"I think, therefore I am," declared René Descartes, who tried to prove that our ability to think is the strongest proof of our existence. Nevertheless, for someone who tends to overthink, the act of thinking itself usually unfolds into the ultimate philosophical question: Who am I?
Self, the thing that Descartes deemed as the most certain, may, in fact, be the most unfathomable puzzle: our identity, our symbol, our belonging, our purpose. Whenever we look in the mirror and ask about those questions, the answers shift. Perhaps one day we feel like we have finally settled on something; weeks later, as we revisit, that sense of selfassurance fades again.
You might have felt it too — that mental seesaw of self-doubt, self-realization and the chronic urge to hold onto something stable and call it "me." After looping through cycles of building and tearing down versions of ourselves, we learn to see this unease as a necessary component of selfdevelopment. Fortunately, amid all the changes, some things stay. They will crystallize over time and become the truest elements of who we are.
Just as Mulan stands in the center of mirror-covered walls, surrounded by faces that seem disconnected and unaligned, she wonders when her reflection will match the person she feels on the inside We know that feeling, but the mirrors also teach us that movement and versatility are how truth takes shape.
As always, putting thoughts into words is The News-Letter's way of recording those changes: We try to use writing to make sense of how this motley palette of simple moments, beloved people and unexpected epiphanies creates a painting of who we are becoming. The writers and editors of this issue share their stories of personal development by examining the core values and passions that define their present selves. As you read through their streams of thought, you can feel this movement the dynamic process of self-exploration and breakthroughs. Identities are never fixed and becoming is a journey we all share.
Enjoy this magical ride
Warm regards, Linda Huang and Yuyu Huang Magazine Editors
RUI DO ROSARIO / DESIGN & LAYOUT EDITOR
Eesha Bellad
The color at the eye of my storm
A tornado spins around me The world moves fast, chaotic, unpredictable, loud, and I’m somewhere at the bottom of it, trying to hold still.
Lately, I’ve been drawn to the idea of spirituality, not as a distant or abstract thing, but as a practice of living. I’ve realized that the chaos around me will never stop; it just changes its shape So the only peace I can find must come from within, from learning to create a stillness that can’t be taken away
I imagine that stillness as a soft ring of light surrounding me, my aura – a force field that keeps me from unraveling under the pressures of modern life,the weight of expectation,and the uncertainty of everything ahead. It’s the energy I build to keep from losing myself while still reaching toward everything I dream of becoming.
Lately, I’ve been asking myself endless questions: What kind of person do I want to be? What kind of life do I want to lead? What kind of world do I want to help create? And when I sit quietly inside the eye of the storm, I feel something radiating from me.
A color
But what color is that?
I can’t see the world through just one shade. My aura shifts with me: alive,layered,never constant
Sometimes, I feel red. Passionate, ambitious, full of restless energy Red reminds me of vitality and drive, the part of me that refuses to quit, that wants to build and achieve and matter.
Thentherearemomentsthatglowamber WhenI’mwithpeopleI love,my insides feel warm,like my organs themselves are lit from within WhenIplaytennis,paintorlistentomusicthatmakesme see the world with a shimmering tint, the air around me feels sunlit, forgiving. Amber is the color of joy, of being seen, of rememberingthateveninexhaustion,there’sstilllightleftinme
But sometimes, when I crave quiet, I find myself turning green. It’sthecolorofcompassion,growth,andhealing Itremindsmeof the kind of career I want to pursue – a humanitarian surgeon, someonewhosehandsrestorewhat’sbeenbroken.Greenreminds me of the quiet urge to mend, to serve, to make pain lighter for someoneelse.
Other days, I am blue. I try to keep my circle calm, my voice truthful, my presence peaceful. Blue feels like communication and serenity, like a breath that softens everything But even blue ripples. I’m not calm all the time, sometimes I’m full of laughter that spills over, or I’m wild with emotion, or I’m swept up in whatIcanonlydescribeasfemalerageandteenageangst
But it’s also the color I feel within myself when I’m trying to heal myself. It’s the gentle voice that tells me to slow down, to forgive myownstumbles,totreatmyselfwiththesameempathyIhopeto giveothers Greenisthecolorofgrowth,andgrowth,I’mlearning, isn’t always graceful. It’s often messy, full of moments of selfdoubtandrenewal
And maybe, beneath it all, I am purple. The color of intuition, creativity, and quiet transformation Purple feels like the space between thought and feeling, the part of me that is always searching for meaning beneath the noise. Purple is also where all my other colors seem to converge: the passion of red, the serenity ofblue,thewarmthofamber,thecompassionofgreen
I used to think peace meant holding myself perfectly still at the bottom of the storm. Like if I could just find the right color, one that stayed steady and didn’t bleed into the others, I’d finally understand who I was But maybe peace isn’t about stillness or certainty. Maybe it’s about learning to stay present while everythinginsidemekeepsshifting.
Some days I’m red, driven, impatient, alive. Other days I’m blue, quiet, thoughtful, trying to keep my head above water. I have moments of green when I’m grounded and hopeful, amber when I’mwarmandfulloflight,andpurplewhenIfeelmostlikemyself. None of those colors stay forever, but I think that’s okay Maybe that’showit’ssupposedtobe It’smessyanduncertain,butevenin the blur, there’s something beautiful about watching all my colors moveandmixandshifttogether
Atthebottomofthetornado,Idon’tseeoneperfecthueanymore. Heavenly by C A S plays softly in the background, and for a moment,everythingfeelssuspended IremindmyselfthatI’mstill learningwhatmycolorsmean,thatthey’llkeepchanging,justlike Iwill Andmaybefornow,it’senoughtosimplyletthemglow
Eesha Bellad is a sophomore majoring in Neuroscience from Orange County,Calif SheisaCopyEditorforTheNews-Letter
SYDNOR DUFFY / DESIGN & LAYOUT EDITOR
Buse Koldas
Finding my signature scent
The moment I touch down at Istanbul Airport, my first stop will most likely be a duty-free shop I search for the shiny red “DUTY FREE” sign right after passport control Eventually, my eyes meet with (seemingly) infinite boxes of chocolate, bottles of liquor and cartons of tobacco, yet none of them (even discounted Valentino bags or deals on Benefit Cosmetics makeup products) distract me from my target Instead of paying attention to such trivialities (including my back pain from a 9-hour-long flight), I drag my extra-large suitcases until I notice the fragrance section and eventually locate Yves Saint Laurent (YSL) to acquire a new bottle of perfume. I notice Black Opium’s glittery exterior and the golden logo on Libre, but neither of them is what I’m searching for
When I tasked myself with finding a new perfume years ago (as my then-favorite, Dior’s Hypnotic Poison, had been accused of smelling like Play-Doh), my mission was shaped into something more than simply finding something that smelled good Finding my signature scent could not have been that straightforward. While representing my vibe, it had to serve as a reminder of who I aspired to be: courageous, charismatic, confident I desired something that defined and became whole with me when I walked into a room, it had to announce my presence. It had to be special, unreplicable, unique.
YSL’s Babycat checked all the boxes: its redolent vanilla scent captured my soft, approachable personality, while its spicy twist and woody notes masked the sweetness only a portion of the audience could see through the musk to reach underlying amber When combined, it asserted an ambiguous, gray, complicated personality One that was rich but simple, outright but reserved.
Its only downside was the jaw-dropping price, but I took the bitter with the sweet and one spray every day is more than enough for the scent to last all day, helping me gaslight myself into thinking it’s not an awful purchase
I have been loyal to Babycat for the past three years I used it rigorously throughout my senior year of high school and freshman year of college. Although I bought the perfume with the intention of reminding myself who I wanted to be (reiterating the previous tricolon: “courageous, charismatic, confident”), it is ironic that those two years of my life were times when my selfesteem was at an all-time low.
Using a scent like Babycat to mask the truth was my way of “faking it till I made it” an attempt at hiding my vulnerable heart because I was embarrassed by it (and getting taken advantage of because of it) In a way, I was aware of the plain, vanilla undertones of my personality, and I hated it. Like adding bitter chai to warm milk, I covered myself with spicy saffron and smoky warmth to conceal the truth. I surrounded myself with a scent that I hoped would scare the rivals away building thick walls from weaknesses and
To many, it mig meaning to an overpriced smel that’s marketed toward the clientele as a promise of luxu I am ashamed to this, too But I c hide that puttin Babycat every si morning before room to face th p drops of confidence. I rejected going anywhere without it and felt naked if I forgot to spray it on I was concerned that if I did not wear it, the magic would go away, and I would be forced to display the person I so desperately hid from those around me
Then, one day, I forgot to put it on again, and I was left with no choice but to face the earth naked, with no walls of fragrance to protect or conceal me. I did not radiate the smell of Babycat, but, surprisingly, the energy (the self-confidence) stayed Then, something clicked: At the end of the day, it wasn’t the fragrance that kept me from the evil; it was all me Babycat was simply the push I needed
Babycat gave me the attitude that helped me keep going in life, and in a way, its scent still defines me But nowadays, I sometimes skip spraying it on me intentionally, as I know I don’t need it anymore
Buse Koldas is a junior from Istanbul, Turkey majoring in Chemical and Biomolecular Engineering She is an Editorin-Chief for The News-Letter. 6
RUI DO ROSARIO / DESIGN & LAYOUT EDITOR
Designing my chamber
Giuliana Opris
whitetop,I’llalwaysaddacolorfulstatementpiece, whether it’s my shoes or a fun hair clip. Likewise, I tried to take the same approach with my dorm room, incorporating as much colorasIcouldwithoutitbecomingdiscordant.
Aside from the posters and bedding, which add a lot to the color by themselves, I decided to experiment a little bit with somerandomdecoritems.
