Although Geese, one of Brooklyn's most promising indie rock bands, never exactly answers these questions for us (its music normally raises more questions than any human being could ever hope to answer), the group still manages to reach that very same part of the human soul in its newest album, Getting Killed.

The band, from the very beginning, was always a loud, unforgiving product of our contemporary times. Its first studio album, Projector, has driving dance rhythms and intelligent yet chaotic instrumentals that caused the band of high school friends to receive widespread acclaim and begin to establish itself within post-punk circles online. Geese only continued to deliver on its potential with 3D Country, an album with an unexpectedly heavy dose of Southern, country and blues influences, given the band's New York origins.

One may expect that a band is supposed to eventually find its sound: It grows into a particular style and carves out a niche for itself as band members get older and more entrenched in their ways. However, with 3D Country and its follow-up deluxe edition, 4D Country, Geese only seemed to grow even more chaotic and unpredictable in its sound as it started earning its stripes in the rock scene.

The transition between 3D and Getting Killed was characterized by the departure of founding guitarist Foster Hudson (if I had a nickel... maybe two...), an absolutely breathtaking cover of Justin Bieber's hit single "Baby" and the release of a heart-wrenching solo album, Heavy Metal, from lead singer Cameron Winter. After such a tumultuous period of growth, if we were to expect any single thing from Geese, we would inevitably be proven incorrect. In signature Geese style, the now-quartet managed to find new ways to give people, music and life the biggest middle finger you've ever seen on Getting Killed.

The album's opener, "Trinidad," is about as smooth as a transition into the album as a plane crash into the Pacific. As listeners, we are forced to sit through the full brunt of an auditory airbag to the face and have our lifeless, comatose body dragged into an apocalyptic, industrial soundscape. With hi-hat reminiscent of steam valves and glitched out, distorted guitar screeches indistinguishable from Winter's impression of the souls of the damned, "Trinidad" is a deeply destructive, personal Hell of a song. The narrator seems to have nothing left to lose in life, including anything to place his anger on, painting a listless and vengeful picture of dead daughters, "burning lead" and a people "force-fed or else baked into bread." The song is perfect at deconstructing its listeners, leaving at least me feeling like nothing but a detached heap of atoms discarded into empty space. If a good album opener is like a meat tenderizer, opening up the listener's heart for the experience that is yet to come, then "Trinidad' is one powered strictly by nuclear fusion and hydrogen bombs.

One of the most poignant decisions on the album comes immediately after the opener, with "Cobra" suddenly giving way to a heartfelt yet acutely bitter, pleading ballad. Even in isolation, the song is an incredible exploration of the conflicts of love, with Winter comparing a speaker resisting romantic temptations to a cobra refusing to be hypnotized by a pungi. But, when contrasted with "Trinidad," "Cobra" feels like love as absinthe: a beautiful, addictive experience that feels like it's going to kill you on the way down.

If Geese was able to "see [itself] in" other people on 3D Country, then it has never been more alone than on Getting Killed. In an age where 80% of artists on one of the world's biggest platforms garner fewer than 50 monthly listeners, Winter's cries on the album's title track begin to make a lot more sense. What does it even mean to be together when everybody's "trying to talk over everybody in the world"? How can we cope with a world where we don't feel allowed to be sad because our tears just go and rain on some "sadder bastard"'s leaking roof? Despite being one of the fastest songs on the album, driven by a tribal chorus, the album's title track is one of desperation and fruitless search for meaning. It is the frantic convulsion of an absurdist living under Instagram capitalism that precedes the collapse into a sad heap of nothing.

One of the standout highlights of Getting Killed remains Winter's unceasingly layered, cerebral songwriting paired with his uncanny ability to modulate and contort his voice into all the right esoteric drill bits to unlock all the emotions that we bolt behind the mind's security screws. My favorite example of Winter's command of emotion comes from "Au Pays du Cocaine," where he sings "you can be free, you can be free and still come home" in a Will Toledo-esque lilt. That "still" stands out in my mind as a golden brick in a Great Wall of poetry - implying that, in a way, being "home" chains us to the comfortable and the known. What does it mean to be free and belong? How can we ever do both?

After the final beats of "Long Island City Here I Come" left my stream of experience for the first time, I literally took off my headphones, put on a hoodie and went on a 2 a.m. walk because I just didn't know what to do with myself. Getting Killed is an album that will be remembered for its chaotic timelessness. Its rhythms, its melodies, its messages are all so complex that they would take lifetimes to dissect, but somehow, all it takes is 45 minutes to experience them in their entirety. I can only write so much about the album. The only way to truly experience it is to just go and listen to it.

Wyman Quad, stretching in front of Shriver Hall, was packed with booths and buzzing with students as long lines formed for an array of free giveaways, ranging from T-shirts to the highly coveted LOTQ mugs. Despite the cold, the atmosphere remained lively as students weaved through the quad, treats in hand.

"[My favorite part is] definitely the mug," freshman Adelyn Lovejoy said. "I came here for the mug, and everything else is just a plus."

Among the many displays was the Student Health and Well-Being table, manned by members of the Preventive Education and Empowerment for Peers (PEEPS) and the gender-based violence prevention team. The group handed out bingo cards that encouraged students to visit different booths around the quad. Students who completed their cards and submitted a photo were entered into a raffle for a seasonal effective disorder lamp.

Glow-in-the-dark condoms and stickers were also available at the booth, drawing both curiosity and laughter from passersby. On the anonymous social media platform Sidechat, many students also expressed amusement and appreciation for the unconventional giveaways.

From cupcakes to light-up headbands, each booth offered something unique, as LOTQ also offered plentiful stations for photo-opportunities and miscellaneous food items such as hot chocolate. However, as students ventured from booth to booth, many found the layout difficult to navigate, citing unclear organization and crowding near the most popular tables.

"[The HOP] organized it really well [but] I think having a layout for students so they know what they're getting into and not just wandering aimlessly [could be an improvement]," Lovejoy said.

One of the night's most unexpected attractions was when an artificial "tree" suddenly stood up, revealing a pair of feet. After initially responding with kazoo noises, The News-Letter learned that the person inside the costume was Resource Sharing Library Specialist Holly Tominack.

Tominack had worked in public libraries for 23 years before transitioning to academic libraries and beginning her work at the University. Although the Hopkins Sheridan Libraries typically host a table at LOTQ, they were unable to do so this year. Instead, Tominack decided to create her own costume and spread joy independently.

"The idea for the tree was just to make mischief in public events," she said. "I can kind of pass for an actual inanimate object. When I stand up, it is a surprise and a delight."

Sophomore Mihir Sharma also shared his thoughts on the event in an interview with The News-Letter. Sharma noted areas for improvement, such as crowd control and the emphasis on staff-led distribution of free goodies. Despite this, he explained why he was eager to join the celebrations again this year.

"Maybe [we should] let students handle the event themselves," he said. "I was there last year, and the fireworks were the best part [...] all the sweet treats and cupcakes were fun and [enjoyable with others]."

The event also consisted of musical performances and entertainment spectacles by various Hopkins student organizations. Hopkins acapella groups such as Musical Dynasty took part in showcasing their talents on the steps in front of Shriver as the audience slowly grew. The celebration also featured the Johns Hopkins Entertainers Club, a flow arts organization that utilizes unique performative skills such as fire spinning.

Following the performances, President Ronald Daniels addressed the crowd after students transitioned to Decker Quad. In his address, Daniels reflected on the semester and the importance of shared traditions at the University. The night concluded with a fireworks show that lit up the sky, drawing cheers from students gathered across campus.

As the final sparks faded and students began to disperse, LOTQ ended as a celebration and a moment of collective pause, a respite from finals season and a reminder of campus community.

A note from the News & Features Team: As the next semester approaches, the News & Features team would like to extend a warm thank you to everyone who read our pieces, wrote for our section and allowed us to pester you for interviews! Without your hard work and readership, we would not have the resources to cover exciting events. Have a wonderful new year!

The office siren aesthetic, popularized by TikTok creators and fashion influencers, blends corporate power dressing with femme fatale energy. Think about silky blouses, sharp eyeliner and the aura of a woman who's always a little too good for her 9-to-5 job. But behind the smoky eyes and monochrome outfits lies a deeper cultural question: Why are so many young women romanticizing the workspace, especially when the workplace itself has historically been hostile or inaccessible to them?

Of course, I, too, have fallen victim to the endless scrolls on Pinterest (one of my Halloween costumes this year was in fact an "office siren," so let me not be a hypocrite). I would be lying if I said that I didn't see the appeal of the aesthetic. It's clean, it's chic, it's adult (or at least the version of adulthood that most of us imagined when we were 12 and pretending to type on our mom's laptop). It promises control in a world where most young people feel like they have very little. And frankly, who doesn't want to feel like the main character of their own workplace drama?

