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(12/07/25 3:00am)
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.
(11/19/25 1:00pm)
For as long as I can remember, I would call my dadi twice a day.
(12/07/25 5:00am)
“Austin! Marilyn! Come downstairs!”
(12/01/25 10:40pm)
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.
(01/22/26 2:01am)
What feels like just a few days ago, my biggest frustration was Grey’s Anatomy characters ragebaiting me: it was the COVID-19 lockdown; my last year of middle school had come to an abrupt halt. Another day later, I was speed-walking from debate practice and frantically trying to grasp basic thermodynamics concepts in AP Chemistry, which seems so trivial today. Yesterday, I was frantically journaling every minuscule event in hopes of a killer Common App essay topic, binge-reading college application guides at 2 a.m., convinced that one obscure extracurricular would determine the course of my life. Today, I am 20 years old. Blink, and somehow those “days” stack into an entire span of five years. Just like that, being a teenager – and more importantly, the vast majority of my youth – is already behind me.
(12/07/25 4:00am)
Chapter 1: Feet, meet floor
(12/01/25 2:00am)
When my girlfriend visited a couple weeks ago, I suddenly became self-conscious of how bland and messy my room looked. Despite it being week six, moving boxes still sat unopened and the decorations I brought lay on the floor untouched. For the record, I think of myself as a clean person. But with my new apartment, I had excused myself because this space felt temporary.
(12/02/25 5:00am)
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.
(11/22/25 4:00am)
I am sitting on a fuzzy pink pillow in the apartment of my trainer, Dua, and I am about to share my whole life story from beginning to end with a group of five strangers.
(10/28/25 7:00am)
Like a horse with a broken leg, I have come to face my own death sentence: I am a poet uncomfortable unpacking emotion.
(11/11/25 3:00pm)
I ask myself this question nearly every day. Ironically, back in December, I had nearly convinced myself that I would get in. My favorite procrastination strategy was to pull up the graph for Hopkins on Scoir, see my star land in the green-ish area, and think, “Maybe I have some hope.” Then I would mull over my essays and Common App activities in my head (I was too scared to actually read them), and perhaps gain a bit of hope.
(11/12/25 5:00am)
A few years ago, I figured that if I never wanted to feel anxious again, I could simply force myself to do things that make me nervous over and over again — until my hands no longer shook, my voice no longer trembled and my heart no longer sank.
(11/09/25 8:00am)
The first time I feel the freshman blues, it’s 7 p.m. in Baltimore, but 5 a.m. back home. My phone lights up with a text from my mom. It’s nothing fancy, just a photo of her standard morning cup of chai (tea). She has always been an early riser. I know she doesn’t expect a reply. She just wants me to see something familiar, to be reminded of what home feels like.
(10/29/25 5:00pm)
We have reached that point in the semester yet again.
(11/22/25 6:08am)
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.
(10/27/25 7:00am)
It’s not that I’m ashamed of being Vietnamese — now at least. Growing up was a different story. I really don’t want to frame this piece like another “I grew up in a predominantly white area and I had no one that looked like me,” because that’s not real.
(11/10/25 10:00am)
While I like to consider myself an honest person, I’ve realized lately that I’m often dishonest with myself. If a near-stranger were to ask me about my fears or my childhood, I’d hardly hesitate before answering with the truth. I’ve never been one to fear saying too much. The trick, that I’ve noticed recently, is that I’ve left a backdoor open. I consider myself honest so long as I believe the truth of what I’m saying, but there remains a subtle caveat: my own thoughts are not always reflective of what I mean. Let me explain.
(11/08/25 9:28pm)
Fifteen minutes a day. That’s it. After that time elapses — whether it’s all at once or in smaller, two minute segments — a gray hourglass fills up my screen and white sand trickles through. No more scrolling for today.
(11/05/25 3:32am)
A statistic from the Department of Homeland Security estimates that “Two million illegal aliens have left the United States in less than 250 days, including an estimated 1.6 million who have voluntarily self-deported.”
(12/07/25 4:30am)
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.
