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My best friends and I met at a birthday party in sophomore year for a girl named Tina. Did we know Tina? Absolutely not. But there we were, huddled in a stranger’s basement, eating cheap cupcakes.
As much as I hoped it would be, my first semester of college was nothing like the made-for-TV movie I’d envisioned. I left my dorm door open like my mom told me to, but nobody stopped by. Students sat six feet apart in the dining hall, and, if you wanted to converse with a stranger, your only feasible solution was to shout. Even the Student Involvement Fair, which I’d imagined being the epicenter of student life, was online. Gone were the sweaty limbs pushing past each other in the gym, the carefully painted posters, the obnoxious upperclassmen desperate for names on their sign-up sheet. Instead, it was just me in pajama pants under my twin-XL covers, staring at a screen of Zoom links.
Four years ago, when I was gearing up for my freshman year of college, I thought I had everything under control. When I laid everything I needed for college out on my bed, I was not afraid. When my mom helped me pack two massive duffels with clothes, chargers, books, cosmetics, brushes, hairbands, hats, shoes and enough K-Cup Pods to pollute a small island, I was not afraid. When my dad carried everything out to the car — when he placed the duffels alongside pillows, plastic storage bins, my guitar — I was not afraid. I was not afraid when we got in the car, when we left Massachusetts, when we passed through Connecticut, then New York, then New Jersey, then Delaware. When we saw “Maryland Welcomes You,” I was not afraid, nor was I afraid when I saw, stamped in concrete across the front of the Beach, “Johns Hopkins University.”
Dear Freshman Samhi,
For all the theorems and postulates I’ve learned as a math major, my favorite hypothesis isn’t truly math-based. The branching-worlds theory posits that every decision we make splits our universe into separate parallel realities based on the potential outcomes. So sometimes, when it’s late at night and counting sheep just can’t force me to fall asleep, I think about the past — what would I do differently if I knew my future?
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.