But that's the irony. The office siren isn't a celebration of actually being in the workforce, but a fantasy built at a time when many young people are terrified of entering it. Currently, it's undeniable that job markets are unstable, wages aren't keeping up with inflation, burnout is expected and the corporate ladder is a corporate treadmill. The aesthetic gives all the power, without requiring any of the lived experience that usually strips that power away.

In simple terms, it's escapism dressed in a blazer.

Young women have always been asked to perform adulthood before actually arriving at it. In the '90s, it was the "girlboss" prototype: a woman with a latte conquering male-dominated spaces with confidence in a blowout. Later, it was "that girl," whose life consisted entirely of green juice and 5 a.m. Pilates. The office siren is simply the next stage of this lineage as a version of femininity that claims empowerment while still being shaped by the male gaze.

There is also something deeply ironic about romanticizing the corporate world at a time when so many people are pushing for alternatives. While Generation Z has been known for rejecting traditional career culture, the generation is idolizing an aesthetic rooted in the very structures that we wish to escape. Rather than fully opposing the suffocating nature of corporate culture, this trend has rebranded it as stylish and aspirational, allowing our generation to engage with the corporate world without fully committing to its values. This contradiction reveals the following: young people crave both autonomy and stability.

And that is the crux of how and why the office siren aesthetic has taken hold. She is the version of adulthood that seems almost impossible to achieve right now. As for whether the aesthetic is harmless fun or something more insidious, we must realize that the answer is both.

On one hand, fashion has always been a way for women to reinvent themselves. If a smoky eye makes someone feel unstoppable walking to class, who am I to judge? But on the other hand, we must be cautious of any trend that glamorizes a space without acknowledging its consequences. The workplace is not inherently empowering just because we add a red lip. It becomes empowering when its structures are able to support the people inside it.

So yes, dress like an office siren if it makes you feel good. I certainly will. But we must not confuse fantasy with the truth. Power doesn't necessarily come from a pencil skirt but from demanding a world where women don't have to rely on aesthetics to feel strong.

Kaylee Nguyen is a sophomore from Pensacola, Fla. majoring in Medicine, Science and the Humanities and Writing Seminars. She is a News & Features Editor for The News-Letter.

Rajabi is a second-year Iranian graduate student in the Krieger School of Arts and Sciences in the Department of the History of Art studying Islamic art and architecture. In mid-August, upon Rajabi and his wife's return to the United States from a visit to Rajabi's brother in Toronto, the pair's visas were canceled on site, leaving them stranded in Canada. Subsequent denials of visa reapplications followed President Trump's travel ban, which prevented individuals from 39 countries, including Iranian nationals, like Rajabi, from entering the United States. In his open letter on his visa cancellation, Rajabi confirmed an exception to the rule in Section 4 of the June 4 Presidential Proclamations because the two were already in the United States before the proclamation was passed.

"My visa application was denied under the current travel ban, even though we should be exempt, as we were already in the United States with valid visas on the proclamation's effective date," Rajabi wrote.

According to Rajabi's open letter, he had asked the University to facilitate connecting him to Maryland Senator Chris Van Hollen, to no avail. Pending his appeal, Rajabi also proposed a work-study exchange with the University of Toronto, to which the University stated it was unable to resume his salary while he was not in the United States.

"[The University] instructed me to contact the senator myself, offering to step in only if the issue remained unresolved after six months," according to Rajabi's open letter address.

Four months later, the pair remain in Canada awaiting a change in their status, contemplating returning to Iran. To offset the gravity of significant financial expenses, such as Rajabi's inability to receive a salary, work in the United States or Canada without a valid visa and pay monthly rent for his and his wife's Baltimore flat, Rajabi had sought assistance from the University's Office of International Services, which declined to provide monetary support for legal representations. In an official statement, a representative stated that the University can not alter visa cancellations due to the dependency on federal policies.

Lauren Cook, a fourth-year Art History graduate student and TRU-UE affiliate, attended the demonstration and shared her frustration with the University's inaction in an interview with The News-Letter.

"Ehsan is a colleague and friend of mine. What's happened here has been a real travesty. I'm very disappointed in the University - especially after last spring, where it made such a strong commitment to help international workers," Cook stated.

In an interview with The News-Letter, retired French professor Claude Guillemard agreed with Cook, pushing the University to help Rajabi's situation.

"[It is] not that Canada is a bad place to be stuck in. Absolutely not. But when the visas of my students - our students - got canceled, we all knew it was illegal, unjust and unacceptable… I expected my institution to fight, and I'm so horrified that they don't when they have the power to do so, when they have the money to do so," said Guillemard.

In an interview with The News-Letter, sophomore Taiyo Tagami shared how, if thrown into a similar situation, he would feel devastated.

"If you're coming here to do research, have a job, and you have everything planned - especially as an international coming all the way to the US - that doesn't just mess with your life. [A visa cancellation] is going to ripple into your future; the stress, all the relations you need to maintain, all the opportunities you miss out on," said Tagami.

According to TRU-UE's written statement on Rajabi's visa cancellation, the noise demonstration's sole purpose was to raise awareness of Rajabi's situation and call for the University to provide funding and legal representation for Rajabi's legal proceedings.

Some students had expressed concerns over the noise disturbance during finals week. However, Cook shared that the demonstration was intentionally planned to take place during reading week.

"Even though a lot of us are studying for finals ourselves, in order for protests to be effective, they have to be disruptive, in a sense. And that's why we thought a noise demo during finals week would be an effective way to let Hopkins know that we haven't forgotten about Ehsan," explained Cook.

Sophomore Darena Ho is among many students who do not feel negatively impacted by campus demonstrations.

"I don't really see them that often - and honestly, they haven't impacted my life. [When] I go to class and I see one, I just walk past; no one is harassing me or anything," says Ho.

Guillemard approaches demonstrations like this one with a hint of optimism, regardless of any concrete outcome.

"I think [demonstrations are] a way to spread the word. If one more person today knows about [Ehsan's] case and is a little less trusting towards Hopkins, I think it's good, because it's really about trust here. Hopkins does not protect its own students when it's not convenient. And it's good for people to know that. I have the personal justification for any good demonstration when it's, to me, on the right side of history. It's at least for the future generations. Because when they look back and wonder what Hopkins, the Hopkins community, did, well, they stood up," said Guillemard.

Wicked: For Good continues the story of Wicked, which is a spin on The Wonderful Wizard of Oz where Elphaba, better known as the Wicked Witch of the West, is discriminated against for her green skin. She eventually finds companionship in a cast of characters at Shiz University, most notably G(a)linda, who later becomes Oz's Good Witch. After learning some devastating truths about her idol, the Wizard, Elphaba vows to fight against him in defense of the animals of Oz. The sequel to the first film, better recognized as Act 2 of the musical, explores political upheaval and tumultuous relationship dynamics introduced in the first film, especially centering on the friendship between Elphaba and Glinda.

Longtime fans of the stage show are unlikely to be surprised by the more tepid reception the sequel has endured thus far: Wicked has an infamously weaker second act, with many of its iconic tunes and story beats taking place during Act 1. The film, although over twice the length, remains faithful to its source material for better or for worse.

Inevitably, many of the story's weaknesses carry from stage to screen. While many of the ways the plot ties into that of The Wizard of Oz are lovable winks to the audience, the attempt to shove in the fundamentally incompatible plot unnecessarily stifles the chance for Wicked's original story to become fully fleshed out: the Wicked Witch of the East plotline in particular has never felt very organic. The sequel ramps up the political and darker elements touched upon in the first film, pushing the fascistic undertones of the Ozian government and the commentary on propaganda to the forefront without grappling fully with the ideas spotlighted. By the second time Fiyero waves around a gun to assist a dramatic escape, the cracks in the suspension of disbelief begin to appear.

If I can offer any defense, the film does succeed at stating the essence of its thesis statement: that propaganda, public opinion and the squabbles of those in power hold greater sway than the truth alone. Do not be fooled by the broomstick: for all her magic, Elphaba wields very little meaningful ability to enact the changes she strives for, especially in comparison to a certain someone with no magic at all. While Chu does sweeten the ending, he retains the ultimate tragedy of Wicked, and most importantly, the promise that at the end of it all, there is hope that the characters won't "let good be just a word."

The movie's small changes do improve the shift in focus from the first act's college shenanigans to more complex relationships and political intrigue. For one, Elphaba is actually seen trying to help the animals that drive her motivation throughout, including with a new song that ironically opines "There's no place like home." The focus on the love triangle is also mercifully reduced from Broadway, although I must express disappointment that its strongest moment - a reprise of "I'm not that Girl" transitioning directly into "As long as you're mine" - is sadly discarded in the film.

