Hopkins is a diverse university where an incredible mix of cultures, academic interests and personalities coexist and thrive. Here is the section where you can publish your unique thoughts, ideas and perspectives on life at Hopkins and beyond.
Somehow, the chaos of travel had shrunk into the small space between us, captured and organized by fifty two pieces of paper.
Here is my letter of cluttered thoughts about you, finally. Nanjing, thank you for being my first home, even if I spent years trying to convince myself you were only a dream.
She was so open and honest in our conversations, and it really takes a lot of courage to be able to do that. She’s been through a lot in her life, but that has not stopped her for a second from trying to be the most positive person she can and trying to share her love with others.
For as long as I can remember, home has looked like an Orioles cap, a goofy grin and the combination of a tightly clasped handshake with a heartfelt, all-enveloping hug.
I tend to throw myself in deep and give everything I have until I am completely spent. Then I take a short break to recover and do it all over again. I thought this was simply how I worked best.
I’m sure each of us carries certain moments that briefly pull us back and leave us with an unidentifiable ache.
Growing up, snow was something I only ever saw in movies: a white blanket covering rooftops, kids laughing as they tossed snowballs, families sipping hot chocolate after coming inside from the cold. It didn’t feel real to me. It felt like something that happened somewhere else to someone else. But all of that changed when I moved to Maryland.
This is what anhedonia looks like. Things happen but I don’t feel anything about them. I can study and retain information, cackle at TikToks and complete housekeeping tasks, but there’s no thrill, no satisfaction, no pull to keep going.
These days, it’s so hard to get lost in a story.
I thought it would all be better in Toronto, and in a sense it was. But this alternate life that I lived for four days didn’t feel the way I thought it would. Even though my best friend was by my side, I couldn’t help but feel like a trespasser in every space we visited.
Maybe navigating these awkward, unglamorous parts of becoming an adult is the real coming-of-age story after all.
We’re getting to the time of year when it's easy to be lost in the past. The same red bows are tied on lampposts in parks and outside dingy shopping centers. The same massive wreaths decorate even more massive malls. But with every passing year, the bows seem a little more at eye level and the wreaths are a little smaller.
All my life, there has been so much joy tangled up with Christmas. It only made sense that, when joy became difficult for me, Christmas was hit the hardest. It’s hard to forget the years I spent fighting to feel anything in December.
It wasn’t until third grade that I realized not every family was following the same traditions as mine was.
When I came to Baltimore my freshman year, I was surprised by how different the sky was — sunny days felt like a cage and cloudy days were only dreary. I felt as though I was caged up by an unseen force that prevented me from being able to relax and take in my environment.
Our apartment is more than a place with three beds, a sofa and a kitchen; it is the small home we have created for ourselves. Where our hearts beat easier, where the word “home” finally stretches enough to include me. The quiet miracle of finding people who make the simplest moments, pink sunsets, airplane rides and laughter, feel like something holy.
The person I am today was beautifully woven and built piece by piece by my mother; she built my wings to fly. The transition from having my mom right beside me to being 8,000 miles away from her is tough.
I have overcome my childhood fear of the dark and now rather appreciate it because only in darkness are you able to witness how brightly light can shine, whether it's the darkness outside or inside of you.
As expected, my first semester at Hopkins yielded a welcome amount of intellectually stimulating conversations. Yet one that occurred recently has stuck in my mind. It prompted a thorough self-examination of my beliefs, which is a place I didn’t think I would reach after only a few months on campus.
I may not be an artist, but I’ve become a translator of attention, a facilitator of curiosity, a witness to the moment a roomful of strangers begins to see together.