Someone once asked me if I would rather live in a city,coastal town,mountainrange,countrysideorcabininthewoods My answer to that question is this: all of them, at once, simultaneously somehow
During the summer, I want my room to be blue and white, withhintsofyellowandshellparaphernaliaallover Whenfall comes,Iamdrawntoearthtones:shadesofbrown,greenand orange And so on Sometimes, I crave the sleek aesthetic of a minimalist room Other times, I yearn for an almost claustrophobic maximalist room, full of random trinkets and posters that cover every inch of the walls Of course, I can’t completelyremakemyroomeverytimeanewseasonturnsor whenmymoodchanges
My favorite part of visiting someone’s house for the first time isseeingtheirbedroombecauseit’softenverypersonalized like a preview into who they are and what they like For a long time, I was very curious how people curated their rooms in a way that felt so perfectly catered to them without unraveling intocompletedisarray
My room at home is an accumulation of my teenage years, and I will probably never change it again It honestly feels wrong to do so In any case, I haven’t had to decorate a room fromscratchsinceIwasabouttwelve,andforthatmyparents didmostoftheheavylifting Ijustadded30+postersofHarry Styles and other favorite singers or movies, as well as some other random decor items that I’d gathered over the years So asyoucanimagine,comingtocollegeandhavingtofigureout howtodecoratemyroomfromsquareonewasverydifficult
Some of my friends choose to just leave their rooms kind of simple,puttingupafewlightsandmaybeaposterortwo,and that’s it I figured since I’m going to be here for a while, I might as well personalize it as much as I can and try to make itfeelhomey
One thing about me is I love adding a pop of color to everything.IfIamwearingasimpleoutfitlikejeansanda
The first piece is a light green shell container I bought during a trip to Aruba.I grew up in a relatively coastal town, and summer has been my favorite season,so I like to bring a bit of the beach with me wherever I go I put some of my chunkier beaded necklaces in this container,but if you know me, I love shopping, so it quickly overflowed This was actually unintentional, but I felt that letting the necklaces spill out a little bit would give it a more natural flair The second piece was a five-dollar heart-shaped tray I bought fromMarshalls Ihavealotmorespaceinmyroomthisyear, so the tray no longer serves a purpose, but I still wanted to incorporate it I had a small blue turtle from a beach town I visited, and I thought it would look cool if I placed that on the tray and made it “swim” through my star-shaped hair clips
I also have a wide range of interests and random hobbies, so I found a way to fuse those into my room as well. I printed out a bunch of small posters of my favorite movies, musical artists and best friends, as well as pretty pictures from my Pinterest boards and photographs I took myself. Every photo on my walls has a specific meaning to me,and I find it comforting to just stop and stare at them once in a while. Plus, I absolutely hate empty walls, so I filled the space as muchasIcould.
Alongside the photos, I added one of my small paintings, some flowers, books, my guitar and some fall decorations. I always make sure to have warm or colorful lighting so my main sources of light come from my fairy lights, lamp and orange leaf lights The bleak overhead light feels stark and cold, so I never turn it on During the day, sunlight fills my room, and at night, lamps and string lights create a warm andcomfortablevibe
My room offers a small glimpse into who I am and what I like I’m a very nostalgic and creative person,and everything in my room either serves as a reminder of what I care about, pieces from past experiences or random crafts I came up withonaslowday Myroomismysafehaven Apieceofme
GiulianaOprisisasophomoremajoringinFilm&MediaStudieswith aminorinMarketing&CommunicationsfromLongIsland,N Y
On being a potato
Jason Chang
The other day,in a desperate attempt to procrastinate on my dreadfully boring report on the microstructure and nanostructure of 304L grade stainless steel (sorry, Dr. Gracias), I navigated away from the dozens of review papers on my screen and into the promised land of BuzzFeed quizzes. After a few minutes of mindlessly scrolling, a few holy pixels found their way to my eyes: a quiz promising to tell me what kind of a potato I was I froze Was I Yukon Gold? Fingerling? Bintje? I simply had to find out
A few rigorous rounds of questions later including “How would you feel as a potato?” and “What would you pair potatoes with?” I hit submit and eagerly awaited the results. My heart raced. Sweat beaded on my forehead. I hadn’t felt this nervous since the ACTs. And for the grand reveal? I was a russet potato Womp womp The most common potato in America BuzzFeed was essentially calling me basic. Heart shattered, I dejectedly went back to typing away about austenite-ferrite transformations.
But here’s the thing: Why do I even care? Why am I (and don’t lie, so are many of you as well) so drawn to these silly online quizzes, horoscopes or MBTI types? After all, we all know on some logical level that they are meaningless We’re the generation that grew up hearing over and over again that people don’t fit into neat little boxes that labels are limiting and every one of us is unique. Yet time and time again, we keep crawling back to the very categories that we claim to reject.
The truth is, boxes aren’t always so bad Yes, they can be suffocating, but they can also be comforting Think of your cat, who insists on squeezing herself into a tiny cardboard box while the plush $90 cat bed you bought her (with adaptive heating technology!) lies barren right beside it Or think of us, returning each night to hole up in our own four walls. Boxes, for all their limits, make us feel contained, grounded and safe.
What’s more, sometimes it feels good to be categorized, or to be given a label that just makes sense. From Harry Potter houses to sports teams, it can feel good to fit in and belong to a clearly defined group It can help make us feel seen; we feel like something or someone sees us for who we are and has decided that we fit. It doesn’t matter where, just at least somewhere even if it’s a silly little digital quiz running
a simple algorithm to decidedly declare us an “empathetic lampshade.” In a world that often feels lonely, there’s a small warmth in recognizing yourself in a few lines of text and thinking, “Hey, that does kinda sound like me!” When my middle school teacher made us take the Myers-Briggs personality test,I landed as an INFJ: the advocate.And while even back then I knew the test was largely pseudoscience, it made me feel special when a Google search declared INFJ as the rarest personality type It helped a lost, lonely little kid feel a puff of pride to know there was a group somewhere he belonged to.
And there’s truth in that comfort Research shows that constraints can enhance creativity and boost productivity. Boundaries can help us focus.Boxes can give us form they can shape,rather than trap
But the trick is knowing when to climb out. Boxes are meant to be a temporary shelter of comfort, not a permanent home They hold us when we need them and give us a place to start, yet true growth only occurs when we venture beyond them.
Take our lovely potato What many people don’t know is that potatoes actually belong to the Solanaceae family,commonly known as nightshades. Nightshades are famous for their toxicity and potatoes are no different the stems and leaves of wild potatoes contain potentially deadly glycoalkaloids. Yet the indigenous people of South America saw potential where others only saw poison. They learned to cultivate the plant and safely consume it as a staple food source If they had never categorized it as poisonous in the first place, people could have fallen prey to its poison. But if they had never dared to take it beyond those simple boxes they tucked them away in, we might have never known wonders like fries,chips or tortilla de patatas
So perhaps that’s the lesson. It is okay to find comfort in a box We all do But don’t let the box you reside in define the edges of your entire world Take a lesson from the potato After all, given enough time, even the lowly russet will grow strong roots deep enough to reach beyond the box it came in
Jason Chang is a first-year master’s student studying Chemical and BiomolecularEngineeringfromWoodbury,Minn.
“You’re a Taurus, right?”
I stared at my humanities classmate as she guessed my Zodiac sign right on. I had always loved comparing my Zodiac sign with those of my friends for fun, though never seriously But in that moment, I was forced to confront myself as I thought, “Maybe this astrology thing is accurate for me after all ”
Lizzy Rao
To be (a bull) or not to be (a bull)?
The Western Zodiac signs are a group of 12 constellations that are determined by a person’s birthday Some believe that their astrological sign reveals something about their personality and future. Since I was born between April 20 and May 20, my Zodiac sign is Taurus, which is represented by a bull According to astrology, I’m supposed to be loyal, stubborn and indulgent, among other traits But do I really agree with this set of attributes that were assigned the day I was born?
Let me start with loyalty Loyalty is one of my core values, and it has grown as I’ve matured Of course I’m not perfect at this, but I believe my loyalty shows through my commitment to the people and things I love As an older sister, loyalty plays a big role in my relationship with my brother. Whether I’m critiquing his piano, defending him against our parents or just goofing off with him in the car, I am there for him whenever he needs me. Even through high school, when I saw him less, I made sure to stay in touch with him and be present in challenging times In my friendships, this same devotion applies. Sometimes it means canceling my plans to catch up with a friend who needs to talk and vent So, as a Taurus, I take pride in this trait.
One of the other traits commonly associated with Taurus is stubbornness At first glance, I would wholly disagree with that assessment. I’d say that I’m pretty flexible and don’t insist on my own way. When making plans with others, for example, I let others decide. When something unexpected pops up, I go with the flow and adapt to the new situation pretty well And more recently, I’ve been pushing myself out of my comfort zone But my stubbornness comes through in subtler ways I refuse to sleep until I get what I want done. It has also shown itself as perseverance, like when I nearly quit rowing and piano a while ago. The obstinate Taurus in me wouldn’t let me give up, and with encouragement from my classmates and seniors, I pushed through
Taureans are also considered to be practical. In some contexts, this does apply to me I get pessimistic when something feels unrealistic. But I would disagree elsewhere Whenever I approach something, I like to find the deeper meaning beneath the surface. Instead of just putting in the work just because it works, I ask myself, “Why does this work?” or “Is there something more that can help me comprehend it better?” In my classes, exploring the origins of the things I learn has helped me grasp their applications more profoundly. And as an arts kid, I’ve always loved decoding the artist’s true intentions behind their work. My favorite moment from art history class was learning how light in a Caravaggio painting could mean divine intervention. When listening to Chopin’s first Ballade, the agony and ecstasy are so palpable, and I wonder what he had experienced while writing it So while I can be practical sometimes, I’d say I’m more of a dreamer
Finally, Taureans are also characterized as indulgent I will admit: I tend to prioritize my comfort and instant gratification It’s why I’m a huge procrastinator I’ve also let myself have a bit too much fun when I knew I had more pressing things to do I am working on this, though, and I’ve slowly started to build discipline and use my time more wisely When I feel the impulse to buy something cool yet unnecessary, I say no to myself and practice self-control.
So, the final verdict? I actually agree, at least somewhat While these characteristics help me reflect on and understand myself better, I do think it’s a bit of an oversimplification I refuse to be confined like a particle in a box. As I continue on my Hopkins journey, I hope to keep exploring myself and get out of my comfort zone. Perhaps I’ll find myself even further away from some of the stereotypical Taurus traits I will hold onto this one truth: I am not defined by a set of stars or the day I was born.