The "Wonderful" sequence must be especially commended: The movie presents a far more convincing version of Elphaba's brief initial temptation to put her cause to rest, and likewise through a cleverly edited sequence juxtaposing Glinda's and Elphaba's situations makes her reaffirmation much more compelling. This also marks one of the few times the movie bursts with color; for a film with such strong ties to perhaps the most famously technicolor cinematic achievement, most of Wicked: For Good looks washed out and dull, watering down the impressive achievements in practical effects and costuming behind the scenes.

The movie's slower pacing also introduces tonal whiplash that the audience did not have time to grapple with in the stage show's breakneck pacing, with the few comedic sequences feeling misplaced with the generally dour mood.

Luckily for the movie, the key emotional beats are anchored by the film's best songs (which were always a saving grace for a musical). "No Good Deed" explodes with desperation, a booming orchestra chasing to keep up with Cynthia Erivo's powerful vocal showcase. Ariana Grande does an excellent job with the complex characterization of "Thank Goodness," although the cleverly incorporated depth of emotion is reduced when the later ballad "Girl in the Bubble" clunkily renders the subtext overt. Fortunately, the emotional climax "For Good" is about as good as a farewell duet gets in musical theater: say what you will about Grande and Erivo's endlessly memetic press tour, but pink does go well with green.

Wicked: For Good is far from perfect, and I would wager many will hold the first part much closer to their hearts. Nonetheless, it has a place as a suitably expanded and bombastic character-driven second half culminating in what is, at its core, a tragedy about a society unwilling to accept those that are different. It is made with clear heart and love for the story that shines through despite its stumbles, and it is worth the watch for longtime fans and those seeking to complete the first film's journey.

And yes, I would be lying if I said I didn't smile when I saw the final shot.

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. You bake the same cookies, and then suddenly a research project on salmonella makes you no longer want to lick the batter out of the bowl. While wading through homework, I've been reflecting on the holidays, which used to be documented by where I performed and when, but can now be tallied by which Christmas movies I watch, which treats I decide to enjoy and which cities I want to visit.

I started ballet when I was three or four. I was never flexible or invested enough to end up doing much more than taking classes and performing as a background character now and then. Still, it was a musical way to get my abundant wiggles out, so I kept at it throughout high school. When I was in second grade, I was cast as a mushroom in the Washington Ballet's Nutcracker. This meant that for three months, I spent my weekends in windowless dance studios drilling my two minutes of stage time. I learned those two minutes so well that I could to this day perform it flawlessly, with or without the music. I was always a little sad to miss, or make an early leave from, yet another fall birthday party or sleepover, but the fun of putting on a show and my excitement for when I'd be under those stage lights in a pretty costume, smiling out at the formless audience, made it all worth it.

I started performing more frequently as elementary school became middle school, then high school. I played different parts in the Nutcracker, including at one point, a giant frog. I sang at Christmas masses and in choral winter concerts. I sacrificed a lot of social experiences, but performing was always exhilarating enough for me to consider myself the lucky one.

I don't have any Christmas performances this year. I haven't had any Christmas performances since going to college. Now the time I used to spend in dressing rooms under concert halls and opera houses is spent watching the Hallmark Channel and visiting Christmas Markets with my friends while visions of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree dance in my head.

My friend and I spent this entire semester, like last fall, discussing the super awesome, unbelievably cheap trip to New York City we were going to have once they put the big tree up. We both followed that tree as it made its journey across the country on Instagram. We didn't actually end up planning our trip beyond sending each other reels of holiday markets and skating with the words "this will be us," so we're coming to terms with the fact that we'll be staying close to Baltimore again after all. We'll watch all the best Christmas movies and drink hot chocolate and bake Christmas snacks and go see Santa come to Fells Point on a Tugboat and watch the Washington Monument get lit up and venture into DC for the DuPont Circle Holiday Market or Old Towne Alexandria's Holiday Market - or we'll, more likely, get to do a small combination of a very tiny fraction of these plans that require no planning ahead of time.

When I go home, I'll make the rounds with all my hometown friends and our traditions. I'll go ice skating with my oldest friend at the very rink we frequented as eight-year-olds. I'll end up at my high school's Christmas celebration because my closest high school friend's mother is making her go, and she doesn't want to suffer alone. I'll go to my old choir's winter concert and watch the class who have never aged past sophomores in my eyes as the leaders of the group. I'll probably find myself in the audience of that same Nutcracker show whose choreography I could perform in my sleep. I'll relive past Christmases with no less enthusiasm for Christmas present. Over the years, whether I've spent my Christmas as a mushroom or dreaming of being a New Yorker for a day, the bows outside the shopping center have never ceased to make me smile.

Amelia Taylor is a sophomore from Potomac, Md. studying Writing Seminars and Voice Performance. In her column, she draws insights from seemingly random experiences that present themselves in the course of ordinary life.

There are few things so contagious as Christmas in Manila. The streets come alive with spiraling lights and glowing parols. Mariah Carey reigns in every mall and, out from each corner of every barangay spills the sound of belting karaoke and sappy ballads. With everyone home for the holidays, the usual city crowds multiply. People pour out onto the church steps at mass, some so far away as to only hear the sound of the sermon from outdoor speakers, keeping the heat at bay with abaniko and pamaypay fans. The city stays awake for Noche Buena, with whole pigs skewered on the table for lechon, pancit and lengua and platters of baked kakanin ready for grazing throughout the night. Temperature aside, the Philippines warms even more at Christmastime.

Christmas at home was a childhood highlight. My Lolo would string the stairs up with tinsel, and the papier-mache snow man I'd made as a child would somehow find its way back onto a table. A dancing life-sized Santa Claus (long story) would wiggle in a corner beside a Christmas tree laden with ornaments and flickering with rave-like strobe lights. My mom would take me around my favorite bookstores until we'd meet my Lolo at the only Cinnabon to catch one of the last English movies before the Metro Manila Film Festival took over, showing exclusively Filipino films at all cinemas from Christmas through to the new year. At various lunches and dinners in the days to follow, we'd see more family than I remembered having.

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. Though this was at a time when joy was difficult all year round, Christmas festivities introduced a new level of dread and guilt. I teetered off the edge of joy and into a quickfire fear. A fear that I would fail to feel joy enough, that I would fail those around me by not rising to the level of happiness meant for the occasion.

With work and time, this fear has loosened its grip. I'm thankful to be able to say that I found my joy again - for Christmas, and for life. But, remembering this dread as a passing echo in this grim late November, I'm reminded of how strong emotions can often occupy neighboring spaces. A step too far in wanting to feel joy and I pushed myself into despair. A step too far and care morphed into fear.

With senior year upon me, there has lurked this sense of finality. Fall's end has meant the end of a college fall. With every shift in color on campus trees, I'm reminded that this is the last time I'll ever see each particular tree in these specific shades. Recounting this fearful rumination to a friend, I was met by the surprising remark that maybe seeing blazing autumnal leaves was beautiful because it meant that I'd see more beautiful trees in the future. Each tree was a proof of concept, seeing one now shouldn't ignite the fear that I'd never have this particular moment again, but instead serve as evidence that more was to come. "Like how every end," my poetic friend said, "is also a beginning."

I try so hard to be present. I try so hard to be a good student, a good friend, a good daughter that sometimes I worry that I cultivate my care from fear. Like with Christmas, when I wanted so badly to care for the thing I loved the most - even when I couldn't - that I put myself in a constant fear of doing wrong by it.

In philosophy the other day, we talked about the paradox of hedonism: how pleasure-seekers, ironically, push themselves further away from a pleasurable life by making choices that will result in long-term dissatisfaction. We also touched on the paradox of utilitarianism, how defining your morality by trying to minimize the suffering caused by your actions becomes unachievable if the expectation is to run moral calculus for every little thing. In both paradoxes, too much of one thing shoots it in the foot. To achieve that Goldilocks level of "just right," rules must be slackened.

My mistake with Christmas, when I was at my darkest, was to soften it into a one-dimensional ideal. I couldn't feel sad, otherwise I'd fail. But that meant that I'd started seeking joy from a place of fear. A far, wrestled cry from the joy I'd had to begin with. Re-learning my joy meant learning to be okay with having some sad Christmases. In that same way, wanting to be a good person for fear of being a bad person has to be intrinsically different from wanting to be a good person for the joy of it. Wanting to savor every moment of my senior year before it's over must be different from embracing it.

I think too often in terms of losses and finalities, ideals and achievement, but as the weather gets colder, I'm trying to get closer to that early instinct to be driven by joy, not fear. This Christmas, I won't be home. My Lolo and Lola have passed on. Just months ago, their house was locked up for sale. I won't hear Tagalog into the new year. But instead of running from the uncertainty of this Christmas, of this fall, of whatever's to come with the new year, I'm choosing to face it. If every autumn tree is an emblem of beauty to come, every experience not a door closing but a new room, then there is much joy to guide me.

