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.
My lunchbox has gotten heavier since sixth grade. Alongside the sandwich, the chips and the juice box I now carry the heavy knowledge that every choice I make has roots and ripple effects: a history and an origin of production, a contribution to climate change and gender politics and fair labor practices and the ICE raids.
I just have to remind myself that calcification is a good thing — setting in stone a 20-year old me doesn’t mean that I can’t grow a new layer of “Shreya”-ness. Maybe “finishing” a layer of myself doesn’t mean that I’m “finished,” too. Maybe it just means it’s time for a new layer.
Maybe I should use that train voucher. But I kind of just want to play The Sims.
It scares me to think of the possibility of never properly celebrating the New Year again, as irrational as it may be. It feels like the older I get, the further I’m slipping from my heritage.
So I find that sometimes the “making” of life is the act of sitting in the dark and trusting that we are becoming something better as time moves on. The blender eventually went silent, leaving the kitchen in a ringing quiet. Then, the jars were lined up like soldiers, ready for their long winter wait.
Defining what we want requires thinking and soul-searching. It’s much harder and more uncomfortable than taking action to stay busy. Yet the consequence is regret — the kind that stems from knowing that our hopes have collected dust.
Somehow, the chaos of travel had shrunk into the small space between us, captured and organized by fifty two pieces of paper.
Here is my letter of cluttered thoughts about you, finally. Nanjing, thank you for being my first home, even if I spent years trying to convince myself you were only a dream.
She was so open and honest in our conversations, and it really takes a lot of courage to be able to do that. She’s been through a lot in her life, but that has not stopped her for a second from trying to be the most positive person she can and trying to share her love with others.
For as long as I can remember, home has looked like an Orioles cap, a goofy grin and the combination of a tightly clasped handshake with a heartfelt, all-enveloping hug.
I tend to throw myself in deep and give everything I have until I am completely spent. Then I take a short break to recover and do it all over again. I thought this was simply how I worked best.
I’m sure each of us carries certain moments that briefly pull us back and leave us with an unidentifiable ache.
Growing up, snow was something I only ever saw in movies: a white blanket covering rooftops, kids laughing as they tossed snowballs, families sipping hot chocolate after coming inside from the cold. It didn’t feel real to me. It felt like something that happened somewhere else to someone else. But all of that changed when I moved to Maryland.
This is what anhedonia looks like. Things happen but I don’t feel anything about them. I can study and retain information, cackle at TikToks and complete housekeeping tasks, but there’s no thrill, no satisfaction, no pull to keep going.
These days, it’s so hard to get lost in a story.
I thought it would all be better in Toronto, and in a sense it was. But this alternate life that I lived for four days didn’t feel the way I thought it would. Even though my best friend was by my side, I couldn’t help but feel like a trespasser in every space we visited.
Maybe navigating these awkward, unglamorous parts of becoming an adult is the real coming-of-age story after all.
We’re getting to the time of year when it's easy to be lost in the past. The same red bows are tied on lampposts in parks and outside dingy shopping centers. The same massive wreaths decorate even more massive malls. But with every passing year, the bows seem a little more at eye level and the wreaths are a little smaller.
All my life, there has been so much joy tangled up with Christmas. It only made sense that, when joy became difficult for me, Christmas was hit the hardest. It’s hard to forget the years I spent fighting to feel anything in December.
It wasn’t until third grade that I realized not every family was following the same traditions as mine was.
