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.
There’s something so deeply human about making something yourself.
Last week, my roommate and I were discussing our favorite early 2000s rom-coms (with “How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days” at the top of the list, obviously), when she asked, “Hailey, are you against plastic surgery?”
When I was little, I always hoped I would get glasses. I used to believe that somehow my vision would diminish enough for me to wear them, that my braces could match the lenses perched on my nose. Only with glasses, I thought, could I truly see who I wanted to become. Perhaps then, I could see the future clearly.
Most days, you can find me in a child’s pose on a yoga mat either at the studio, next to my bed at home or on the hardwood stretching before my ballet class. It’s nothing extravagant, and often my stretching varies from a few quick minutes before class to an hour and half before bed.
Amid the usual onslaught of midterms and essays, it becomes startlingly easy to lose your grasp on time. The clock hands turn a little too fast for our liking, hours slip away to Brody study sessions and anxious Gradescope submissions, and days become measured not by sunset or sunrise but instead how many energy drinks you’ve downed.
When my girlfriend visited a couple weeks ago, I suddenly became self-conscious of how bland and messy my room looked. Despite it being week six, moving boxes still sat unopened and the decorations I brought lay on the floor untouched. For the record, I think of myself as a clean person.
Mr. Jesse Tetterton is a man of endless positivity and energy. From the moment I sat down with him, I could feel his joy, warmth and deep faith that he puts in every story he tells. Mr. Tetterton will see the good in everything: the lessons, the blessings, the humor. He has a way of lifting you up without even trying. It’s contagious.
When I joined A Place To Talk (APTT) at Hopkins during the fall of my sophomore year, I did so because mental health is one of the most sacred things in my universe, and because I wanted to learn skills that would help my community feel more heard and supported, combatting the loneliness and fear and imposter syndrome that can be so ubiquitous in college.
October 20 was the first Diwali I have experienced without my dadi. And it was one of many signs that made me question the extent of my faith.
You know when you close your eyes, travel back to that one moment in time, the one that feels so real you can smell it, hear it and feel its warmth in the air? For me, that moment has always been Christmas.
Looking around at our impromptu and day-late Diwali celebration, I began to understand how growing up doesn’t have to mean leaving home behind. It means learning how to rebuild it wherever you go, translating rituals instead of replacing them.
With college, I hoped to fix every disappointment I had in myself. No need to worry, reader: I won’t provide you with a long list of my weaknesses. Over the years, I have concluded that every single insecurity I have about myself, in some shape and form, connects to one major issue: my public speaking anxiety.
I ask myself this question nearly every day. Ironically, back in December, I had nearly convinced myself that I would get in. My favorite procrastination strategy was to pull up the graph for Hopkins on Scoir, see my star land in the green-ish area, and think, “Maybe I have some hope.”
While I like to consider myself an honest person, I’ve realized lately that I’m often dishonest with myself. If a near-stranger were to ask me about my fears or my childhood, I’d hardly hesitate before answering with the truth. I’ve never been one to fear saying too much.
When your family lives in a different time zone, you learn to measure Home not by distance, but by hours.
Fifteen minutes a day. That’s it. After that time elapses — whether it’s all at once or in smaller, two minute segments — a gray hourglass fills up my screen and white sand trickles through. No more scrolling for today.
A myriad of competing voices constantly tell the story of immigration in the United States. Statistics reduce immigrants to a set of numbers. Politicians turn them into talking points. Yet, for millions of immigrants, the struggle and difficulty of seeking asylum or moving to the U.S. is not a debate, but a lived reality — a choice made out of necessity and hope.
You’ve got a midterm today. And another tomorrow, and a paper due the next, maybe even two. Maybe even a presentation or a lab report to go with that. You start to think that maybe your professors came together to discuss the best way to suffocate you with the most oppressive workload their evil genius minds can come up with.
Like a horse with a broken leg, I have come to face my own death sentence: I am a poet uncomfortable unpacking emotion.
It’s not that I’m ashamed of being Vietnamese — now at least. Growing up was a different story. I really don’t want to frame this piece like another “I grew up in a predominantly white area and I had no one that looked like me,” because that’s not real.