Lizzy Rao is a freshman majoring in Applied Mathematics and Statistics and Biophysics from Newtown, Pa
My Spotify receipt: a list of the people I love
Lana Swindle
When I signed up to write an article about what my Spotify receipt reveals about me, I didn’t really think about how embarrassing it might look. Signing into Receiptify a few weeks later, however, I can’t deny I was a little nervous: This would be published for everyone to see And usually,when I’m listening to music, I’m not thinking much about public perception.When I saw what it looked like,though,I realized there was a lot in there: a lot about me, what I like, who I am A lot that wasn’t actually embarrassing (with the exception of TheLastofUssoundtrack,butletagirlhaveherTVshows).
What interested me most was that most of the songs in here are reflections of home, or the people I love While my receipt changed in the days I spent writing this article, I noticed people pop in and out, showing their quiet (or, technically, loud) influence on my music taste, and how I listen to their music to think about them, hold them close. Maybe this is how I miss my parents, or stop missing them by listening totheirmusic.ButIshouldstartwithsomebackground.
I love music. I’m listening to it most of the day and my main genres are probably Bollywood, country, classic rock and maybe some Western classical, sprinkled with artists like Crooked Still and Marcin, who kind of stand on their own in my music. A lot of it comes from my family. I grew up listening to my dad’s classic rock and my mom’s Bollywood and‘90sgrunge
When I got Spotify in freshman year of high school, I started listening to my own music, not my parents’. I was listening to musical soundtracks, Ariana Grande, and lots and lots of Kpop But my family and I started really sharing music after I started college.We soon compiled a family playlist,consisting of 40 songs 10 songs selected by each family member. We played it a lot in the evenings, at dinner parties, while washing dishes Despite the occasional groan and complaint about another’s choice, our music tastes started to grow and overlap. Now, I share music with my family all the time. And while my foundations come from my parents (and my K-pop era), I keep adding to that basis with my own exploration I have a “new songs” playlist where I compile everything I’m currently listening to, and my family will listen to it occasionally for inspiration It’s become a symbiotic relationship
Now enough context let’s get into my Spotify receipt. I won’t go into everything on this in great detail I can’t quite explain(orjustify)everysongonhere Somearen’treflectiveof
anything they’rejustunexpectedlymine Thefirstone,for example,a song off ShakenByALowSound by Crooked Still,a band I found after watching The Last of Us (we might be seeing a pattern here), isn’t reflective of anyone but me. I can’t explain why I like it, just that I do Ravi Shankar’s “Discovery of India” is sitar music I found during a Spotify rabbit hole, and “Burden In My Hand” has been my obsession for the last two months or so (ask anyone I regularly share music with, as they can confirm coincidentally,alsofromTheLastofUs).
But there are some that are more interesting Van Halen’s “316,”forexample Istartedlisteningtothisquiterandomly I was sitting one day in The News-Letter Gatehouse and it popped into my head suddenly, a memory. Then it jumped intomyOnRepeat.Nowit’sinmyreceipt,too.Ifyou’veheard ofVanHalen,youmightthinkofofthegroupasanaggressive hard rock band from the ‘70s and ‘80s with some fantastic songsandsomereallyincredibleguitarwork.“316”isdifferent fromitsusualsongs,though It’sthisstrangelyacoustic,quiet guitar tune that Eddie Van Halen sometimes uses to transitionbetweenintense guitar solos. Its name comes from his son’s birthdate. I only know this song (and its history) because sometimes, when I’m home, hanging out with my parents after dinner, my dad will play a semi-low-quality YouTubevideoofaVanHalenperformance,withthistuneas aninterlude,andwe’llsittherelisteningtoittogether.Ididn’t realize it would spontaneously come back to me and find its wayhere,nearthetopofmyReceiptify
The Bollywood songs on my receipt there are many, as you can see are my mom They come from the music playing from her computer in the morning or from the old playlists on the TV when we cook together (we don’t like cooking in silence). It’s especially the older songs that make methinkofhome,assheplaysthemmorefrequently,butall ofmyHindimusicremindsmeofher
I wasn’t expecting my Receiptify to feel so much like the people I love my parents, especially or, less seriously, so much like The Last of Us (I promise I have a normal relationship to this show). But it’s sort of interesting to see how it reflects me, and not just me, but the people who shapeme,too
Lana Swindle is a junior majoring in Writing Seminars and Philosophy from Princeton, N.J. She is an Editor-in-Chief for The News-Letter
Harlem Square in my headphones: soul-twist in the quiet corners of August Bryce Leiberman
Sam “King of Soul” Cooke’s 1963 epic, his album Live at the Harlem Square Club Hidden beneath a steadily strumming upright bassline and lightly up-tempo drum swing, Cooke’s masterful crowd work combines with a raucous, enraptured audience to create one of the most magical 36-minute sets I’ve ever heard It’s the kind of music that makes you want to roll yourwindowsdownonaquietsummernight,thetypeofsongs that find a way to penetrate a bad mood with a specific kind of impossible-to-ignore,jumping-up-and-downpassion.
In lyrical simplicity, soul music captures the essence of everything that is so keenly right in the world. It transcends chords,strings and vocals to evoke some higher power Cooke’s high-pitchedrhythmicscream,heardontheoutroto“Havinga Party”epitomizesthenearlyreligiousatmospherecultivatedby the short but memorable concert. There was extraordinarily little room for interpretation within the four walls of Harlem Square,whichisthebeautyofitall.Cooke’swordsignitedafire in a world that was so clearly rigged against him, one that was eagerforhimtofail
AnactivistfortheCivilRightsMovement,Cookesharedsocietal and personal struggles through “Chain Gang” and “Bring it on Home to Me” His music was a triumphant display of authenticity at a time when racism was a prevalent worldview inAmerica.
Cooke’s sincere craft shines above all; his unfeigned truthfulness to himself is what managed to reach me decades after his performance. As unorthodox as it sounds, soul music has saved me more than once during my time at Hopkins. Arriving on campus in mid-August was supposed to be a flood to the senses like a moon landing onto some foreign planet The impersonal, packed Rec triumphantly showcased double the number of people who attended my high school, and the expectant smiles of people I hadn’t yet met left me with a dully sour taste in my mouth I couldn’t quite swallow the fact that Homewood didn’t feel like my home, and these people didn’t seemquitelikethefriendsIgrewupwith.
I walked around my new double room with the silent acknowledgement that I wouldn’t go home until Thanksgiving, and that didn’t hurt. The weight of distance didn’t overwhelm me, and it certainly didn’t bring joy; a silent cognizance of my new life was vacancy, not acceptance That is, until I lay out on my twin XL bed, toes comfortably touching the footboard, put myheadphonesonandclosedmyeyes.
I’m immediately transported to a homey, neon-lit nightclub in Miami’s Overton neighborhood, with a very much alive Sam Cooke urging me,“Don’t fight it, just feel it ” He lets the music overtakehim,therushoftheensembleenvelopingthecrowdin waves.It’salmostdifficulttoseehimastheairgrowsthickwith smoke, a grayish haze covering the pit before the gospelinspired “Soul Twist” generates a foot-stomping singalong For just a moment, I’m able to let the doubt and otherness wash over me, and I wallow in the singular aloneness of starting a newlife300milesfrommyoldone.Cookegrantsmeunspoken permissiontogrieve,toallowsadness
Enduring pain doesn’t have to be a negative experience.I know thatI’dratherfeellostthanfeelnothingatall.
Alittleoverhalfanhourlater,Igentlypressabuttonontheside of my head, making a silent but graceful exit with what I’d like tothinkisaknowingnodbetweenacivilrightsiconandawhite guy from Connecticut Snapping back into reality through the buzzoftheACunit,myeyesmovefromthepaintedwhitebrick slowly toward my in-need-of-a-vacuum floor. Pinpricks on the canvaswallarethumbtack-sizedtributestothesingers,movies and people that have shaped those who lived before me The fluorescentlightsofacollegedormroomareabrutalcontrastto thelowlightsofajazzclub,butI’llmanage.
Putting my feet on the carpeted ground again, my next step is notconfidentbutaware.Idon’tknowwherethey’lltakeme,but it’shardtobedespondentwithavoiceinmyearsinging:
Bryce Leiberman is a freshman studying Political Science and PhilosophyfromMadison,Conn
COURTESY
WANG
Room Kait
ome! Sorry the elevator took so long, it tends to do You can take your shoes off by the door
of my favorite things about this room is the window ht ahead. Since the whole space is shaped like a long hallway, the afternoon sun really floods in over my desk chair especially, which is a great midday study pick-me-up
you walk in, you'll see an open closet to your left. On the nging shelves, I have sweatshirts and dance clothes ced within easy reach in case I need to change quickly in e middle of the day. Right across from the closet, by the or, is a standing mirror.
r down are a set of two low plastic drawers I've had since freshman year. I've always used them to keep s from home, which I've slowly brought less and less e learned, now, that home won't disappear if I don't pack every bit of it up with me) Miscellaneous akes like cards from friends, old paintings and past ns of TheNews-Letter also populate those drawers.
d on top, there's a printer! My lovely, lovely Computer ce friends, who have witnessed my Writing Seminars gle to print pages before classes for the past three bought me one for my 21st birthday It was the ute best gift and the biggest surprise
by the big window is my desk, populated by too many filled notebooks, writing craft books and two metal ainers of stationery. There are, more often than not, ral mugs of different liquids on various coasters nd my desk I am, unfortunately as my favorite r V E Schwab has coined in her newsletter a ks goblin" when it comes to getting work done.
ed in a pile are old copies of The New Yorker, adopted my possession from a small library in Provincetown g a road trip with a great friend. There's also a small f i l hat reminds me of a favorite n
I have my favorite books e sill, bookended by a stone b ht during a work
This window has two parts, so on the thick fram out, halving it, I've placed two prints: a painted li Delaware gifted to me back when my road trip bu freshmanyearroommateandawatercolorofthe from my study abroad in Rome two summers ago center, I've hung a dream catcher that commem dog,whopassedjustthissummer.