​​Kaitlin Tan is a senior from Manila, Philippines, majoring in Writing Seminars and Cognitive Science. She is the Voices Editor for The News-Letter. In her column, she tries to parse through the everyday static for something to hold onto.

When I was a child, I thought that eating turkey on Thanksgiving was a historical myth, like finding a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow on St. Patrick's Day or getting hit by Cupid's arrow on Valentine's Day. Each November, I would make as many hand turkeys as I could possibly fit in my sparkly pink backpack, and then go to my Abuela's house to eat a traditional feast of pan de bono, empanadas, ajiaco, mazorca, platanos, arroz con leche and jugo de maracuya. Like we all do every year, right?

It wasn't until third grade that I realized not every family was following the same traditions as mine was. When my best friend told me that she was helping her mother prepare that year's turkey, I was shocked, probably responding with something along the lines of "My family has never done that," with an air of eight-year-old superiority. I quickly realized that I was indeed the odd one out, and that not everyone had a special soup to look forward to once a year. How tragic for them. Naturally, I went home and asked my mom why Camryn's family was eating turkey for Thanksgiving while mine was not, and thus discovered the backstory to explain the lack of stuffing and cranberry sauce at my Abuela's house each year.

Thanksgiving can be a contentious holiday: not only because your relatives will most definitely ask you about your plans for graduation that you have not thought about at all, but also because of the roots it has in colonization and political oppression. As Colombian immigrants, my family was able to build a better home on land that did not originally belong to the administration that had reluctantly let them cross the border, a country that hoped that they would quickly and seamlessly become as American as possible (although, I must note that their way of doing this was certainly interesting, as my mother was required to take an ESL class at the exact same time that everyone else in her year took U.S. history). Nevertheless, my Abuela, the matriarch, was determined to make the most of the major U.S. holiday by celebrating something else to be thankful for.

Her first fall in the U.S., my Abuela had a potentially cancerous cyst removed. When her lab results came back benign, she decided that the American holiday of gratitude was to become a new family tradition. That year, ready to throw a Thanksgiving feast that Uncle Sam would be proud of, my Abuela marched to her local library and borrowed a traditional Thanksgiving cookbook. She cooked all day, serving up stuffing, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole and, of course, a turkey. After all of that elbow grease, my family hated it. Why would this celebration of thanks involve eating food that did not hold a candle to her arroz con pollo or her sancocho?

That was the last year my family attempted a traditional Thanksgiving, and by the time I was born, the new tradition had been longstanding. As we drench our Colombian food in my Abuela's homemade aji, we remember all that we do have to be thankful for: health, food on our table, a family to share it with. We get our pan de bono from the local panaderia, and it tastes just like what it feels like to be sitting in my Abuela's living room, comforting and soft.

This year, before taking the Amtrak back to New York, my friends and I had our own little "Friendsgiving" celebration. We made all of the traditional fixings: mac-and-cheese, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with cinnamon and marshmallows, green bean casserole, corn bread and dino chicken nuggets (you can't really expect us to attempt to cook a turkey in our teeny tiny kitchen).

As a newcomer to this sort of cuisine, I was put on chocolate chip cookie duty. Despite my roommate's impeccable mac-and-cheese-making skills, and eating until I felt like my stomach could not expand even a slight bit more, I still found myself not understanding the hype of the traditional Thanksgiving supper. I think that I feel similarly towards turkey on Thanksgiving as I do to eggs for breakfast: I know it is traditional, and I certainly wouldn't mind enjoying it from time to time, but it will never be my first choice.

I feel lucky to have a Thanksgiving tradition that reflects my family's unique history, the specific things for which we like to give thanks. I am thankful for the flavors and textures of my mother's homeland, of the Spanish and English that float around my Abuela's home and mix into one language, and most of all, for the heaping bowls of arroz con leche that remind me of the simple sweetness of sharing a meal together, no matter what day of the year.

Hailey Finkelstein is a junior from Ardsley, N.Y. majoring in Medicine, Science and the Humanities. Her column shares miscellaneous prose on current issues, the collective Hopkins experience and growing up with a pen in hand.

I've always found peace in the sky. When I was younger, I'd look up at the clouds during long car rides and let my imagination go wild with stories of a fictional man jumping through the clouds. Even as I got older, my appreciation and admiration for the sky only grew stronger. I am from an area known as the Sun City. As such, I've always been able to define my home through beautiful sunsets and sunrises. When I came to Baltimore my freshman year, I was surprised by how different the sky was - sunny days felt like a cage and cloudy days were only dreary. I felt as though I was caged up by an unseen force that prevented me from being able to relax and take in my environment.

Leaving home for me was both exciting and terrifying. The idea that I was beginning a new part of my life was amazing. I was looking forward to making my family proud by being the first to attend college and I was determined to make the most out of my college experience. Additionally, I had imagined college life to be similar to the movies - late nights out with friends and large grand lecture halls. I even recall one time during orientation, when I was learning more about PILOT and how to be a PILOT leader, arrogantly thinking, "Wow, I just need an A? I'll be a PILOT leader for all my courses next semester!" (Oh, how naive I was.) As my freshman year began, everything seemed bright and I was optimistic about my 18-credit course load.

Three weeks into my freshman semester was when everything hit me. The excitement of beginning school ended, and the course work began to pick up. What I thought were supposed to be "Midterm Exams" turned into "Beginning-term Exams." I wasn't prepared for how intense the workload at Hopkins was going to be, and I felt anxious all the time. As the weeks went by, the temperature began to drop and the days grew shorter. Clear skies were quickly overtaken by cloudy and dark days, and the comfort I used to find in the sky was overtaken as well. During that time, I felt so isolated from my friends and peers, and I was overwhelmed with the feeling of not belonging. What I had originally imagined as late nights out with friends turned into late nights at the library by myself, and grand lecture halls became dreadful places. This feeling persisted throughout the semester, but I knew my family back at home was so proud of me, and I didn't want to let them down.

Over time, I learned to adapt to Hopkins and found solace even in darker days. I enjoyed sipping on hot tea from the FFC (hot take, the FFC is not as bad as everyone says) and sitting in Keyser Quad at night. Occasionally, I would catch the Entertainers Club practicing. I remember one night in particular, when there was something so cathartic about seeing those synchronized flames dance around. The sense of peace I found during that night carried on with me throughout the last few weeks of the semester. I began to go out of my way to meet new people and reached out to resources to better myself. The work I put in paid off and I was able to finish off the last few weeks of the semester with the same optimism I originally had when it started.

As a senior, I look back on my experience at Hopkins and I'm proud of how I've changed. I've been able to grow as an individual. I used to be so intimidated by new experiences, and now I seek them out. I've been able to adapt to the intensity of Hopkins and am no longer afraid of taking on more challenges - outside of Hopkins, for instance, I enjoy volunteering around Baltimore at soup kitchens, and it's made me appreciate the city. I've finally been able to enjoy late nights out with friends, and lecture halls do not feel dreadful anymore. Years later, and the sky at Hopkins is still very different from my home, but it's no longer smaller. Instead, the sky is a reminder that I can find peace anywhere that I go.

Gabrielle Chavez is a senior from El Paso, Texas majoring in Computer Engineering with a minor in Entrepreneurship and Management.

Another sunset seeps through my windows, staying for a moment. It paints my white walls with an orange and pink tinge, the type of color you think of when a warm hand rests on your shoulder. Each ray of sunlight finds its place: on the mirror hanging from my door, on the boxes filled with my belongings and on the suitcases leaning against the wall.

Beyond my door live my roommates, the two women I truly came to know just months ago. The ones that were sewn to me by invisible strings of life, strings that were pulled together when it was our time to meet, when our hearts were ready to love one another. They have taught me something I never expected to learn so late in my college career: the feeling of "home" is far closer than I had expected. Sometimes it's a laugh, a voice calling my name from the end of the hall or a light left on for me late at night, waiting for me to come home.

My happiness now curls itself into the sound of their laughter, mixing with mine. It stays within the rituals we have made in the months we have lived together, how we sit together in the living room without speaking, sharing silence as if it were a soft blanket, or perhaps in how we have late-night debriefs by the fridge.

If anyone ever asked, I could tell them endless stories of my college experience. Chapters varying in length: some about past loves, others about friends, classes and the things I had to face on my own. However, I know for certain that I would never be able to stop talking about my amazing roommates; those stories fill volumes of my life. Each word of our stories would ring in tremendous harmony on the page, they would dance as we do when we need to unwind with Just Dance on the TV.

For years, I doubted that friendships like this could exist, the kind where silence becomes its own language, where a glance can say I'm here or I get you without needing words. Where you begin to trust so deeply that you forget there was ever a time you didn't. Because with them, it feels as if our love has always existed.

