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.
As much as my seasonally depressed tendencies would like me to fall into the slumber of the hibernators, I have been trying my hardest to show myself kindness this winter by forcing myself into the cold. I am doing my best not to put my life on pause just because the sun sets at 4:30, no matter how uncomfortable that may feel.
Just as people scrutinize the skies under which they were born to determine their star chart — to figure out why they are a caretaker, why their last relationship didn’t work out or why they can’t eat raw carrots but only stewed — one can extract an unfathomable amount of information based solely on what they wanted to be when they were kids. Or at least I think so.
There’s a Maya Angelou quote that’s always resonated with me. It goes, “people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” I find immense value in this quote, and I come back to it whenever I am unsure of what I am doing. As a chronic overthinker, I tend to overemphasize the smallest minutiae of life when, in reality, I should be looking at the big picture. We as humans make mistakes. But it’s not our mistakes that define us, rather, it’s how we treat the people around us and show up for those that we care about.
I recently got coffee with a professor and I was, of course, ranting about school, classes, friendships and family. With a voice thick with frustration, I said, "People act like they're entitled to your time and energy.” All she did was stare and smile. After a minute or two, she replied, quietly but firmly: "Maybe they are."
The bus ride to the med campus will never cease to amaze me. I love seeing the city shift with the seasons, passing through different neighborhoods and watching new parts of town fly by outside the window. There’s a word for this, and it’s on the tip of my tongue... ugh, what is it? In Spanish, the term would be recorriendo la ciudad.
A week before my family vacation to London, I carefully crafted a detailed itinerary on my Notes app down to the minute. Tuesday, Nov. 26 looked seamless on paper — a flawless flow from Heathrow to Paddington, from the British Museum to Buckingham Palace, and on to the London Eye and Big Ben. With my mother and two younger siblings in tow, I envisioned a trip where every destination was ticked off like clockwork. But as the saying goes, life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.
Wednesday, Nov. 6, 9:25 a.m. Leakin Hall, Peabody Institute. A studio that had once been filled with dynamic pulses of expectant energy had now been reduced to a foreboding hush. I caught myself avoiding the despondent stares of my peers as I walked apprehensively to my spot. Drafts of how I would one day illustrate where I was when “it” happened flooded my head. Within these floods, I attempted to search for a polished response to indicate my dissidence, but everything felt too forced. In the end, I had abandoned my grand gesture of outrage and took a seat among the mass of wary bodies.
Two weeks into starting college, I joined my first lab, a number of student clubs and enrolled in many pre-med classes. As a first generation student, it was safe to say I was led in a blind eye, never knowing which step was the right one. As long as I moved forward and kept on doing what I was doing, that was all that mattered.
To go back to my one-square-mile hometown for Thanksgiving is to buckle my younger self into the passenger seat of my mom’s red Kia and take her for a drive. At every stop sign in my old high school parking lot, there is a new wave of nauseating nostalgia.
It is 1994. She’s shopping at Pottery Barn with her boyfriend. He needs help furnishing his apartment — she has deemed him hopeless at all things decor, and besides, the furniture she picks today will soon be theirs, so she is careful. Meticulous. Precise.
When I was younger, my mother would always tell me that I would be remembered by my title: a great lawyer, a Hopkins graduate, an expert in international studies. I never realized why this idea always rubbed me the wrong way. I began to wonder: will my entire life be reduced to my work?
I want to let you in on a secret. Or, rather, a lesser known fact: The USS Constellation was originally built by a Stodder! Cue the double-check of my last name.
Exhaustion and boredom have been ornamenting my dialogues recently. I get asked how my day has been, and without even thinking, I respond with “Tiring.” I come home to my roommates and all of our conversations about school conclude with “I need a break so bad.” At this point of the semester, I don’t recall a single day where I did not overhear the statement “I can’t wait until the semester is over.”
We meet when we are small. I have a side part. You’re growing into your smile. Sometimes my mom drives you home from school and we do homework together on my bedroom floor: pre-algebra and five-paragraph essays. We talk about our middle school boyfriends that we acquired in tandem. You insist yours isn’t gay. In your room, the walls are lavender and lined with old softball trophies. We read the same books; we wear the same socks. You teach me how to bake. My job is to eat the extra chocolate chips. I braid your hair before I go home so you can wear it wavy to school tomorrow. I leave your house with capri leggings covered in dog hair and cookies in my backpack.
I was optimistic. I was ready to be in the nation's capital, not only to witness history unfold but to simultaneously analyze it within a historical context. I wanted this semester to be the semester — the one where I would finally explore all of D.C. (long overdue as a Northern Virginia native).
I’ll never forget the moment I saw “You’re Admitted” flash across my screen. I was sitting criss-cross applesauce on my bedroom floor, working on an AP European History project when I received an email notification saying there was an update to my portal. I set my phone up to capture my reaction. I tried to tame my excitement by muttering, “Who cares if I get into Johns Hopkins,” but inside, I craved the validation of an acceptance. As the screen lagged, my anxiety built and I covered my computer, shielding myself from the possibility of rejection. Finally, the page loaded, and there it was: a banner of acceptance. I laughed, clapped and immediately shared the news with my family.
“Love” is one of the most — if not the most — elusive emotions for a person to experience. Whether you’re an artist or a scholar, defining “love” is a nearly impossible task. Perhaps due to its abstractness or broad definition, conveying this emotion is an intricate skill that takes years to perfect.
Recently, I turned 20. While starting another decade of my life felt heavy in its own right, I had been anxiously anticipating this moment for so long that reaching the milestone brought an unexpected sense of calm clarity. For the first time, too, I didn’t shy away from celebrating myself. And for the first time, I didn’t wait for others to notice or wish me happy birthday first.
I haven’t yet met anyone on this campus who hasn’t been exhausted, at some point, by the time November rolls around. Still, every other day I trick myself into thinking that burnout is an isolated experience.
Sometimes, as I walk towards my dorm and look for my keys to open the door, I can feel his presence, creeping behind me as an overwhelming void of disapproval trails the steps I have taken. I can hear him grunt and scoff at me looking for the right key, as if he expects more.