To the right of my window sits a small bookshelf t sincefreshmanyear Everytimeanyorganizationoreventh ever handed out a free sticker, I've stuck it along this sam panel of my bookshelf. Now it has everything from dozens TEDx and APTT stickers to a 25 Year Celebration sticker fro theNationalBookFestival
Besidethat,inanook,sitsmybed,completewithathrowand a reading lamp stuck to the far corner of the wall And pillar that juts slightly out from the wall at the foot of I’ve put up a little card that I found on a beach trip bac with my mom: it’s a Paulo Coelho quote that reads, lovedbecauseoneisloved Noreasonisneededforlov
I used to worry that I’d leave myself behind at home or Baltimore, that I’d split my life between these two p that neither would ever feel complete,but I think the o has happened.Somehow,even with a move to a new campu adjacent apartment every year, both places have become p ofme,bothhavebecomehome Maybeit’sassimpleasCoel says,aplace,anyplace,manyplaces,canfeellikehome becausetheydo.Noreasonisneeded.
This article is abridged in print and the complete versi be found online
Kaitlin Tan is a senior majoring in Writing S nila, Philip r
Katara, Toph and Suki: my
feminist origin story
Ayden Min
I sat on the floor a lot as a kid Our hardwood floors were the perfect temperature to escape the heat of the summer daylight, and I would spend many afternoons starfished out on the floor, zoning out, or playing with my older brother’s LEGOs while waiting for my mom to finish cooking lunch. I would often sit in front of our family television a smaller, chunky VIZIO model at the time and watch whatever episode of Avatar: The Last Airbender (ATLA) was airing on Nickelodeon. I would sit there and watch episodes with my brother until the screen got hot and my mom told me I was sitting too close to the TV; that my vision would get worse. Only then would I tear my eyes away from whatever waterbending battle Katara was up to and scoot back, maybe three inches, still cross-legged.
If you ask me what my favorite character from ATLA was, I’d probably have a different answer each week. But one thing that will run in common is that it will always be one of the female characters I didn’t know it back then, but I like to think that those characters inspired my early impressions of feminism According to my mom, my favorite Disney princess was always either Mulan or Tiana. Yes, Mulan became a strong soldier and saved her country, but I saw her greatest strengths in her compassion for others And yes, Tiana worked herself to the bone to open her restaurant, but behind that was undying affection and understanding of community Some part of me always believed in “girl power” before I even understood what “politics” meant.
In ATLA, the female characters are written with so much nuance and care, but crafted in such unique ways, that it teaches young girls that they can care about different things and still be strong Katara is sympathetic almost to a fault, but her greatest strengths come from her decisions to help others in need Toph’s blatant confidence taught me that it is not overzealous to have pride in yourself and your achievements, and Suki’s perseverance showed me that girls can do hard things just as well as boys can As juvenile as these statements may sound, I truly think that ATLA was and still is
crucial to how I thought about myself and my abilities, especially at such a young age So whenever I start to doubt myself or feel lost in this big world, I find myself returning to the struggles of the ATLA girls, see myself in them, and know that things will eventually turn out alright.
Perhaps most importantly, this show shaped not just my inner values, but also my role in applying these values to the world around me One of the most complex themes of ATLA is war, genocide and the effects of these humanitarian crises on people in very real ways. Yet, the plot is written in such a way that makes themes of justice and conflict digestible to anyone and everyone The female characters are never reduced to being only the providers or nurturers, but rather, they are major and powerful actors in the progression of the plot’s events and arcs Seeing these girls and not just the loud, antagonized military men achieve big things and (quite literally) save the world instilled an early sense of hope in the soul of younger me. They are given agency and independence, and are able to think through complex dilemmas using their own experiences and worldview In a plot where stakes are high and people are victimized by a century-long war, seeing girls as some of the most important problem-solvers is one of the biggest reasons why I still turn to the show for encouragement and strength.
Looking back on my childhood, my parents never pushed the stereotypical “girly” things on me. Sure, I did ballet and tap dance for a bit, but I also had my very own bright blue Razor RipStik and played a lot of video games with my brother. During my preteen years, I went through a tomboy-ish phase (and yes, an emo/punk rock phase as well), but I also liked shopping, trying on all of my mom’s dresses during spring cleaning, and painting my nails in different shiny colors I do not attempt to strictly define feminism, girlhood or gender by saying this, but I say this because only recently have I really come to understand that younger girl that was me Now I know it was not the activities, outfits or hobbies themselves that defined who I was, but rather the traits, attitudes and values that I kept
h me I will always be proud of the little girl that stood up for he
ound as hard as she could during ss, and was not afraid of getting her pink tights a little dirty during a day of kindergarten
So whenever I need a pick-me-up, I can always count on ATLA to lighten my load. Part of it is the lighthearted dialogue and the fact that I’ve watched it so many times I’ve nearly memorized it all But most importantly, the girls in he show guided me in finding my way through girlhood. And whenever I watch the show, I feel like I’m sitting right next to younger me, wide-eyed and sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor.
I wrote a poem once titled “The Modern Prometheus,” one that had to do with Victor Frankenstein and the curse of ambition I don’t mean for it to be as dramatic as it sounds even though I tend to play into the tortured genius angle too much sometimes. Victor and I share a bad habit: we can’t stop creating things that destroy our sleep schedules While Victor made a monster, I make Word documents. His creation terrorized villages; mine terrorizes Google Docs with track changes and coffee stains
But beneath the melodrama of lightning bolts and laboratory tables, I get him: the obsessive note-taking, the way that guilt can feel productive and the temptation to tinker with something until it’s no longer yours and it’s gone from its original conception.
When I first read Frankenstein, I thought that Victor’s tragedy was that he played god But reading it again, I realized that it was because he couldn’t bear the responsibility of what he had made. I’ve spent enough time rereading my drafts to know what it feels like to be horrified by your own work There’s always that one paragraph that makes me go, oh god, who let me write that?
I think that Victor had the perfect makings of a burnedout honors student the kind who “forgets to eat” because he’s too busy chasing enlightenment through a stack of primary sources. If he were alive today, he’d have a caffeine addiction, a teaching assistant position and an unfinished thesis titled “On the Nature of Creation and the Consequences of the Pursuit of Knowledge (Working Draft).”
I’d probably be in the next carrel over, doing the exact same thing. I’ve been guilty, more than once, of trying to play god with my own work. I’ll resurrect a sentence that should’ve stayed dead or sew together the best parts of ten drafts and still hate the way that it looks Like Victor, I expect my creations to thank me, but they just stare back ugly and incomplete and I recoil like he did
But the thing about being overbearing is that it’s hard to stop. I’ve written papers that read like confessions, journal entries that sound like research abstracts and discussion posts that might as well be eulogies for my sanity
And maybe that’s why Victor resonates with me so much: he’s the blueprint for every overthinker who has ever tried to build something meaningful and ended up accidentally creating a mess. He wanted to create life and I just want to make something that feels alive. He was consumed by guilt and I’m consumed by self-editing
So Victor and I are one and the same, except I’m hunched over my laptop instead of a laboratory table, lit by the blue glow of Google Docs instead of lightning My monster doesn’t roam mountains, but it lives in my drafts folder, waiting for me to be brave enough to finish it. Maybe one day I’ll build something that I’m not afraid of
Victor never realized that his monster wasn’t the problem it was his own fear of imperfection. I do the same thing when I let an unfinished Google Doc sit in my Drive like a creature banished to the Arctic. I tell myself I’ll return to it when I’m “ready,” and I never am.
In the end, the truth is that I’ll never stop chasing that spark, hat jolt of life that comes when a sentence finally lands or an idea finally breathes And that is what makes me different from Victor Frankenstein He ran from his creation and I’ll run towards mine, even if it keeps me up all night. Because in my chaos and caffeine, I’m still alive enough to make something new
Kaylee Nguyen is a sophomore majoring in Medicine, Science, and the Humanities and Writing Seminars from Pensacola, Fla. She is a News & Features Editor for The News-Letter.
Through the looking glass: a love letter to my digital camera
Samika Jain
I see her before she sees me. She lifts me from the desk, fingertips brushing the smudges from my lens, and for a moment, the world sharpens.
We’ve done this before: she presses a button, and with a mechanical click, I capture her world.
Today, Wyman Park glows under Baltimore’s gaze, and tomorrow, the sunset over Inner Harbor will feel like melancholy. Wherever she goes, I follow. Be it a small outing with her friends all the way to Fells Point, or a nostalgic rainy day on Homewood Campus that reminds her of home. Every time is ritualistic; the essence of it remains the same: I open my eyes, and she lets me translate what she can’t say. I capture how the water in the stream in Wyman Park folds into itself, how her friends and her smile under the city lights along the harbor a well-deserved break after midterms. I catch it all, hold it still for her.
It has been this way for a long, long time. First international travel. First day of high school. First prom First high school graduation walk rehearsal Even on her first day of college, back when she set me on the narrow shelf by the window of the dorm. Photos bloom around me her very first dorm picture, a shared laugh with her parents caught mid-motion.
I am not alive, but I remember
When she leaves for class, I wait in the dimness Dust drifts through the air, soft as the pixels that sleep within me Sometimes, I replay the last image I took. I don’t need words to understand; I read it in the light, in the shutter speed, in the way her hands linger on me when she’s lonely
When she lifts me to her face, she squints through me like I’m a window she can step into I show her what she already sees but more carefully, more slowly, stripped of all the white noise The world becomes shapes, lines,
patches of color, breaths of light Through me, she watches strangers on benches, squirrels darting across paths, friends clasping hands and leaning close to talk. I can tell she likes this people-watching through a lens, a valid excuse for an introverted hobby. She frames and reframes until a moment feels right.
At night, when the dorm lights go out and the campus quiets, my battery light glows faintly in the dark. A single red heartbeat Waiting Tomorrow she’ll pick me up again, and we’ll go out on campus once more. I’ll show her that the world is still worth looking at.
Then, a click, and the picture is mine to keep. And maybe, just maybe, it is hers too.
Samika Jain is a freshman studying Molecular and Cellular Biology from Mumbai, India.
I firmly believe that all you really have to do to get to know someone is to look through their bag (with consent, of course). The contents of a college student’s backpack tend to be fairly uniform:awaterbottle,lunch(maybe),pens,pencils,aniPad but the weight of those objects is not immediately visible to an outsideobserver.
Takemine,forexample.
The things I carry Shreya Tiwari
To every class,I carry my black leather laptop bag from Tumi with the gold accents, a "Welcome to Hopkins" gift from my parents, who were the only reason I made it here in the first place. With it, I carry their decades of hard work, the weight of living up to the promise of two brave immigrants, the baggage of living 1,345 miles away from my home for 10 months of the year.