When I moved to the U.S., I already knew I couldn't live alone. I knew myself well enough to know that isolation would pull me into shadows I didn't want to revisit. But since I moved into this apartment, not a single day has felt dark. These walls, once strange, now feel like they breathe with me. In time, the floorboards have remembered all of our footprints combined.

I have always loved the story in Plato's Symposium, where Aristophanes explains that humans once had four arms, four legs and two faces. After they attempted to attack the gods, Zeus separated them, forcing each to wander eternity searching for the other half. If this were true, I would argue for a triple human - one with six arms, six legs and three faces, because if soulmates exist, then soulmates of three must exist too. My roommates and I are proof of this: three separate hearts somehow beating in harmony. Three souls woven together by those invisible strings, or perhaps by the Red String of Fate, which in East Asian belief, states that certain people are destined to meet no matter the circumstance. Each of us is the perfect balance, the perfect contradiction, the perfect complement to the others.

We fit together effortlessly, like the ingredients in those recipes we make when one of us is hit by a craving. The most seamless combination since the invention of buttered popcorn, a small delicacy in our kitchen and our favorite form of comfort food, which tastes of softness and laughter when the machine pops far too many into the floor.

Our apartment is more than a place with three beds, a sofa and a kitchen; it is the small home we have created for ourselves. Where our hearts beat easier, where the word "home" finally stretches enough to include me. The quiet miracle of finding people who make the simplest moments, pink sunsets, airplane rides and laughter, feel like something holy.

Johnalys Ferrer is a junior from Arecibo, Puerto Rico studying Medicine, Science and the Humanities. Her column explores how culture, identity and the fight to belong live on, reminding us that heritage is not only remembered but echoed daily.

The person I am today was beautifully woven and built piece by piece by my mother; she built my wings to fly. The transition from having my mom right beside me to being 8,000 miles away from her is tough.

I remember my school day mornings. She would wake up as early as 5 a.m. to prepare breakfast for me, the most delicious food on this earth. [Mumma, I miss your food.] After getting ready, she would stand by the door with my snacks for the day (mostly nuts and water bottle), fuel for me to have a productive day.

When I came back home, before I even took my shoes off, the first person I sought would be her. From new friends I've made that day to interesting facts I learned in school, we would embark on hours-long conversations with my head on her lap. These moments felt like heaven.

I feared my annual dance performances when I was a kid. Yet, spotting my mom in the audience would ease my anxiety. She would applaud so loudly that I'd forget I was even on the stage. In the span of just a couple of seconds, the performance hall would become my living room, and I'd feel the comfort of putting my head on her lap.

I am who I am because of her - a daughter molded by grace and authenticity, by my mother who gave me roots to hold on to and wings to fly high. Throughout my 19 years of life, there hasn't been a single day in which I didn't learn something new from her. She has shaped me the same way my nanu (maternal grandfather) shaped her.

The way I talk, dress, live: she has been the person to shape these. Years will pass and I will grow into an adult, but I know that I will always be a child in her eyes.

She is the person who helped me explore my inner talent. In kindergarten, she taught me how to draw and kept supporting me until I started sketching much better in high school. When I was 7, she introduced me to Bharatnatyam, an Indian classical dance. This journey changed how I thought and expressed my emotions. At the end of middle school, she enrolled me in a little orating without telling me. This was my first public speaking experience, and I was incredibly nervous about it. Yet, the first person I looked towards from the stage was my mom. Her smile was so bright and shiny that I forgot that anyone else was listening to my speech. Only one thing mattered to me: my mom.

I used to sit beside her whenever I had to spend hours studying in high school. Her presence was a symbol of comfort and warmth for me. Since I was a kid, my mom taught me "Hanuman Chalisa," a religious manuscript, which we would recite together every Saturday. It was a symbol of strength and togetherness. I still recite this prayer every time I have an exam or whenever I am missing my mom. It was a core part of my memory as a child, which helps me even now.

One of my favorite memories before leaving for Hopkins was my visa interview in Chennai, which was followed by our first interrupted trip - five days of simply being mother and daughter. From wooden boat rides in Mangrove Forest to endless pictures, street shopping and shared meals, my favorite moment was standing beside her in matching white silk saree at Tirupati Balaji. Through her closed eyes and devotion, I saw the same strength my nanu once instilled in her - a strength she now passes on to me.

As I try to navigate through my mom's absence, I try to relive the moments we shared together and hope that it will give me the strength to keep going. During these times, I thank God for blessing me with a person who understands and loves me to this extent. Now, eating a meal without her presence feels empty. But even from a distance, she is still the wind beneath my wings.

When I miss her and the tears come out, I remind myself that she spent years building my wings. Every lesson she gave me, every moment she stood beside me, was her way of teaching me how to lift off. As I face the hardship of being away from her, I try to fly using the strength she poured into me. Her influence will never leave me - it's stitched into the wings she helped me grow.

Hitarthee Tank is a sophomore from Surat, India majoring in Molecular and Cellular Biology and minoring in Business.

When I was little, I always made sure to turn on my nightlight before heading to sleep. From the concept of monsters hiding under my bed to other unknowns in the darkness, I had my fears and suspicions. However, a tiny, dim light capable of warmly illuminating my whole bedroom was all that I needed to give me the assurance that it was probably just my mind trying to play tricks on me and that if a monster were really hiding underneath my bed, I would at least be able to foresee it instead of being blindly frightened by it.

Now that I live in a college dorm, of course, I have the classic dorm essential, a string of fairy lights hanging on the wall above my bed. It compensates for a nightlight, and although I may not possess those particular fears and suspicions to the same extent as when I was younger, I still enjoy falling asleep gazing at the twinkling lights.

Going to bed with a light on has been a non-negotiable part of my routine ever since childhood, its physical presence allowed me to see in the dark (so that my younger self could keep an eye out for monsters), but today/now, it also internally and symbolically provides me with a feeling of security and comfort amid the darkness. There have been days full of excitement and fulfillment that I never wanted to end. On days like those, I am resistant to falling asleep. On the contrary, there are days when it seems to take forever for time to pass, and that drains the life out of me, leaving my head clouded with doubt and negativity. But no matter how I'm left feeling from the day I've had, the warmth that my light emits is always the same. This warmth sets an ambience that quiets my inner monologue so I can properly rest and recharge. So, although my use of a nightlight may have initially served as the solution to my fear of the dark, its role has gone beyond that, serving to enlighten my mind as well.

Now, since we have officially entered the holiday season, with Christmas less than a month away, I have grown especially fond of my fairy lights. This is because they give the impression of incandescent lights wrapped around Christmas trees, garlands, light poles, the list goes on. As part of the holiday festivities, we have the opportunity to adorn these ordinary objects, making every detail of them come to life. It's a little unfathomable that just the simple addition of a string of lights on a tree can put me in awe, happy to admire it for hours on end, but it does. Light really just makes everything shine. There must just be an instant connection between radiating light and radiating joy as Christmas lights never cease to bring about a smile on my face.

When thinking about the joy of the Christmas season, there are endless moments I can recall, but my ultimate favorite has always been and still is the drive back home at night and seeing all the houses in my neighborhood lit up with Christmas lights and decor. No house is exactly decorated the same; each has its own special flair. However, no matter if a house simply hung warm-toned string lights around its trees or if a house went all out, making sure no part of it was without light, the magical holiday spirit is still the same.

I obviously won't be able to enjoy the lights around my neighborhood while I'm on campus, but as I walk back to my dorm from a late-night study session, I never cease to take my time admiring the strings of lights spiraling around the lampposts. I have overcome my childhood fear of the dark and now rather appreciate it because only in darkness are you able to witness how brightly light can shine, whether it's the darkness outside or inside of you.

Catherine Chan is a freshman from Potomac, Md., studying Molecular and Cellular Biology. She is a Social Media Manager for The News-Letter. Her column consists of reflections on various moments in her life, from the distant past to the current present, in pursuit of discovering the underlying impact they have on her life's story.

As expected, my first semester at Hopkins yielded a welcome amount of intellectually stimulating conversations. Yet one that occurred recently has stuck in my mind. It prompted a thorough self-examination of my beliefs, which is a place I didn't think I would reach after only a few months on campus.

To preface the story, I had been writing a foreign policy paper on the Iraq War (stick with me here) when a friend asked me what I was working on. Despite being in the early, rough-drafting period, I provided a brief description of the war itself and its various causes. When I finished, he looked mildly amused and wished me the best of luck. As I walked out of the building, he left me with a thought.

"It will be interesting to see how you keep your own bias out of your work."

To say that I was immediately taken aback at that point would be an understatement. I hadn't previously considered myself to be the pinnacle of intellectual humility, but it seemed a bit odd to be judged in such an outright manner about a topic that I had no stake in. Sensing my questioning look, he pointed out that each time I had referred to America in my explanation, I had really said "we." Momentarily dumbfounded, I walked to class thinking about why I put myself in the shoes of America, even in an event that had happened before I was born. Also, why would I even want to, given what we now know about the unspeakable tragedy that accompanied the invasion?

