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.
Forgiveness is a complicated thing. It is touted as the one path to inner peace. Bitter people are never happy; angry people are never at peace. Accepting this was hard for me, because I am angry, and I am bitter, and I don’t think I want to let go of that. I think my anger is what drives me, and some may say that is no way to live your life, but I think it has been the only way to live mine.
I usually don’t like to tell people I’m dating about my struggles with mental health for a couple of reasons. For one, it’s something that I’ve learned to cope with mostly on my own. With obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) and attention-deficit Disorder (ADD), difficulties mostly pop up on a brief, day-to-day basis, and I’ve adapted to handling small anxiety flare-ups and focus issues without too much help (though there is no downplaying the amount of help from family and friends I needed in order to get to this place of daily comfort with my disorders).
Sometimes it helps to set everything down and stare into space for a few minutes. If I’m at home, I like to open the window, sit on my bed and focus on something aesthetically pleasing in my room, like my succulent, Luna. I’d listen to something instrumental to slow down my heart rate and breathing: Studio Ghibli soundtracks, Hilary Hahn’s Bach recordings, Schumann and the “Peaceful Piano” playlist on Spotify are always helpful. Afterward, I always feel more grounded, alert and focused.
Humans, by nature, love to measure things. Throughout history, civilizations and individuals alike have consistently created systems of measurement: Ancient Maya charted the skies and compiled a calendar to measure time; physicists work to calculate the scale of our universe; English bishop John Wilkins invented the metric system in the 17th century.
Twist the burette, open the tap with your non-dominant hand, swirl the flask and voila! A quick and easy titration,” my chemistry lab professor said. He had been watching me do the lab and stepped up to teach me his titration technique. I observed with awe as he transformed a 10-second process into a one-second feat.
The moment my bus pulled away from the curb of Newark’s Penn Station — only late by a modest 12 minutes, impressively enough — I felt it. With only half a cup of coffee to assuage its relentless appetite, my stomach began to rumble in longing for the hometown staples I’d savored over Thanksgiving break.
In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I thought I would give you a story to be thankful for. A long time ago, two mortal enemies formed rival sororities for their high schools. They were each going to take 50 girls from their grades to form pledge classes. Who would recruit whom? Which would be more popular? Who would win?
I have to admit, this Thanksgiving was probably my favorite of all time. I talked to some family I hadn’t seen in years, had two Thanksgiving feasts, reconnected with former classmates at a Friendsgiving, and it was all topped off with a nice little $1.8 billion cherry from Michael Bloomberg.
First of all, I’d like to say that I hope you all had a lovely Thanksgiving and a relaxing break. Secondly, I would like to tell you about mine.
About three weeks ago I made a Facebook post which, since then, has uprooted my life. When I made the post I did it with the intention of giving my friend a voice who had remained quiet for so long. What has followed has taught me a lot about what happens when you finally speak out about abuse — especially when explicitly stating the perpetrator.
I was having a conversation with my grandmother about my job prospects as I walked home in the rain the other day. She asked me what I wanted to do after college, which, of course, is every senior’s favorite question right now. I told her about how I was considering a lot of paths, from data analysis to marketing to management. I wasn’t sure which one was right.
The first time I visited Malibu Creek State Park was the day before I moved out of California. I had just graduated high school, and, like most kids about to live away from home for the first time in their lives, I was terrified. I spent that summer holed up in my room, watching quite a lot of television and trying to soak up as much time with my family as possible.
I both love and hate the idea of coping with mental illness through artistic expression. On the one hand, it’s a great way to “pass” an emotional imprint of something negative out of you and turn it into something you’re proud of. A sort of metaphysical turd, if you will.
It’s been a little over two months since I left my home in New Jersey. This period of time has been filled with long nights of studying; meals at the FFC (Fresh Food Cafe); a fear of getting hand, foot and mouth disease; and so much more. But, having been so caught up in my daily tasks, I haven’t had the time to reflect. So that’s what I’m taking a moment to do now.
Growing up, my family visited China twice a year. If you have ever turned on a television in China, then you’re most likely familiar with the skin care commercials: Glowing women with pearl-like complexions, basking in the whitening magic of Olay.
It’s strange to date seriously in college. To emotionally commit yourself to another person — or just to spend so much of your time with them — seems risky, almost inadvisable in such a formative moment in your life. It follows, then, that it’s even stranger to break up.
It is said that familiarity breeds contempt. Eating, studying, hanging out and maybe even sleeping with the same people makes you pretty familiar, I would say. And regardless of the fact that you may only have known them for a couple of months, constant close quarters may mean that they have granted themselves explicit permission to comment and advise you — without being prompted — on matters ranging from the trivial to the all-too personal.
In the weeks leading up to the 2018 midterm elections, Hopkins has been surprisingly full of “get out the vote” energy. But do the courts and legislatures care as much about our vote as we do? In the midst of the midterms, I look at how America’s voter policies support — or suppress — the youngest voters.
When I was young, I wanted to be a “dump truck man.” Maybe my five-year-old brain wasn’t taking the negatives of the job into account, but the appeals are obvious. First, I wouldn’t have to go to school anymore, that would be pretty sick. Adults always say they want to travel more, and on the truck I’d be traveling all day long! And do you realize how fun it would be to ride on the back of the truck? It’s like you’re getting paid to ride a roller coaster; a very stinky roller coaster. I went to the dump with my dad sometimes, so I had all the qualifications. I was ready to start immediately.
Wake up, workout. Take your weight and a photo for your app, Diet Diary, everyday. To make sure you’re losing weight. Workout as much as you can. Start with P90X, not enough. Get into POP Pilates. Everyday, do at least a two-hour workout.