I carry my new pastel purple water bottle, though I used to carryablackone,heavilydentedfromslippingoutofmyhands about a hundred thousand times. I carry what I like to call the "collegeessentials" myMac,myiPad,the0 5Bblackandblue G2ballpointpensI'vebeenusingsinceIwas15,pastelshadesof the trendy Muji highlighters and a small journal that contains myentirelife,whichIboughtinMalvern,Pa onaweekendtrip tovisitmybestfriendinthewholeworld.
But when I don’t have classes, I’m a tote bag girl. I carry the green and beige tote with multiple pockets for big meetings or long day trips. But on all other occasions, I carry my favorite: beige with a gradient of blue stripes and printed lettering that reads “My Weekend is Book-ed,” a gift from friends I haven’t spoken to in a year. I carry my favorite Burt’s Bees tinted lip shine and the same journal with a black G2 pen And above all, I always carry a snack: my chocolatecovered espresso beans or motichoor laddoo I brought back fromIndia,andmangojuicetodrink
Aroundmyneck,anobserverwouldseealeatherchokerwitha pink seashell fragment, a gift from an old friend. Or a silver chain but not the pendants hidden under my shirt They wouldn'tseetheteardroppendantfrommymomandthesilver Saturn-shaped pendant that matches my best friend back home, inspired by "Love you to the moon and to Saturn" from SevenbyTaylorSwift.
If someone were to inspect my bag, they would see a 3Dprintedwhitepenguinonakeychain,onethatperfectly
matches the“penguin-holding-a-gun”sticker on my laptop It becomes even more special when one discovers that the sticker is from a pop-up cafe hosted by one of my best friends strange, isn’t it? That a plastic penguin has now become a symbol of one of my favorite people, who always greets my friends and me with snacks and a new drink he wants me to taste-testforhismenu.
They’d see a blue 3D-printed frog attached to a broken chain, thefirsthandmadegiftIrememberreceiving.Theywouldsee the back of my phone in its clear case patterned with wildflowers, and if they squinted at the Polaroid, behind the case, they would see my roommate and me smiling in a picture taken on the first day of our second year living together They would see the book that's always hidden in my bag, a different one every week last week, it was Anne of GreenGables,a book I first read years ago and reread every fall torememberthemagicofamade-upworld.Theywouldseea box of green tea mints from Trader Joe’s, which I discovered with my high school best friends on our weekly trips to the shopping center in the Arboretum, and have been obsessed witheversince.
So do you see, reader? Memories, hope, love, loss all contained in a bag The objects contained in any college student’sbackpackresemblepiecesofthemselves Tome,every object in my own bag is a reminder that I carry more of myself than I realize.Who I am can fit into something that I can sling overmyshoulder
Shreya Tiwari is a junior majoring in Biomedical Engineering from Austin,Texas SheisaManagingEditorforTheNews-Letter
The rituals that bring me back
Eesha Bellad
Fall always feels like a pause I didn’t know I needed. The air shifts from the sticky ends of August to something sharper and quieter It feels like a change that pulls me back to focus on myself and escape the chaos. Between long study nights, half-finished conversations and the constant rush to keep up, I forget what it feels like to just be
But then I slow down I start reaching for the small things that help me breathe again, the habits that make the world feel a little less heavy. They’re not perfect routines or planned moments of reflection. They’re just the things that remind me I’m still here, that even in the middle of all the noise and motion, I can find a sense of calm that’s mine alone.
1.Pouringitout:Writingmywaytoclarity
When my mind starts spinning – to-do lists, emotions, conversations I keep replaying – I open a blank page Sometimes it’s a notebook, but often it’s a Google Doc, because my thoughts move faster than my hands can write. I type everything out, every anxious sentence and unfinished thought, until the noise in my head starts to form patterns.
Then, I organize the chaos. I group my worries into categories – academic, emotional, personal – and start to make small, actionable plans If I’m stressed about a test, I’ll write out a detailed study plan: what I’ll study each day, who I’ll review with, which methods work best for me. If I’m upset about something, I’ll ask myself why. I’ll write out every option I have: maybe I’ll reach out to the person, explain what I meant, or maybe I’ll sleep on it and check in with myself tomorrow.
Once it’s all there in words, I feel lighter. Having a plan, even a small one, makes the world feel less unpredictable Writing turns my mess into something manageable It’s not just journaling; it’s me taking my hands off the chaos and saying, okay,let’sbreathe.
2.Thesunassanctuary
move. I didn’t think. I just existed. Slowly, I began to notice the world again – the warmth soaking in, the faint hum of wind, the distant sound of birds For a few minutes, all the pressure melted away and the sun reminded me that the world keeps spinning, even when I feel stuck. In the quiet, I remember that nature binds us together and that provides me healing in its truest form Even if it lasts only a few minutes, it’s enough. It settles a quiet hope in my chest until I am strong enough to start again.
3.Curatingcalm
My Pinterest board is like a digital reflection of my soul: filled with golden retrievers, Buddha quotes, watercolor art, ranches bathed in sunlight and little fragments of mindfulness.It’s a world I’ve built for myself,and I’ve always believed that the world we live in isn’t just the one we’re born into,but the one we create
So I create mine with care. When I’m overwhelmed between classes or studying, I’ll take a few minutes to do something small and grounding Sometimes I grab a henna cone and doodle across my hands,swirls and flowers that disappear in a week but bring me calm instantly. Other times I’ll rip the edge off a paper I’m reading and draw whatever I’m feeling – maybe an image of a place I wish I could escape to, maybe just shapes that make no sense but somehow soothe me
I’ll listen to songs that sound like how I want to feel: Mirrorball by Taylor Swift, Silver Soul by Beach House, Her by American Dawn, Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve. For a few minutes, I’m somewhere else – in a world I’ve built from sound and color. These small creative acts remind me that even when life feels chaotic, I still have control over how I see beauty.
Epilogue:Returningtomyself
Fall teaches me that letting go isn’t always an ending Sometimes it’s clearing space for peace to grow again. My rituals are my leaves – small, quiet acts of surrender – and when I let them fall, I always find something softer underneath
There’s a certain kind of therapy the sun gives that nothing else can. I grew up in Southern California, where sunlight is routine, golden and steady. During winter break once, I was so overwhelmed that even journaling, the one thing that usually helps, felt impossible So I went outside I lay down in the sun and let the light spill over my skin. I didn’t
This article is abridged in print and the complete version can be foundonline.
If you look past the chaotic mess of a college student’s desk scattered with free stickers, pens, the half-empty Brita and a plant that’s probably a couple of seconds from death, you’re bound to see something that looks like “trash ” For my roommate and me, that trash takes the form of a round plastic box,filled to the brim with cookies
An (almost nightly) cookie stealing ritual
Aliyah Merchant
Just one and a half months prior, I didn’t even want to bring this box with me.In the midst of the night before leaving for move-in, filled with tears and anxieties for the four years ahead,my mom tucked the box of Costco cookies into one of the many bags. I really tried to leave it behind, claiming I wouldn’t eat them, but my mom handed it to me with her usual gentle insistence, “Take it. You’ll want something sweet.You can at least share some with your friends.”
For the first two days of orientation week, the cookies remained untouched on my windowsill, a somewhat bittersweet reminder of home that I refused to open.In fact, the box remained closed for a very long time until one random night, when a couple of people on my floor got together in the lounge to eat food. If you asked me to truly think back to it, I really couldn’t tell you why I decided to bring the cookies with me. Maybe I was finally craving a bit of home, or I was scared they would spoil if I waited too long, or maybe my mom’s words were echoing in my mind
No matter the reason, I’m so glad I did take them with me
The cookies were quickly distributed among everyone, the centerpiece of a night of stories and laughs Within minutes, the once-overflowing box was empty, surrounded by laughter,crumbs and the first threads of friendship
Just as any normal person would have done, I moved to throw the container in the trash that night Just as my hand hovered over the trash can, my roommate, who had grown a strong affinity for Nolan’s cookies, stopped me “What if we kept the box and kept refilling it with dining hall cookies?” she suggested, “That way we can have them throughout the day if we’re hungry”
I won’t lie and say I thought the idea was brilliant from the start Actually, I thought she was just speed-running our freshmen 15s before the official semester even started. But the longer we kept the box, the more value it served, aside from just having constant access to a sweet treat (we had expanded from plain chocolate chip to sugar cookies, snickerdoodles, practically everything aside from disgusting oatmeal raisin and white chocolate lemon cookies…). From sneaking out way too many cookies from the dining hall in between napkins to refill it, to placing the container in the
center of many late-night suite talks or simply offering them to the girls next door, the “cookie box” became a means of bonding, conversation and connection that I had sought to find since I left home
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had thrown the box away. I would have lost more than just a container I would have lost the rituals that grew around it, the way it softened the loneliness of transition between high school and college, the way it came to represent the in-between space of leaving one life and beginning another So, I suppose I can begrudgingly admit that my mother and roommate were right, although they’ll never let me hear the end of it.
Autumn simultaneously feels like a season of holding on and letting go The trees fade in between cool greens and warm reds. The air hovers between warm afternoons and chilled evenings. Life is changing fast, time spinning us around so quickly that it can be hard to keep up Sometimes, it’s holding onto the little things that can anchor us back to the present. Whether that object is the crumpled, tiny Polaroid of you and your grandparents in your bag, a dirty childhood toy or even something as simple as a box of cookies, I’ve learned the value of holding onto the “trash” onto the small things that offer more value than you may think. Because sometimes keeping them, even when it seems pointless, gives it the chance to mean something later.