An identity is a complex mishmash of physical, psychological and social characteristics that make us who we are. And by us, I mean all humans. The part of me saying "we" with reference to the Iraq invasion felt a close enough tie to the notion of an American identity that it sounded like I had been on the front lines. That part quickly separated ingroups and outgroups into Americans and non-Americans, something that I wish I had been more cognizant of during the conversation, especially at Hopkins, where I have experienced firsthand the world of difference from the homogeneity of my hometown.

Being proud to be an American citizen and endorsing everything associated with America are not the same. Pride is often conflated with "Don't Tread on Me" lawn signs and a bald eagle posed defiantly behind the nation's flag. The stigma behind being on "Team America" lies in the inseparability of one's own identity with that of a group, even one in which they've always been a member. The intrinsic bias within my paper didn't come from cheering on the president or having my views summed up by a D or an R, but merely from growing up American. That isn't a bad thing, but it is something crucial to recognize when discussing US security policy with a friend from a different country.

Part of our identity is how we divide ourselves, whether that be through sports teams, political parties or geographical spaces. Teamsmanship is a double-edged sword. Forming these groups, whether consciously or unconsciously, allows people to create cohesive coalitions and hierarchies that benefit them. It also makes us strangely tribal, associating our identity with our favorite bands of twentysomethings on a sports team from our birthplace. To put it another way, teams are necessary, but the all-encompassing association of identity that blurs the line between the team and the individual can be problematic.

Americans are not a monolith. Teams are not inherently harmful. I was not in George W. Bush's cabinet during the Iraq War. These are fundamental facts. But what's greater is the realization that while bias and identity may be our first instincts, learning how to adjust and rebalance our (and when I say our, you know who I mean) mental calculus, we can try to understand how lines in the sand are drawn before we take out the stick.

Bryce Leiberman is a freshman from Madison, Conn. studying Political Science and Philosophy. His column records a search for authenticity exploring the past, present and restless work of becoming oneself.

"What's going on here?"

It was the first question our guide asked as my First-Year Seminar (FYS) clustered around a statue of three brown rings at the Baltimore Museum of Art (BMA). I side-eyed my friend. Literally nothing, I thought. As we stood in complete silence, I could feel my STEM brain scrambling for a definition or some data to interpret, anything measurable or concrete. Instead, all I saw were… rings. Yet, the guide didn't look impatient or concerned at our obvious discomfort. She waited, as if the statue was offering more than I knew how to look for. Over minutes of looking and looking away, details revealed themselves: grooves, the texture of the marble, the impossible smoothness of the statue's curves, the deliberate shadows cast by the museum lights. At the BMA, I realized you aren't asked to solve anything; you're asked to truly see. That shift felt both unsettling and addictive.

During my first week at Hopkins, I spent more time surrounded by art during the Baltimore Arts pre-orientation than I had in my whole life. Wandering through the Walters Art Museum and the American Visionary Art Museum, I recall feeling overwhelmed by the talent and history that I was so woefully unprepared to understand. In front of a Mary Proctor collage of buttons and fabric, a guide unraveled stories of race, gender and spirituality seamlessly. It was like there was an invisible curtain separating me from an entire world I hadn't known existed. I wasn't an artist, and I was terrified of public speaking, but I wanted to belong to that world - to speak about objects that appeared ordinary with clarity and conviction until their histories spilled off the wall. So when my FYS professor forwarded a one-line email about a new BMA student guide program, I applied without thinking.

In our first training session, I stood before a hazy Matisse landscape without knowing anything about Impressionism or the industrial Europe it depicted. The other trainees included art history majors, physics students and pre-meds, and we built the picture together. Someone noticed a shadow that someone else turned into a boat. Someone pointed out faint sticks that, after two comments, reassembled themselves into smokestacks. I added an observation about the light on the water, half expecting it to be dismissed, but the instructor turned it into a discussion about the time of day the painting was depicting. It was the first time I felt that my eye mattered. I didn't need to be an "art person" - I just needed to trust that what I saw was worth saying.

Those questions at the core of our Visual Thinking Strategies (VTS) rewired the way I directed my attention: What do you see? What do you see that makes you say that? What else can we find?

As training continued, they became a framework for approaching the world that felt radically slower than how I was used to thinking. Using VTS, we practiced examining sculptures from every angle, paying attention to orientation, mass and balance. We used the museum's arrangement to give us clues, and discovered how curators manipulate lighting not just to illuminate but to reveal: a ridge worn down by hands two centuries ago, a hairline groove left by an intentional chisel or an accidental slip. We lingered in front of portraits for half an hour, long after the average visitor's twenty-seven seconds had evaporated. The questions didn't go away; they kept multiplying, asking me to notice what I didn't know I'd seen.

Writing my first tour tested that for real. I spent a week trying to connect the Buddhist Water Guang-yin statue carved thousands of years ago with a Cézanne painting from the 1900s. At first, the pairing felt absurd. But the deeper I looked, the more patterns emerged: the human body shaped by devotion; the natural world softened, abstracted, made symbolic; the way artists keep returning to the same longing for stillness, transcendence and form. Guiding turned out to not be about delivering the "right" interpretation, but rather building a story with strangers. It was a mosaic of observations offered tentatively and held up to the light. Together, we moved from texture to intention to cultural meaning and then back to the work itself.

The invisible work mattered just as much as the visible. Choosing the order of artworks became a kind of choreography: when to shift rooms, when to linger, how to pivot from silence to discussion without demanding either. I learned to read the micro-signals - a visitor's foot tapping, hesitation before a comment, the instinctive glance at a label. I got to decide what to reveal, and more importantly, what to hold back so viewers could discover it for themselves.

One of the first questions we were asked in training was, "What makes you feel at home in a new space?" I wrote down warm lighting, somewhere to put my stuff, someone who expects me to be there. Later, I realized that was exactly what guiding asks of us - not to lecture, but to host. To create a space where visitors feel anticipated, where the bar for participation is simply being present and paying attention to what is already in front of them.

The museum has become a counterweight to Hopkins' acceleration. My academic life moves in deadlines, problem sets and meetings double-booked on my Google Calendar; the museum moves in stillness. There, I stand in front of a painting until my eyes stop scanning and start noticing the bristles stuck in the paint, intentional imperfections that point to a human behind the frame. That slowness has leaked into the rest of my life: how I walk across campus, how I listen to my roommate, how I remember to look twice before assuming I understand anything at all.

I entered the BMA student tour guide program convinced someone would tap me on the shoulder one day and expose me as an impostor. I thought guiding required authority in the form of knowledge I didn't have and language I hadn't learned, but the museum's visitors don't need expertise - they need space. These past few weeks, I've peeled back assumptions, returned to the evidence and built outward again. I've stopped trying to extract meaning from art and started creating an environment to look, wonder and share, where interpretation is collaborative rather than a personal performance. I may not be an artist, but I've become a translator of attention, a facilitator of curiosity, a witness to the moment a roomful of strangers begins to see together.

Vidhi Bansal is a freshman from Upper Saddle River, N.J., studying Neuroscience. In "Meanwhile," Bansal finds meaning in the unfinished and the unglamorous, showing how the in-betweens are often where life actually happens.

There's a poem I keep thinking about: "Replica of the Thinker." In it, a copy of Rodin's famous statue sits at a museum, hunched over that familiar pose of "deep thought." But he isn't thinking. "His head is filled with iron and bronze," the poet writes, "not neurons and God." He looks like a thinker, but is he actually thinking?

I read this and feel an uncomfortable echo in myself.

There are mornings when I sit with my breakfast the same way the speaker imagines his father did years ago - with oatmeal, coffee, a newspaper and a blank stare. The poem suggests something I've been circling around in my own life: that we can move through the world looking like people who think, decide and shape our lives intentionally while actually living as replicas. Copies of parents, copies of expectations, copies of a life we haven't had the chance to pause long enough to choose.

Real thinking is slow. It's messy. It requires an inwardness that can feel intimidating. And yet we treat thinking like the default state of being present, as if it simply happens while we check our notifications or rush from our current task to our next priority. Thought becomes background noise, running behind everything else.

But what the poem gets at, which intrigued me, is the difference between appearing thoughtful and actually thinking. Between living life and performing life. Between being the original and becoming a photocopy of a photocopy.

Each version of a copy loses something.

The speaker in the poem imagines the replica trying to access profound ideas, like "patterns among celestial bodies" and "free will." But his expression ends up "somewhere between agony and falling asleep." It's funny, but it also reminds us of the moments where we push ourselves to be insightful and creative yet actually end up mostly exhausted. When we strain for meaning with the same tense posture as Rodin's Thinker, we hope some answer will finally arrive.

