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I’m writing an article called “Advice from a senior to a freshman.” Has it really been that long? It doesn’t feel like that long ago I was walking onto Homewood for the first time, standing in the middle of the Gilman Quad utterly and completely lost. I don’t think I’m ready to leave yet.
During my first days at Hopkins, I was incredibly anxious about how I would fare and whether I would be happy. But after forging meaningful relationships with friends from diverse backgrounds and getting a taste of the undergraduate experience, I learned that the negative stereotypes concerning Hopkins are based more on fearful speculation than actual experience.
Clarissa Chen, president of Refuel our Future, explained that one thing she learned from her efforts to persuade Hopkins to divest from fossil fuels is the unique ability of Hopkins students to sway the University. She reminded future student activists to recognize and use this.
Two months ago, my close friend Kelsey brought up the topic of female anger. She told me how she read a New York Times article about the ways in which men and women deal with their frustrations differently.
I am not a poet. My ideal afternoon of writing does not include hours spent agonizing over the meter of each word, the rhythm of each line, wondering whether a close rhyme is close enough to work or if I need to scrap it entirely.
Hey, Rollin and Sam here, just your friendly neighborhood Editors-in-Chief. As our time wraps up, we decided that it’s apt to reflect on and construct some notion of closure around the job that has consumed our lives for the past year.
Around this time last year, I wrote about how Supergirl had never given Kara Danvers (Melissa Benoist) a good romantic storyline. This season, she has fortunately not been forced into another cringey relationship, but that’s only because she’s been hung up on her most recent ex, Mon-El (Chris Wood), who never deserved her in the first place.
I’m not quite sure what burnout is, but what happened two weeks ago felt something quite like it. After weeks of what had felt like going through life on auto-pilot — running in and out of back-to-back meetings, slogging through a cappella practices, rubbing my bleary eyes in the morning and rushing to class — a bad grade on a midterm tipped the scale.
I’ve always loved both science and writing. During my senior year of high school, as I wrote my college essays, I tried to find a way to weave the two together into a feasible future for myself: to explain why I love poems that overflow with biological imagery; to try to articulate the parallels I saw in the processes of biology and creating literature. And then when I read the book The Lives of a Cell by Lewis Thomas, I felt like all my efforts were put to shame.
For the majority of those of you who are reading this, the upcoming weekend doesn’t stand out in any particular way beyond being the precursor to the last week of classes.
The end of spring semester is a bittersweet time, where change seems imminent, and in this frantic rush to do it all — study for finals, secure last-minute internships, renew or sign apartment leases — the last thing we may want to do is reflect on the past year. But that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t try.
Name: Carmen.
It’s 2 a.m. and my chest closes. Suddenly, I’m drowning in a sea. I can’t swim. I can’t breathe. I’m in physical pain that won’t stop. Pain that has no tangible symptoms but can only be described as a mental cage of thoughts that drive in over and over again with an unparalleled intensity. I’m a deer caught in the headlights by the sudden rush of intrusive thoughts that collapse like a crashing tsunami.