Aliyah Merchant is a freshman majoring in Chemical and BiomolecularEngineeringfromHillsborough,N J
Cooking won’t hold your hand
Lauren Kim
Cooking is a friend that doesn’t hold your hand
It leaves you to figure things out on your own: mischievous, unforgiving and always watching. If you’re using a recipe, it can act like an unhelpful supervisor, setting expectations without ever checking in It won’t stop you from burning garlic or tell you that your “medium-high heat” is really the scorching sun. Still, it waits for your next move, smugly patient
I met cooking as a stranger My first professional kitchen job this past summer scared me not the food itself, but the possibility of ruining it. My hands didn’t move with rhythm, and I couldn’t tell if what I made needed more salt, fat, acid or heat But family meals at 4 p m always saved the day
Every evening, the kitchen cooked for everyone, front and back of house, and we’d eat outside on the closed-off sidewalk on Broome Street We made hearty meals out of whatever was about to go bad in the walk-in: hearty bouillabaise from scraps, tacos with leftover short rib, even Kansas City-style barbecue on a whim. Even our simplest meals spiced, stewed ground meat with rice, our “slop” meals felt like fine dining to me As I sat and ate, I felt the warmest I ever had. I wanted to do that someday: to feed people, to make them feel cared for, to cook without hesitation
Cooking became a kind of companion after that, but one that refused to coddle me I had to listen to the olive oil with its dancing streaks that told me it’s hot enough, to the small bubbling around the edge of the pot that whispered it’s time to cover the rice A pan hums when you’re paying attention
Failure in cooking can leave you with a warped image of yourself someone careless with their ingredients, oblivious to what’s right in front of them But for many of us, away from home for the first time and left to fend for ourselves, college becomes our first real trial by fire. Cooking isn’t passed down the way it used to be, and most of us are winging it It’s humbling, but also strangely generous, because each mistake builds intuition You start to know how much oil and salt to toss your vegetables in before roasting them and what “done” looks like for something you’ve never made before
Cooking teaches you to set standards for yourself and not abandon them. That kind of confidence naturally follows you outsidethekitchen.
That’s not to say that cooking doesn’t have its opinions.As soon asIthinkI’vefiguredsomethingout,I’lldropayolkonthefloor or overshoot the salt by a mile; it’s dramatic that way. Often I’ll talk back curse at the pan, apologize to the quality produce, laugh when something somehow tastes good despite everything Icantellthisfriendissmirkingbackatme
Sometimes I feel urges to cook so strong that it borders on childish. I remember sneaking Oreos from their plastic wrap (we didn’t have the classic American glass cookie jars) or making unusual combinations I saw online, like toast with peanut butter, half-sour pickles and chili oil Those are examples of the simplest cravings: the least divisible proofs of what makes us human. Now in college, I crave the freshness of something acidic and herbaceous when the week feels foggy; at other times, I crave the warmth of a broth heavy with stock when I miss home. Cravings don’t lie, but they’re tricky to translate, hard to materialize into a meal in front of you Cooking makes that push-and-pull, almost animalistic ritual challenging and deeply satisfying Your stomach will whine until you listen.
On Saturday mornings, I wander through the farmers’ market without a list. My curiosities lead me: the last tomatoes of summer, “the best basil ever,” shiitakes and Swiss chard for soup.Now,apples.Igobacktomydorm,startcooking,tasteas I go and have a quiet conversation between my senses and what’s in front of me.My dorm kitchen is small and mean.The burnersarejanky,theoverheadfansoundslikeadyinganimal, and I have to use random mugs in place of measuring cups Still, there’s something meditative about it There’s an eerie kind of silence when something’s almost done cooking, a quiet thatfeelslikewaitingforsomeoneyouknowwillshowup.
SometimesIwonderifcookingwilleverstopfeelinglikemagic. Maybe one day I’ll know exactly what I’m doing, but I don’t think that’s what it wants from me Cooking likes to keep me guessing to look closer, to taste again, to trust my gut. If I ever stop being surprised by it, maybe it’ll mean it stopped beingmyfriend
Lauren Kim is a sophomore majoring in Philosophy and International StudiesfromCortlandtManor,N.Y.
My gratitude journal Yuyu
Huang
Ms Toomey, my IB Arts teacher, introduced me to the idea of the gratitude journal She asked students in our class to identify three things we felt thankful for in our lives. We started with standard answers like parents, friends and pets before the list grew unbounded: water bottles, phone cases and the school cafeteria, which served the crowd-favorite chicken tender box. Soon, students began competing to see who could be more inventive with their gratitude after realizing that even the most mundane objects could be worthy of a thank-you note
I forewent this adorable practice after high school but finally picked it up again this semester Each morning, reflecting on those precious moments has been a persistent ritual before another hectic day at Hopkins. Here’s a little peek into some of the elements that have frequently appeared in my journal:
Torani hazelnut sugar-free syrup + Starbucks dark roast icedcoffee
I landed on this sweet-bitter duo after my grocery foraging Despite trying every ready-to-drink coffee I could get my hands on, from Califia Farms to La Colombe to Stok, I eventually came back to Starbucks. As a self-proclaimed food critic, I feel slightly ashamed of surrendering to a mass-market product, but my taste buds fell for its chocolate-like nuttiness, smoothness and low acidity. I typically add a drizzle of hazelnut-flavored syrup to the drink to enrich the profile As someone who’s fallen into a fitness-void sleep pattern at Hopkins (I could honestly live in any time zone, depending on my schedule this semester), I’m grateful for this morning brew, especially over ice, for bringing me just enough palate glee to rise for
Huaweismartwatch
“Little tiger uncle,” a perennial runner and my mom’s longtime friend from college who coincidentally shares her birthday, gifted it to me. At the time, I never thought jogging would become a must for my everyday. The watch functions as a dependable personal trainer during my runs I track my heart rate with the watch because it helps avoid exhaustion during my 50-minute exercise sessions. I’m also fond of its sleep-tracking feature for a mischievous reason: there’s a sinful joy in seeing less than six hours of sleep after my sleep cycle is mysteriously disrupted, as the number could excuse me for one more hour of sleep.
TheNews-Letter
TheJohnsHopkinsNews-Letter has been the name shimmering through my gratitude sessions. Brainstorming and editing and writing for this organization serve as my favorite type of escape: I reserve them for my
relaxation time after clearing out schoolwork and chores It provides an imaginative and qualitative oasis. When an interviewer once asked what fun project I’d been working on lately, this magazine was the first thing that came to mind It was perhaps the most authentic answer I’d given beneath the pretentiousshellofprofessionalism.
FriendsOandV
You two are my besties at Hopkins Before you, I wasn’t used to putting my affection into words. I used to think that actions weremoreimportantuntilyoudemonstratedthattheycarrythe sameweightandthatlettingthembeheardhasitsownvalue
O, you once asked me why I’m so good to you but have you forgottenthatyouweretheonewhoshowedkindnessfirst?You may never know the jolt I felt when you told me that knowing mewasthebestthingthathappenedtoyouduringthetimewe shared on that research team. You were and still are the first person I turn to whenever keeping my need to vent at bay feels impossible You’veenduredcountlessramble-likejokesofmine, alwaysreplyingwithequalwitanddiscretion.
V, you’ve thrown too many compliments my way In a way, I feel I don’t quite deserve them (but I’m trying to live up to them). We visited Clavel together and your insistence on venturing off the well-trodden path of tacos led me to dazzle in their luscious ceviches, the best I’ve ever had My impressionofyoulingeredinthatsunnyafternoon SoIwasa little surprised when you revealed to me your sentimental side. Thankfully, the worst is already behind you. I always knew you’d make it you’re so intelligent yet kind to everyone I’mgenuinelyproudofallthatyou’veaccomplished
2012 was an odd year for me. There were ups, and there were downs,andthereweremanymomentsinbetween
The ups: I started kindergarten in March I watched The Avengers in May and fell in love with superheroes (ongoing). I turned6inJuly finally,nolongertheboringageof5.
The downest of all downs: in July, as I was stepping into my town’s supermarket to buy ice cream, the owner accidentally spilled a cupful of boiling hot coffee on me. Hospitals, ice, gauze. A cycle that defined the entirety of my summer. I couldn’t use my right arm at all because my shoulder was coveredinsecond-degreeburns Fora6-year-old,theboredom was possibly more excruciating than the pain. I sat at home, readbooks,triedtowritewithmylefthandandfailed.
My mom evidently couldn’t stand to watch me mope around for much longer She took me to Seattle in the fall, where my grandparents lived. I always loved visiting them the perfect changeinscenery.
Yes, and the perfect opportunity for me to obtain a Build-A-Bear (BAB).
I’d been begging for a BAB for years Every time I visited the mall, I couldn’t help but notice how their storefronts were just so colorful, and the bears oh-so-plentiful. But BABs were expensive (pretty similar to today’s prices, but with less inflation)
Imagine my surprise when one day, my mom took me to the BABstore.ItfeltlikeIwasfloatingthroughadreamasIpicked outtheperfectfur arainbow-stripepatternwithapinknose (a Rainbow Hugs Bear, introduced in April 2012 and no longer in circulation) I watched my bear come to life with the churning of the stuffing machine and the small red heart they tucked into her body. I named her Rainbow, bought her a Cinderella dress and brought her all the way home on my lap I still remember getting into my grandpa’s car with her in my arms for the first time. She was almost as big as I was, back then.
My mom later told me that she saw me lose my spark that summer. I wouldn’t smile, I didn’t want to play with my friends, and I wouldn’t eat my favorite foods. She thought having a soft, cuddly friend would cheer me up, so she consideredRainbowaworthyinvestment
Icanattesttohowworthythatinvestmentwas.
Let me sing Rainbow’s praises for a minute First off, she’s a verywell-traveledbear.She’sbeeninthemountainsof
Vermont, the piers of San Francisco, the streets of Vancouver She’s been on a motorboat in the middle of the ocean in Vietnam She’s been to every corner of Korea, even through a couple of caves and a submarine.
Second, she’s the most present friend you could hope for. She was there for every graduation, every new school Every exam I studied for, she was right there learning the material with me (quite the smart bear, if I do say so myself). She was my number one priority as I unpacked in my Wolman dorm, just like she was the first thing I placed in my room when I moved to Boston three years ago
I love Rainbow more than anything else in the world. I love that she’s always smiling (I think our smiles look alike) I love that she’s always here She’s a part of me, but at the same time, I would save her over myself. She’s the one constant in my life that I’ll never let go of.
She’s sitting on my bed right now as I write this, wearing a dress I wore as an infant, wrapped in her Hello Kitty bathrobe. 13 years later, her colors are less vibrant than the day I brought her home People say that she looks brand new, but I see how her eyes are a little dinged up and her snout could be a brighter pink. I sneeze when I have her on my lap because her fur’s been falling out. It took me a while to acknowledge that she was getting older I didn’t want to face the reality that one day, she wouldn’t be the same bear that I cherish in my memories.
