Hopkins is a diverse university where an incredible mix of cultures, academic interests and personalities coexist and thrive. Here is the section where you can publish your unique thoughts, ideas and perspectives on life at Hopkins and beyond.
College has started, and with it comes the never-ending cycle of assignments, quizzes and events that tug at me from every direction. On paper, this is what I wanted: a new chapter, a place to grow and a chance to shape my future.
As the semester progressed and the end of my tenure as Editor-in-Chief got closer, I expected to feel grief, dread and the desire to prolong my time at Hopkins. Instead, I’ve surprised myself by feeling the opposite and being at peace with the changes to come.
The News-Letter has taught me how to think critically, ask difficult questions, write carefully and listen to those who are often not listened to. It taught me how to hold those in power accountable and gave me a space to grow into my own voice — and, importantly, it helped others find their own.
I have meant to write for the Voices section for a very long time. It’s supposed to be the section where you can say anything and everything: no headaches over finding solid evidence or getting interviews with good quotes. And yet, I have never written a single piece until now — less than a month away from graduation.
It is warm again. Trees flower and shed like snow, dandelions sprout up in sidewalk cracks and, even though people say they are weeds, I am struck again by their undeniable beauty. Their white seeds twist into the wind. I make a wish.
I’m no longer a freshman. Fuck. How do I even begin to voice this dread? I’m haunted by the hollow pit of knowing that time actively slipped through my hands. It feels like I stepped into this new life only yesterday, yet already, I find myself called a second-year college student.
When the sky is pouring with a certain degree of violence, everything smells sharper. One explanation for this is logic: Other senses blur — the thunderous noise of a downpour muffles our hearing, water gathers in the way of vision, touch is overwhelmed beneath cold wet clothes; the sense of smell gains clarity.
They called me Mr. Riley. No matter what it sounds like, this isn’t the beginning of a movie where the “cool,” “hip” English teacher breaks through to the kids by sitting backward in a chair and rapping Shakespeare. The truth is closer than I’d like: This semester, I was an Ignite Fellow with Teach for America.
I was told it’s time to start saying my goodbyes in Baltimore. Every ounce of me is pleading not to.
I think we take the sun for granted. I mean, yes, we would most certainly be dead without it, and then, well, I wouldn’t even be writing this, but there is a certain warmth, separate from physical, that we receive from the sun. It is always there, always rising from the east to the west.
I speak, I smile, I laugh at the right times. In lectures, I raise my hand and make clever points. At social events, I hover by the snack table, nodding along, making small talk about professors, weekend plans, research. Nothing seems out of place. I’m functional. Friendly. Normal.
I used to hate silence. The silence of taxis, elevators and long lines unnerved and perplexed me. So did the eyes desperately darting downwards, plummeting into isolation as soon as someone stepped into an elevator. Short, cordial greetings met with even shorter goodbyes during taxi rides.
I’ve spent the last few months of college lounging in my roommate’s room. Her walls are full of tidbits, posters, postcards and two photo strips: one of us and the failed attempt right before. As I lazily lay in her bed and stare at her sitting cross-legged on her giant gray chair working on her laptop, I feel a sense of longing despite only being a few feet away.
I’ve always had this fear that, if I stop being productive, I’ll stop being valuable. But maybe it’s okay to fall down rabbit holes sometimes. Maybe “wasting” time isn’t always a waste if it brings you back to yourself (even if that self is clutching a copy of a TooFar Media book and questioning every literary instinct you’ve ever had).
To The News-Letter: I’ve given you four years, my whole college experience. In return, you’ve kept me laying out pages until 5 a.m. Your Gatehouse has given me stomach aches from what I’m convinced was black mold. You’ve turned me into a person who’s passionate about the difference between hyphens, en dashes and em dashes.
Some people move through life like it’s a test they didn’t study for. They try hard (harder than anyone sees) to be kind, to be useful, to be good. But beneath the polished surface, there’s a quiet ache. Not the kind that cries out, just a hum of sadness that settles in the bones.
There’s this quiet noise in my brain that never really leaves me. It’s not loud or aggressive, but it lingers, telling me to do something. Not in a productive way. More like a continuous tap on the shoulder reminding me that whatever I’m doing is probably not enough.
Back in preschool, our teacher wanted to fill the classroom walls, so she handed out these massive posters with questions about ourselves — our birthdays, favorite colors, favorite animals. For the ones about best friends and role models, I didn’t have to think twice. Every answer was the same: my mom.
There’s a peculiar exhaustion that clings to us these days. Not the kind cured by a nap or even a week off. It’s deeper — spiritual, maybe. Existential. The soul equivalent of endlessly refreshing your email and still waiting for something good.
Sometimes the universe stitches itself together in improbable ways that make normal people wonder: Is this one large, elaborate prank the world is pulling on me? Like you’re a baby again, but this time the square peg really does fit inside the circle hole. What to do then? What to make of this?
