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.
I stand at a whopping 5 feet. That means I’m on my tiptoes for about half of each day, I fit comfortably in coach airplane seats and I have managed to end up with a list of “‘things in friends’ apartments that are taller than I am.” As a short person, it only makes sense for me to surround myself with other physically small things.
Why do we even try? As a graduating senior, I’ve asked myself this question many times. Sleepless nights spent cramming for Chinese exams and finishing English papers have left me wondering why I bother to put so much effort into my work and whether this effort will be worth it in the end.
Reading old journal entries is difficult to begin. If you’re a person who has never been good at facing failure, like I am, it is dreadful. For the last couple of weeks, even the thought of rereading my old entries was enough to make me nervous. However, a few days ago, I radically turned off the switch in my head that was keeping me from doing this. I wished to reflect. I wanted to see my growth, the steps I had taken forward, if any.
I remember being 10 or 11 years old, sitting in front of my family’s desktop computer, staring at a picture of a girl. She was maybe 17, wearing a red varsity jacket with matching red Converse shoes and big gold hoops. Her hair was long, straight and blonde. She was sitting cross-legged on a baseball diamond, a bat casually resting on her shoulder.
Over winter break, my family’s activity and conversation revolved around a TV series called Blossoms Shanghai. Set in the ‘90s in Shanghai, the show interweaves stories of young Shanghainese fighting for their future in their own ways as the city undergoes tremendous economic changes.
When I was seven years old, I started to learn the piano. I had a wonderful (albeit strict) teacher, who taught me a lot about how to place my hands on the keys, read bass clef and approach three-octave scales. I graduated from intro exercises to sonatinas after a couple of years and started performing annually at my teacher’s recitals.
Like many other residents of Baltimore, I woke up on Tuesday morning to the news of the Francis Scott Key Bridge falling overnight when it was hit by a massive ship that was exiting the Port of Baltimore. It goes without saying that this was a devastating incident for the city, and our thoughts and prayers are especially with those who lost loved ones.
There is a strange peace to the sight of a beach town emptied. Arriving at Cape Cod at noon in late March, we were served a sight of pastel storefronts and wooden walkways that wove around one another in a tangle of overlapping outlooks and porches. My roommate and I were the only passengers on the large bus into town.
While sitting at dinner during my class trip this past intersession to Brazil, I ordered a drink with a small yellow note attached to it. It said in Portuguese, “não espere ter tudo pra aproveitar a vida, se você já tem a vida pra aproveitar tudo.” Don’t wait to have everything to enjoy life, if you already have life to enjoy everything.
While running the risk of taking the name of this column too literally, it's time we talk about the sounds of Baltimore. While it may be famous for its crabs, Old Bay and Natty Bohs — its glistening harbor, picturesque parks and breath-taking sunsets — the voices of the city hold a special place in my heart.
Working with cells requires knowledge, dexterity, time management and an absurd amount of confidence. For years, I watched researchers culture cells in biosafety cabinets. I took notes as they changed out cell media (the liquid “food” cultured cells float in), passaged cells from one flask to another and conducted experiments on the microscopic organisms.
When I was younger, I was a voracious reader — that’s the word my mum used to describe me. I read on the breakfast table, on the way to school, during break and lunch time, in between classes, during classes, at the dinner table and under the covers at night.
It has been seven weeks since this semester started, and I regret that I let the time pass me by, because I was so caught up in the resulting success that I forgot that progress also matters. Now, I’m scared: Will the weeks to come pass this fast, too? Have I made any memories I will look back to when I’m old in these past seven weeks?
I sat down with my friend in a sea of light and dark blue sweaters, flags, posters and hats. I’d never seen an audience so excited about a sports game, and I actually kind of loved it.
As a child, I craved the typical father-daughter relationship I saw with my friends and in movies: father-daughter dances, traditions and weekly routines.
At the end of 2023, I felt very burnt out with writing. I love writing, but I felt as though I had spent the fall semester writing excessively as I drafted, edited and often scrapped one short story after the next. To combat this, I decided it was time to seek out new inspiration. I often pull from my own life in my work (and I will continue to do so), but I wanted to work to make sure that I always had material, even if there was nothing in my personal life currently interesting to me as a writer.
It takes roughly 40 minutes to get from Homewood Campus to the medical campus. Those are 40 minutes spent crowded among strangers as you sit through rush hour traffic, but they’re also 40 minutes of freedom. 40 minutes where it would be incredibly inconvenient to pull a laptop out and start doing homework, so your only responsibility is to hang onto a railing and try not to fall.
There was something peaceful about being awake when no one else was. Time seemed vast, unconstrained and unspecified. The air thrummed with possibility, a feeling like everything was opening up and endings didn’t yet have to be conceivable things.
It’s my last semester of college now, and I don’t know how to feel, nor how to process any of my emotions about concluding my time here at Hopkins. I’m proud of how far I’ve come at this school, yet I’m also filled with an overwhelming feeling of panic when I think about having to graduate and move on to my next endeavors. There is so much that I still want to do and not enough time to accomplish it all.
Once you arrive at the 9 a.m. class you have to fight your inner demons to not skip again, you might look around the lecture hall and notice girls who look totally dolled up. They wear cute outfits, full faces of makeup and seem ready to kick start their day like the “girlbosses” seen on TikTok.