But I’ve changed, too. 13 years is a long time, after all. It’s more than two-thirds of my life These days, I find joy in the fact that we’re changing together That I don’t have to go through the years alone. No matter what she looks like, Rainbow will always be with me, and that’s what matters. All I can do is shower her with endless love and spoil her with way too many clothes
One thing that’ll never change is that she’s my best friend.
Rebecca Ahn is a fre n, Mass Inherfreetim writingbooks,watch fantasizingaboutthe zombieapocalypse
COURTESY OF LUCIA WANG
Fonts and functions: Notes from a writer who can’t sit still Kaylee Nguyen
have a horrible habit of really only ever writing about riting. Every Voices piece that I write somehow orporates some part of my love for literature, and my racteristic diction bleeds into every aspect of my life.
m research papers to endless pieces for The Newster, I couldn’t imagine my life without putting pen to per Unfortunately, this doesn’t make for as exciting a dline as some of my other articles everyone already ows about my obsession with reading over what I write again and again. But, it does hold a place in my heart different from everything else I was sitting in my two hour and 30 minute long osophy class the other day, listening to my professor about God, essence and Spinoza the usual Monday rnoon fuel for an existential crisis when I realized I’ve spent so much time writing about writing that forgotten to write about the things that interrupt it.
If I m being honest, my greatest rival as a writer isn’t writer’s block it’s my social calendar I can wax poetic about metaphysics and narrative structure all I want, but come Friday night, I’m sprinting to finish a paragraph of my novel I’ve been working on before someone texts “downtown in 30?” And suddenly, my pen becomes a mascara wand, I forgo my document and I’m arguing not out if the heist in my novel is realistic, but whether or t “No Hands” is the greatest song ever written (it is).
me, balance is writing about essence in the morning, t then losing mine to music at night. There’s something angely poetic about how the girl who spends her ernoons dissecting texts about virtue is the same one at spends her evenings spinning under strobe lights and screaming lyrics that she only half-remembers.
And when I stumble home, shoes in hand and a stomach ull of dinner and delight, I always end up doing what I do best: writing it all down. Sometimes, I even convince myself that I’m capable of capturing genius in those latenight notes app entries with half-sentences typed with one eye open and riddled wit isplaced metaphors In the ack and wonder if I was at ng to a mozzarella stick
Because even in the haze of a 2 a m cheesy snack from U Mini,Ifindmyselfnarratingmydayandtracingtheoutlin of fleeting joy, trying to capture what it means to feel everything so fully. And that’s why I keep writing about writing:It’stheonethingthattieseverypartofmetogether
Thelecturehalls,thelate-nightstrollsalongInnerHarboran sunrise in my room, they’re all different drafts of the sam story Some are scribbled in the margins of my notebook an others are written in the glitter that riddles the dance floo Each version of me, the over-caffeinated student, the g laughing too loudly in the Gatehouse during The News-Letter section meetings and the quiet observer of the silence on the walkhome,isasentenceinanunfinishedparagraph.
That’s the real beauty in being Kaylee Nguyen. I don’t h to choose between aspects of who I am The same p that underlines Spinoza also signs the receipt for karao at Kong Pocha. The same mind that critiques R.F. Kua also finds meaning in the blur of streetlights. They ma my life legible
So yes, I’ll always keep writing about writing. But I will also keep dancing, wandering and spilling mozzarella stick crumbs over my drafts Because if writing is how I make sense of the world, living wildly is how I give it something worthwritingabout.
Kaylee Ng r i S i theHuma S a Newsand T
Between planes and stars
Linda Huang
Maybe from the 4,000 photos in my “Sky” photo album or the fact that I have always enjoyed researching deep-sky objects, you’d think that I am a sky enthusiast However, I did not realize how much joy I find in the objects in the sky until this summer
With the intention of casually window-shopping and walking next to the Potomac River during sunset, my boyfriend and I spent a day near the Georgetown waterfront As tired as I was after biking for an hour on the uneven streets of D.C. from the National Gallery of Art to Georgetown, I still managed to enjoy the coral-colored sunset with hues of blue, leaning against the railing to breathe it in Then the planes started, one every five minutes, bigger than the toy-sized specks I’m used to.
“Do you wanna know what plane it is?”
He pulled out Flightradar24 on his phone and zoomed in on Georgetown. Yellow trajectories braided past each other in real time, seemingly overlapping with each other but also not, creating a tiny chaos of a kaleidoscope. The Ronald Reagan National Airport was just downriver For each plane that flew by, we clicked on it in the app, comparing its airline company withitstailandbodyandexclaimingattheorigins
“This one’s from Houston!”
“This tail’s definitely Southwest ”
“Let me guess... I think that one’s from San Diego!”
Just like that, we spent half an hour plane-spotting and sounding like kids screaming as each airplane flew by. But I thoroughly enjoyed it and felt a ridiculous, perfect satisfaction as parts of my curiosity were filled We chased that feeling After Georgetown, we decided to visit more plane spotting areas. From the Donald D. Engen Observation Tower for the Dulles International Airport to the Thomas A Dixon, Jr Aircraft Observation Area for Baltimore/Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport, every experience was so unique on its own. Sometimes we brought out binoculars, other times we took selfies with the planes because they skimmed so low over us while landing. Of course, the skyline behind them was always so beautiful.
Another sky activity that had been on my bucket list for years but I finally got to accomplish was stargazing. Too many movies have the scene where the main character sits on a hill, looks up at the sparkly night sky and maps each star to a person or a promise So then, we hit the road and drove to Assateague Island according to the light pollution map, it’s one of the only locations in Maryland where light pollution is a light blue instead of bright purple As soon as we entered the island, everything was pitch black. The only lights I could see were the distant, scattered city lights from Ocean City.
I was never afraid of the dark, until I stepped out of the car and realized there’s an entire ocean a few hundred meters away, and everything beside me was swallowed in darkness. Suddenly,I felt minuscule,completely surrounded by nature and its vastness and beauty
Going one step at a time on the beach (I felt like if I took a wrong step, it would tilt me off the edge of the map), I looked up at the night sky It’s true hundreds of stars of different sizes and brightnesses and temperatures shone at the same time. Together, they held so much power in capturing all of our attention and lighting up the sky with the moon, but soon we’d notice that they were too far away and their brightness couldn’t reach where we were standing. Maybe that means something; maybe it doesn’t.Maybe I was just too immersed in this moment between blinding darkness and blinding stars, and the meaning was simply being there.
I don’t remember when exactly I wanted to learn how to make food, but I do remember why (other than the fact that I thought it was a useful skill and more economical) I liked eating tasty food, so trying to make it was the natural progression in my mind. My journey began with cooking.
Over time, cooking has developed into a very fluid activity for me Rather than sticking to a strict list of ingredients or steps, I often throw in random combinations or ratios of ingredients, attempt new techniques and add excessive amounts of garlic and chili flakes (there’s no such thing as “too much”). Other than my younger sister, whose palate is largely similar to mine, I’m primarily the person who eats what I make. As long as I can stomach it, no harm no foul, right? Even if I do mess up, there’s often still an opportunity to salvage something.
Baking has had a very different place for me Even though I cook fairly often, I probably only bake once every month or two, and it’s almost always something sweet. Unlike cooking, baking requires a much more rigid structure than what I often prefer when making food, and it ends up feeling more like I am following one of my lab protocols. The process needs to be more carefully laid out before I start, and measurements need to be precise and accurate Smaller changes may be incorporable, but anything too major may prevent the desired outcome from being achieved, and for what I usually make, there’s no way to know for certain before it’s already too late. This aspect in particular tugs at the part of me that can be overly particular about every detail, even minuscule ones, if there’s no chance to remedy a mistake later. For instance, one time I tried using a different cookie for a cheesecake crust, which ended up giving it a slightly burnt taste Not the end of the world, but still something that nagged me a little nonetheless.
Aside from the difference in technique, the product is also a factor. I have a tendency to make food in large quantities, even more so when I have to balance classes and other commitments, meaning that there’s almost always leftovers While I have no issues eating dumplings every day for a week or two after folding a hundred over a weekend, I can’t say I would be equally as willing for something like a cake, despite my enjoyment of sweets Even though the process is a big reason as to why I enjoy making food, the practicality of whether it will be finished in a reasonable time is still a major factor for me, which has resulted in me approaching the art differently
Instead, baking has primarily become a way for me to bond with friends and family I often cook alone, but that is almost never the case when it comes to baking, and it is during that time that I spend together with others where many simple but fond memories arise. From reassuring my mother that adding an entire cup of sugar (which I already halved from the original recipe) isn’t going to make the cheesecake way too sweet to the general chaos when working on different wet and dry components of muffins or banana bread with my friends,it’s these small moments that make the process all the more enjoyable. It has also become an opportunity to take a break from time to time and create something nice in a more relaxed and low-stakes setting.
Sharing what I’ve baked has also been a way for me to grow and express a part of myself with others. When I bake at home with my sister, it’s usually to make something for a dinner party or group meeting, which helps since the number of people will ensure that most of it will be finished, and it generally feels nice to make something that other people get to enjoy
I am not an expert by any means, and rarely is the end product perfect, at least based on what I had envisioned in my mind Sometimes a topping is too watery for my liking,a filling feels a bit too dense, or I think the center could have been cooked a bit longer. While these nitpicks linger in my head initially and are further amplified if other people are eating what I’ve helped make, they become largely irrelevant the longer I reflect Because of the feeling, the sweetness that lasts comes from the little shared moments of joy though the desserts usually don’t taste half bad either!
Eric Zeng is a junior majoring in Biomedical Engineering from Tallahassee,Fla.HeisaPuzzlesEditorforThe News-Letter.
Me and my vase of dying flower
Myra Saeed
I want to theorize that no one actually likes flowers People swoon over the lovable stage: a beautiful bouquet bloom a proud, delicate beauty perched in front of them, pleasing their senses. To them, a bursting bouquet represents specialty, as if to say, yes, you deserve the beauty that surrounds you now. I am one of millions of girls who swoon over any pink rose bunch delivered to my door, carefully wrapped in a brown paper casing and a matching pink tinted ribbon. But truth be told, flowers require consistent attention to remain in their embellished state Whether they’re on their bush or already cut, they are temporary by nature. Their beauty exists in an intermediate stage, suspended briefly between life and death. People love flowers when they’re blooming;fewlovethemwhentheystarttofade
I say I love flowers. How could I say otherwise? They’re beautiful I’d feel foolish rejecting something so universally adored.Ilovereceivingthem.Iloveputtingthemondisplay.I admit flowers make me feel beautiful too, as if, by association, I’m blooming with the same amount of certificationforenamoration.