But maybe the problem isn't that we aren't thinking hard enough. Maybe it's that we confuse the posture of thinking with the practice of thinking.

It seems that most of our lives are lived in the space between thought and non-thought. We drift into routines. We imitate the habits and expressions of the people who shaped us. We copy what seems to work. There's comfort in that, sometimes even relief.

But there are moments when mindless living is not only allowed but necessary. The brain needs rest, of course. The heart needs stillness. There are moments when we need to pull back from the constant pressure to define or redesign our lives. Not every moment needs to be original.

But when copying becomes the default, when we move through life without asking why, our days start to flatten. We become like the replica: shaped by someone else's mold, holding a pose that suggests depth but feels hollow.

The strange paradox is that thinking is what makes life meaningful, yet we often avoid it. Even I sometimes make myself busy and distract myself from my own thoughts. Genuine thought makes us confront who we are, what we want and our fears. It forces us to ask: am I living this life or repeating what I've seen? Am I choosing or copying?

If we stay in our minds too long, nothing ever changes. However, thinking too much may be problematic as well. Thinking alone makes us stuck in the bronze stillness of the statue, full of longing and potential, but unmoving.

So what does it mean to be an "original" in a world full of replicas?

Maybe originality isn't about being different from everyone else. Maybe it's just about being fully present in our own choices. Paying actual attention. Asking even the smallest questions. Slowing down enough to notice when we're acting out of habit instead of intention.

Maybe life in the making is exactly that, in the making. It's not perfected nor sculpted into permanence. It's a gradual, ongoing process of choosing how much we think, how much we rest and how much we allow ourselves to become who we are.

The poem ends with the replica holding his pose as if some part of the world around him is about to make sense, almost. I feel that "almost" too. The near-answer.

I think that the point isn't to force clarity but rather to stay awake to the possibility of it. To think when we can, to rest when we need and notice the difference between the two.

Kathryn Jung is a freshman from Silver Spring, MD, majoring in Biomedical Engineering. Her column reflects the process of creating and how the small things we make, notice and hold close bring meaning to everyday life.

Yesterday I took the MBTI test again for the first time in eight months: ISTJ-T. I didn't think much of the four letters themselves - I've seen them enough times by now. What caught my attention was the last letter, a subtle change from A (assertive) to T (turbulent). It made me stop and think about when I became more worried and prone to overthinking, not because I believe in a personality test like it's my Roman Empire, but because some of the prompts in the test do reflect my current feelings toward my own stage of growth. For context, assertive people are usually calm and self-assured, while turbulent people tend to be more anxious and self-critical.

Lately, I've noticed that much of my mood is tied to external validation. What I look forward to most days isn't necessarily rest after all my classes, hanging out with friends or even small forms of comfort. It's the possibility of opening my Gmail or Outlook and seeing the word "congratulations." An interview… An acceptance… Even just a results notification. Some sort of sign from the universe - or a selection committee - that I'm doing things right. It's embarrassing to admit how much power a subject line can have over my day. A rejection can sting for an hour or two, and then I move on to the next thing to chase after. On the surface, this looks like resilience, but sometimes it feels more like I'm just hopping from one potential source of validation to another, trying not to sit still long enough to feel the emptiness in between.

I've been asking myself a lot of questions because of this. Am I not mature enough to be secure about my abilities? Am I not working hard enough or working in the wrong direction? None of these questions have clear answers. I know that facing these undesired results over and over isn't a bad thing at all. In some ways, it has made me less fragile. But it also feels like I'm avoiding processing my emotions and feelings by jumping into a new resume edit or application page. It feels unhealthy - like I'm constantly trying to prove myself to a ghost, and I'm never fully satisfied with who I am without some validation on paper to back it up.

When I was in China this past summer for a summer camp, I thought I had become more confident in a place I spent 10 years of my life in. It was my first solo trip abroad. I was making decisions on my own and navigating the thousands of changes that had happened in the area over the last six years. I was eager to speak up about my experiences and excited to meet new people. I felt more independent and confident about myself. But after coming back, tripping into the cycle of classes, deadlines, applications, a lot of that confidence felt more shallow than I expected.

It was easy to feel strong when my life looked different and I had distance from the routine here at Hopkins. In the familiar setting of school, with everything running aside me in their own directions, I was quickly reminded that confidence built only on small achievements and "new experiences" is still pretty fragile if it isn't rooted in something deeper. However, as I'm writing this article, I know that I am thinking about what I truly value and what these new experiences actually meant to me; it feels empowering to be able to let this out.

I don't think ambition is the problem. I really want to see how far I can go in my twenties. These years are dramatic life transitions - from school to work, from being a student to being some undefined "adult in society," from being guided to guiding others. Every step feels a bit uncomfortable. What worries me more is how narrow my definition of "doing well" has become. If I only recognize my own growth when it's confirmed by someone else that I have never interacted with, I'm always going to be one email away from feeling like I'm not enough.

I'm still trying to find ways to show myself that a lot of important growth occurs every day: learning to communicate effectively, setting boundaries or even just being content with not doing anything "productive" for a day. However, I'm still the same person checking my emails a little too often, constantly switching between being proud of myself and feeling like I have so much left to improve on. But I like to imagine my future self, maybe at 25 or 27, stumbling across my current state through this article. I hope she can look back at these words and smile, not because I figured everything out at 19 years old, but because I was honest enough to reflect and write this down and keep trying.

I don't know what my life will look like then. I've always had an idealized vision of my future, but the more I experience, the more I realize how unpredictable life is. Every month, every year, I change a little. I meet new people, own new things, have new jobs and identities on campus. Maybe the one thing I can be confident about is this: I will keep going, keep learning and keep reflecting. Even if the MBTI says I'm "turbulent" now, that could just be another way of saying I'm still in the middle of becoming who I want to be.

Linda Huang is a sophomore from Rockville, Md. majoring in Biomedical Engineering. Her column celebrates growth and emotions that define young adulthood, inviting readers to live authentically.

I recently finished the latest season of Dancing With the Stars. For those who weren't keeping up, Robert Irwin and his professional ballroom partner, Witney Carson, brought home the highly coveted Mirrorball trophy.

Every year, a new season of this show premieres, and it becomes one of the only things I can talk about and the thing I look forward to the most on Tuesday evenings. This year, I was rooting for Whitney Leavitt from The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives. Sadly, I couldn't text "WHITNEY" to 21523 because voting is only available to the United States and Canada, and I'm in… Scotland. But I was supporting her from afar!

In case Reality TV isn't your forte, or you decided to skip this season of Dancing With the Stars, Leavitt was eliminated during the semi-finals due to a lack of fans voting for her to stay in the competition. The third season of The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives had aired right before the semi-finals, and to say it hadn't been to Leavitt's benefit would be an understatement. But this was the first time I had seen a vast number of people on social media band together and actively decide to vote for every other couple except her (I think psychologists call this groupthink).

While I am not one to lecture people on the dangers of obsessing over Reality TV or developing a black-and-white form of thinking, I had never quite seen how social media could be wielded as a destructive tool in real time.

Naturally, as a Political Science student, I began to think about how easy it has become for our society to succumb to dangerous forms of thinking - seeing things not on a spectrum, but as either all-or-nothing. We've already begun to see this mentality infiltrate our politics.

The recent government shutdown, the longest in U.S. history, serves as a prime example - Congressional Republicans largely refused to compromise with Democrats on a spending budget and vice versa. Throughout the entire shutdown, I would see comments on TikTok or Instagram either blaming Democrats for the shutdown entirely or insisting Republicans were single-handedly responsible for the stalemate. Very few people seemed willing to admit what political scientists seem to repeat like a broken record: that a gridlock is rarely the fault of one person or party, but rather the product of institutional incentives, polarized media ecosystems and elected officials who ultimately benefit from refusing to budge.

But that kind of nuance doesn't trend.

What does trend, however, are the posts that declare "This side is evil" or "That side ruined everything." Social media rewards outrage, certainty and villians to point at, because life is always a little easier when you have someone else to blame. And once the algorithm finds the narrative you're most likely to engage with, it feeds it back to you until your entire worldview feels confirmed - no matter how distorted it becomes.

This is how we get from voting against a contestant on Dancing With the Stars because TikTok told us she's "problematic" and a "horrible person" (when most of us don't really know her at all), to voters insisting that one political party alone is responsible for government dysfunction. It's the same impulse dressed up in different stakes: we want someone to blame, someone to cancel, someone to remove, so we don't have to wrestle with complexity.

And the political system thrives on this. Politicians don't get reelected if they make things complicated for their constituency. They know that if they provide a simple enemy - a person, a party, a scapegoat - social media will do the rest of the work for them. Outrage spreads faster than any policy briefing ever could.

