Stare at the gym and feast your eyes on the color. Realize that this is your dream, not a candy store anymore.
There’s nothing wrong with traveling to other countries, nor am I disparaging those who do. But when was the last time you did a road trip through the American interior? When was the last time you watched the landscape melt into a blur past your fingertips as you merged onto I-70?
Through this very rough and informal guide, I hope to open a new world to you as well, just like how a jabby and witty coffee-addicted English teacher did for me.
With races all around the world, ever-changing rules and regulations, up-and-coming talents beside returning veterans and more recently a box office hit, F1 is more popular than ever. But for those on the outside, it can seem daunting to get into. Let’s break it down!
Museums allow you to weave the past with the present: they might correct you or you might take what has been preserved and somehow twist it so it fits into your own life. But that isn’t to say that if you don’t, you’re going to a museum incorrectly.
I have never experienced unadulterated joy like my first listen to Sam “King of Soul” Cooke’s 1963 epic, his album Live at the Harlem Square Club. Hidden beneath a steadily strumming upright bassline and lightly up-tempo drum swing, Cooke’s masterful crowd work combines with a raucous, enraptured audience to create one of the most magical 36-minute sets I’ve ever heard.
I want to spend my New Year’s in Boise, Idaho, watching a giant potato drop. At the start of every year, a 17-foot-long spud made of foam and fiberglass — over 17,000 pounds of Idaho pride — makes its way down from the sky in our city’s quirky twist on the Times Square Ball Drop.
On most nights, I’ll probably be returning from yet another 1 a.m. Brody study session, my headphones in, listening to whatever fits the vibe. Recently, I’ve been listening to Daniel Caesar, because he released a new album, Son of Spergy, on Oct. 24. Caesar’s been quiet for so long that just seeing his name on a new album feels unreal.
Over the summer of 2025, I decided to brave the hundred-degree heat of my hometown near Las Vegas (and its surrounding desert) to return to a hobby that, although dormant for years, has been vastly important over the course of my life: hiking.
It’s common knowledge that the job of Hopkins students is to complain about every exam and administrative decision ever made. I’ve found myself starting to participate in this culture as well. “Why was the orgo exam harder, even with the increased grade boundary? Why are my portions at Nolan’s so much smaller this year?”
In 2026, I’m going to stop believing I owe anyone anything beyond my own peace. I want to stop doing things out of obligation or guilt and start making space for what truly aligns with my energy. I’m learning that happiness isn’t something others can give you — it’s something you create for yourself.
Most people dream of sunlit beaches or bustling cities for their next adventure, but I want to go where TikTok only shows the most terrifying whiplash: the infamous Drake Passage Cruise to Antarctica. The Drake Passage connects the Pacific, Atlantic and Southern Ocean.
IKEA. Meatballs. ABBA. That is usually what you think of when Sweden is mentioned. Honestly, I did too at first, with the bright yellow and blue signs, tiny pencils to write record aisle numbers and a food court of Swedish meatballs as a reward after getting lost in endless showrooms.
I have a horrible habit of really only ever writing about writing. Every Voices piece that I write somehow incorporates some part of my love for literature, and my characteristic diction bleeds into every aspect of my life.
I want to theorize that no one actually likes flowers. People swoon over the lovable stage: a beautiful bouquet bloom — a proud, delicate beauty perched in front of them, pleasing their senses. To them, a bursting bouquet represents specialty, as if to say, yes, you deserve the beauty that surrounds you now.
I don’t remember when exactly I wanted to learn how to make food, but I do remember why (other than the fact that I thought it was a useful skill and more economical). I liked eating tasty food, so trying to make it was the natural progression in my mind. My journey began with cooking.
Maybe from the 4,000 photos in my “Sky” photo album or the fact that I have always enjoyed researching deep-sky objects, you’d think that I am a sky enthusiast. However, I did not realize how much joy I find in the objects in the sky until this summer.
I’d been begging for a Build-a-Bear for years. Every time I visited the mall, I couldn’t help but notice how their storefronts were just so colorful, and the bears oh-so-plentiful. But BABs were expensive (pretty similar to today’s prices, but with less inflation). Imagine my surprise when one day, my mom took me to the BAB store.
My IB Arts teacher introduced me to the idea of the gratitude journal. She asked students in our class to identify three things we felt thankful for in our lives. Soon, students began competing to see who could be more inventive with their gratitude after realizing that even the most mundane objects could be worthy of a thank-you note.
Cooking is a friend that doesn’t hold your hand. It leaves you to figure things out on your own: mischievous, unforgiving and always watching. If you’re using a recipe, it can act like an unhelpful supervisor, setting expectations without ever checking in.