As with all things I love for the wrong reasons, my flowers turn on me faster than I’m prepared for. The once-blushing pink roses I stuck in a vase back in September now lean sadly against each other, their rotting stems and wilting petals protruding toward my face every time I glance at the window Their stems have softened, curling under their own weight. I haven’tthrownthemout
As I pass by and catch the vibrant colors draining into dullness, I wonder if their fates may have been spared had I changed their water or maybe invested in a flower food packet Maybe I should have pressed them when I had the chance, to preserve a beauty that never lasted long enough to imprint inside me. It would take less than five minutes to throw them away, rinse the vase, start over But I don’t I let themlinger.
Caring for flowers feels beyond me these days Maybe I’m a typical college teenager (yes, I choose to call my 19-year-old self a teenager in fear of the word adult) who simply struggles with classes, love and the like who is too tired at the end of the day to throw out her damned dead flowers Maybe I’m a person struggling to feel at peace with a fractured world, oscillating between trying to understand a discipline I don’t know if I want to study or crying through headlines about families torn apart by war or wondering where I went wrong withthosefriendswhoInolongerspeakto Ifeelitinternally, almost physically like something inside me is just as rotten asthosepetalsstaringbackatme Disillusionmentpilesatthe
base of my vase, and the world keeps reminding me of everything I can’t control: wars I can’t stop, systems I can’t improve, people I can’treach.Myvasefillswithcloudy water until it bursts through my eyes,nightafternight.
In those moments, I don’t entire want to save the world? Save mys for proof that I matter? I used sadness and unsettlement as con rottenness feeling that my pe attributes are the only things I can control I always felt that the ideal version of myself should be the beautiful bouquet I dreamed of, with petals reflecting someone who acts, who contributes, who matters Someone whose vase is full of fresh blooms, meticulously trimmed and watered
But perhaps those long minutes spent staring at the wilting petals have quietly rewritten the way I understand the anxiety beneath my sleepless nights. I used to approach my “negative qualities” like a malfunction to fix. Now, that notion almost feels self-centered to me; the lens that once convinced me that my ability to contribute to the world only remains if I’m perfect wilts away the longer I view my vase. I simply feel like I’m a witness to my surroundings, to my community. Just like every human, my rot is inevitable struggling through change, questioning my interests, feeling helpless in issues bigger than me There is a quiet tenderness in choosing to pay attention to my vase of dying flowers and choosing to hold it close before letting go and starting fresh.
I am not expected to change the world, nor to obtain the perfect scores or write the perfect article. Each iteration of myself, informed by my own blooming and withering, teaches me more about the world and my place in it. I still dream that my big bouquet can always come, but I’ve learned to make peace with the cycles of alive and dead, alive and dead.
I like to audaciously claim that I love flowers, especially when they’re wilting, hunched over and begging for my love in my clouded vase.
Myra Saeed is a sophomore majoring in Chemistry and History from Great Neck, N.Y. She is a News & Features Editor for The News-Letter.
COURTESY OF MANASVI LAAD
From IKEA trips dreams
Taisiya Kukva
A Meatballs ABBA That’s usually where people’s ds go when Sweden comes up. Honestly, mine did too at first bright yellow and blue signs, tiny pencils to write down aisle numbers and a palace of Swedish meatballs as a reward after walking through endless showrooms. But beyond the furniture stores and disco s, Sweden holds a different kind of charm for me. a country that seems to have cracked the code on ppiness, balance and living life at a slower, more entional pace.
I ually discovered Sweden through a travel mentary years ago. While my childhood was full ving around sometimes from one country to er every month I never managed to land in n So far, my closest encounter with Swedish e has been those IKEA trips, where I’d imagine life might look like in one of those perfectly d little rooms
really hooked me wasn’t the scenery (though the rivers and forests are unreal) but a philosophical lagom It’s one of those words that doesn’t quite ate, so the closest definition is “not too much, oo little, just right.” Simple, right? But it hit me In a world where everyone is constantly chasing e more money, more achievements, more likes ocial media the idea of finding happiness in ugh” feels revolutionary.
n I picture my future, I see two versions of den Physically, I would love to retire there I ine mornings walking along lakes, afternoons ing by a fireplace and evenings spent having fika wedish coffee-and-pastry break) with neighbors value good conversation over rushing everywhere built around enjoying life ing through it, and that to spend years of my life
mbody Sweden now. I want d l l f working ha d
without checking my phone every five minut reminding myself that success isn’t only about more but about living a happier, more fulfilling
To me, Sweden is more than a country on a map mindset. Even if I never end up living there carry a little piece of Sweden with me wh Maybe it’s as small as taking time for a p break instead of chugging a protein s running out of the door. Maybe it’s choos nature over another late-night cram sessio it’s just learning to be okay with “enough ”
At the end of the day, my dream isn’t just S Gothenburg it’s the version of myself th balance, joy and peace Sweden is the place and it’s also the lifestyle I’m chasing. Whether I ma it there physically or not, I hope to create my own lit Sweden wherever I end up
Taisiya Kukva is a freshman from Las Vegas, Nev. studyin Molecular and Cellular Biology.
COURTESY OF
e boldest thing y
Mostpeopledreamofsunlitbeachesorbustlingcitiesfortheirnextadventur want to go where TikTok only shows the most terrifying whiplash: the inf Drake Passage Cruise to Antarctica The Drake Passage connects the Atlantic and Southern Ocean. The location explains the clips of the 40-foot waves causingfinesilverwareshatteringandpassengersconstantlyholdingonfordearlife on the railings sailing through what it is coined as the “Drake Shake,” making it known as the dangerous waters in the world. Yet, I want to face the chaos and find comfort in the uncomfortable After the chaos lies a stillness that feels otherworldly, surrounded by icebergs shining in the soft light, reminding you of the untouched beautythat’sstillleftintheworld.
Q2: What will you stop doing in 2026 to make room for other things?
In 2026, I’m going to stop believing I owe anyone anything beyond my own peace I want to stop doing things out of obligation or guilt and start making space for what truly aligns with my energy. I’m learning that happiness isn’t something others can give you it’s something you create for yourself As Buddha said,“You are responsible for your own happiness If you expect others to make you happy, you will always be disappointed.” Life will always have struggles, but I want to start viewing even challenges as reminders of the light that still exists By letting go of expectations of others and focusing on my own growth, I’ll make room for joy that feels genuine and self-made.
Eesha Bellad is a sophomore majoring in Neuroscience from Orange County, Calif She is a CopyEditorfor The News-Letter
Alex Pan is a sophomore majoring in Molecular and Cellular Biology from Dallas, Texas He is a Science and Technology Editor for The News-Letter.
ANTARCTICA BOUND / CC BY-ND 2 0
COURTESY OF MANASVI LAAD
Lemon Doroshow: High and dry in the Mojave Desert’s peaks
Q4: What is a place you want to and will travel to in 2026 and why?
Overthesummerof2025,Idecidedtobravethehundred-degreeheatofmyhometownnear LasVegas(anditssurroundingdesert)toreturntoahobbythat,althoughdormantforyears, has been vastly important over the course of my life: hiking. Among the highlights are the twin Teutonia and Kessler Peaks, situated in the middle of the Mojave National Preserve roughly70milesfrommyhome AlthoughImanagedtosummitbothpeakswithafairshare of scrambling,slipping and sightings of the occasional mule deer,I forgot to search for the surveymarker ametalinstallationinthesummitmarkinggovernmentsurveyrecords at the top of Teutonia Peak These survey markers are a capstone of sorts for hikers and mountainclimbers,andit’scustomaryformountaineerstotakeapicturewiththemarkerto showthattheycame,theysaw,andtheyconqueredthepeak.In2026,I’mexcitedtomakethe longdriveoutfromHendersontotheMojaveNPandsurmountTeutoniayetagain;thistime, however,I’llmakesuretocaptureitssurveymarkerinmycameraroll
Lemon Doroshow is a sophomore majoring in Applied Mathematics & Statistics from Henderson,Nev
Thansi Garikipati: Son of Spergy: Daniel Caesar and the search for acceptance
Q5: What is one piece of media release that you’re looking forward to?
On most nights, I’ll probably be returning from yet another 1 a m Brody study session, my headphones in, listening to whatever fits the vibe. Recently, I’ve been listening to DanielCaesar,becausehereleasedanewalbum,SonofSpergy,onOct.24.Caesar’sbeen quietforsolongthatjustseeinghisnameonanewalbumfeelsunreal
ButI’veheardthisalbumisdifferent.I’vescrolledthroughRedditthreads:thatthisone’s rawer,strippeddown,lesspolishedthanhispreviouswork ButIcan’thelpbutfeelthat’s the point. Everything here feels a little unpolished: college, friendships, me trying to figure out what a hydroboration reaction is, and I think that’s why I’m clinging to this release so hard Caesar turns his insecurities beautiful,like he’s scoring the spiral In his trademark bittersweet voice, he transfigures his deepest flaws and heartbreaks into heartfelttestimonytothemistakesweallmake
Yekyeong Lee: Boise, Idaho, watching a giant potato drop
Q6: Where do you want to spend your New Year and why?
I want to spend my New Year’s in Boise, Idaho, watching a giant potato drop At the start of every year, a 17-foot-long spud made of foam and fiberglass over 17,000 poundsofIdahopride makesitswaydownfromtheskyinourcity’squirkytwiston the Times Square Ball Drop.As the countdown begins,my friends and I press closer to thecrowdandbravethecoldtogetherwhilethepotatostartsitsdescent Afterspending my first semester of college more than 2,000 miles from home,I’m looking forward to this New Year’s potato drop not for the spectacle itself, but for what it represents: a returntowhereIgrewup,tohometownfriendsandtothefamiliarfeelingofsippingon apineappleJarritosfromthetacotruckdownthestreet.