In the end, maybe the real Mirrorball trophy goes to the platforms themselves. They've mastered the art of choreographing our attention, pushing us into neat little corners where the world makes sense only if there's a hero and a villain, a winner and a loser, a right and a wrong. No shades of gray and definitely no middle ground.

But politics - like people, like ballroom dance - has always lived in the in-between: the messy, complicated, imperfect spaces where the real work actually happens. We need to dive into the nitty-gritty and actually understand what is going on. Or else we risk becoming victims of the very system we claim we want to fix.

If we want a healthier political culture, maybe the first step is learning to log off once in a while and touch some grass. Remember that not every conflict needs a villain. It takes more energy to think about nuances and retrain yourself to look at the shades of gray, but it's worth it.

Sometimes it's a controversial semi-final round of Dancing With the Stars, a broken Congress or a system that needs more cooperation and less choreography.

And unfortunately, you can't fix all that by texting "WHITNEY" to 21523.

Alyssa Gonzalez is a junior majoring in Political Science and International Studies.Her column approaches the political atmosphere through an individual lens, grounding the conversation in empathy and clarity in an attempt to humanize the field.

One fun project I took on this semester was tracking down the best ceviches in Baltimore. The restaurants I visited include Puerto 511, La Calle and Clavel (unsurprisingly).

Putting my criteria up front: freshness of ingredients was the baseline, and every restaurant on this list delivered that without question. The differences came down to flavoring, portion size, aesthetics and ambience.

Puerto 511

For anyone who finds it hard to decide on their order, Puerto 511 makes it easy: they have a fixed five-course routine designed by their culinary team, which rotates seasonally. Yet no matter what other courses might change, ceviche made with this season's freshest harvest is a staple of the menu. When we visited in late August, ceviche of the time was Causa Acevichada, a dish composed of marinated fish and mashed yellow potatoes dipped in tiger's milk, a rich sauce with citrusy tang, garlic and chili that adds a refreshing tone to this dish.

Beyond ceviche, we also enjoyed roasted veal heart, tamales, fried rice and ice cream as the ending dessert. The use of fruity flavors is threaded across dishes, tomatoes, pineapples, lemon, in ceviche, skewers and fried rice. Despite the multi-layered tangy notes, everything was well-balanced, with the slight sourness complementing the freshness of white-flesh fish perfectly.

Portion was generous with the price, $59 for each person for a five course meal, and we felt quite satisfied. The overall ambience leaned homestyle and approachable - perfect for a dinner with friends. We also enjoyed the little anticipation of not knowing what the next dish would be, since the choices were left to the team. Without a doubt, the courses and combinations they presented were thoughtful and cohesive.

La Calle

La Calle is a beautiful spot to dine in Inner Harbor: a spacious dining room, warm lighting, an open kitchen and a bar. Many couples sat by for a romantic night. For ceviche, we ordered two. Ceviche del Día, their daily special that changes every day, was our preferred one. The tuna was succulent, and the overall flavor was full and well-integrated. The rosy pink sauce interspersed with grass-green avocado made it a feast for the eyes as well. If you like ceviche, this is a solid pick. We also tried Aguachile de la Pasión. It was fresh, but the seasoning skewed too sour for both me and my friend.

While the seasoning lightly missed the balance compared with Puerto 511, the environment was aesthetic and elegant, and my friend and I really enjoyed their Barbacoa de Cordero - tender lamb that detached effortlessly and was well-seasoned. We finished the whole dish without even touching the supplemental corn tortillas.

Portions were sizable, around $60 or so per person. I'd recommend it for both dates and small friend groups of 2-6. The only caveat is that seating is almost always crowded, so I'd suggest making online reservations ahead of time.

Clavel

Citywide favorite. James Beard bar. I had heard a lot about it before visiting, yet only on my second time was I really convinced by the buzz around it. The first time, I focused on the tacos - lengua and barbacoa. They were good, no doubt, but not mind-blowing, which made me question whether the Clavel hype was really justified. But everything changed during my second visit, thanks to a friend's recommendation - I finally discovered the right way to enjoy Clavel: the ceviches!

If I had to recommend just one dish, I'd go with the Salmon Crudo. It's not a traditional ceviche, yet it still appears in the "ceviche" section of their menu. The salmon slices were like custard in flan: creamy, fresh, with a dreamy mouthfeel. The crispy tortilla underneath added a lush texture that stitched everything together.

The other dish my friend and I wooed up was the Campechana. It boasted plump sweet shrimp, octopus, and scallop bathed in lime juice in a goblet-style glass. It was abundant with seafood cuts, perfectly paired with crunchy cucumber, onion and totopos. It also came with crispy pork strips, adding another tactile touch to this multifaceted dish.

The price for each person ranges from about $50 to a little over $80. The dishes are huge and don't skimp on seafood. The ambience is passionate and welcoming, with simple wooden tables and chairs as well as plenty of greens. Yet do expect to wait from 20-40 minutes or more. It's the norm for Clavel, but the food makes it worth it. The background is indeed a little loud, due to the casual, no-strings-attached atmosphere. It's a place where people laugh and joke freely. Definitely a spot for friends of varying group sizes, family gatherings, celebrations and a good place for dates for more familiar couples. For a first date, the con is just the likely long wait and the full-of-chatter backdrop.

Yet please don't get me wrong: purely for taste, Clavel tops the restaurants I mentioned today - and the vast majority of spots in Baltimore. Its long-lasting popularity speaks for itself. If you're interested in learning more about Clavel's stories behind the storefront, take a moment to read our previous interview with the founder and mind behind the bar, Lane Harlan.

As the iconic dish of Peru, I believe ceviche inherits something special from this country: the embrace of both coastlines and mountain ridges, and the intersection of many ethnic groups. Baltimore's businesses interpret this beautiful dish with their own local catch and cultural influences, nurturing distinct flavors of their own.

That said, my recommendations reveal only a fragment of what these restaurants offer - many of them have much more beyond ceviche. Just as ceviche's tang sets you up for more food adventures, feel free to step ahead and venture into the unmentioned deliciousness.

One interesting aspect of the smooth coordination needed between the two cities will be pulling off the cauldron lighting for the opening ceremony. Editing TV coverage to make it appear as if countries with several flag-bearers participating in parades in different cities are marching in unison is another point of focus. Among the venues, the largest is the Anterselva Biathlon Arena, which seats up to 19,000 spectators. Others stand out for their historical roots, like Verona Olympic Arena, built for gladiator battles in 30AD. Some also hold significance in both Italian culture and the sports world, with several having been used for the Nordic World Ski Championships and World Cup Races, or being the home to Italian football clubs.

In lively spirit and display of local culture, stoat mascots Tina and Milo were chosen, inspired by the city names Cortina d'Ampezzo and Milano. Milo, the Paralympic mascot, was born without a leg and, by learning to use his tail, is now a figure of resolve and ingenuity. Notably, the idea of these stoat siblings was influenced by a nationwide primary school drawing competition. The design submitted by students in Taverna, southern Italy, contributed to the symbol set for the Olympic stage. The intentional choice of stoats primarily stems from their engagement with nature, agility, liveliness, and resilience in their mountainous habitats - all highly reflective of characteristics necessary to endure for the upcoming Winter Games. They are additionally representative of the spirited, adaptable and contemporary Italian identity, organizers describe.

A total of 16 sports disciplines will be featured. They can be grouped into three broad categories: Ice sports (like bobsled, ice hockey, skeleton and curling), Alpine & Snowboarding, and Nordic Events (like cross-country skiing and ski jumping). The International Olympic Committee (IOC) commonly refers to sport disciplines to denote and differentiate 'sub-sport categories,' such as figure skating and speed skating, within the broader sport of skating. Four of the sixteen disciplines will be held indoors: curling, figure skating, ice hockey and speed skating. Significantly, the last category features a debut sport: Ski Mountaineering, where athletes use specialized equipment to traverse mountainous terrain at the Stelvio Ski Centre. This was originally a segment of a now-discontinued winter Olympic sport called Military Patrol that combined ski mountaineering with cross-country skiing and rifle shooting. Other new changes include a large-hill event for women's ski jumping and a women's luge doubles event, in line with the ongoing movement for gender equality. The cross-country skiing distance will also be the same between the men's and women's events. The Paralympics will feature six events in the Arena di Verona, including Para snowboard, Para alpine and cross-country skiing, Para biathlon, Para ice hockey and wheelchair curling.

Closing in on the Feb. 6-22 Olympics and the March 6-15, 2026 Paralympics (also marking the kickoff of the 50th anniversary of the first Paralympic Winter Games), athletes hone their focus in the final stretch of their training. From the IOC's announcement of Italy's selection to host the XXV Winter Games in 2019 to the start of the iconic torch relay on December 6, Italy moves forward in its preparation for nations to unify through sport. The race for 195 medals will deliver nothing short of a breathtaking showcase and experience in the heart of winter… truly making for a winter wonderland!