I think I’ve done too good of a job.
I want to start by opening up about two weaknesses of mine that I am actively working on: one, being more confident in making decisions and two, speaking up. I have always been someone who views situations from many — perhaps too many — angles and perspectives. It may sound like a strength, but oftentimes I struggle to present my ideas clearly and feel intimidated when approaching a person of authority, such as a principal investigator.
When I look back at child-me, it’s easy to see what has changed. I’ve gotten taller, older and less clumsy (arguably). My hobbies have shifted from playing with Barbies and American Girl Dolls to reading, watching movies and exploring new restaurants. I’m not as picky of an eater anymore and have expanded my palette to different cuisines and foods I would’ve previously shunned. I no longer live in Ohio with my parents, but rather, six hours away by car. I’m not scared of flights and traveling alone. Even though it is not my favorite, I feel comfortable speaking to a room full of people.
I used to think that I had my entire life planned out — laid before me as if it were a map and I was a pirate in search of gold; I would feel my finger swiftly trace the path in front of me. I always knew that I wanted to be a princess. Golden castles, sparkling gowns and a kingdom that adored me: What more could a little girl want? But my dream wasn’t just about jeweled crowns and shimmering tiaras. No; I wanted to be the kind of princess that cared for my people like my favorites: Mulan and Jasmine. I would imagine wandering through the halls of my castle and diligently partaking in royal meetings with countless advisors to make sure that no one in my kingdom ever suffered. I would be wise, kind, beautiful and generous: the sort of ruler every fairy tale promised.
Every human lives life aiming to be happy. We pursue jobs, careers, money, friendships and relationships looking for joy. We yearn for stability and consistency, a permanent state of calmness and joy. Our brains are wired to hunt for dopamine — a hormone that plays a role in memory, memory, pleasurable reward and motivation. Research has kept up with this innate human search for dopamine: Psychology and neuroscience have started looking for the neurobiological basis for contentment.
“I tried to do everything right.”
Dear Janice,
Hi Leo,
Growth is a complicated thing.
My first breaths were taken in the languid heat of a Los Angeles August morning. My mom tells me I was born with a head full of hair and that my birth was thankfully a lot easier than my older brother’s. A home video exists on a clunky camcorder somewhere in our house that’s just a close-up of my newborn face while my mom wiggles me into a soft white onesie. When I watched it for the first time, it was a little surreal hearing her voice from another time, even if it was just her saying “bless you” and cooing after I sneezed for the first time ever.