It’s a Saturday night, and there’s a cold sweat dripping down your neck. You notice the way it glistens against your skin, highlighted by the intense lighting of the room. Music is blasting, and the lyrics move along with every movement of your body perfectly—you feel unstoppable…
In 2026, the newest emergent trend is learning how to be a kid again. Amid increasing awareness of social media’s toll on mental health, countless users now share their journeys rediscovering the joys of painting, knitting, swimming, sewing, and more…
My parents’ faces twisted when I told them what I wanted for my 18th birthday. It wasn’t the typical shrug and mutter- ing of money or books, but a firm plea for a DJ board. It came to me out of sheer boredom, the ever-looming idea that I should pick up a real hobby like an instrument—something tactile. I landed on this mostly because I liked music and I didn’t have to know theoretical concepts to succeed…
I don’t know who I am, and, frankly, I don’t know what I’m doing. I exist in a “gray area,” the in-between of becoming and being, a liminal space of perpetual questioning. Or, to put it less dramatically, I’m approaching post-grad…
How do you move when you’re too afraid to blink? How do you scream when you’re too afraid to breathe? Post traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD, is defined by Merriam- Webster as “a psychological reaction occurring after experiencing a highly stressing event…
From ages 12 to 16, every time someone asked if I got my period yet, I always shrugged and said, “Guess I’m a late bloomer.” Then, I’d waddle away, trying to de-wedgie four pads that I had stacked on top of one another….
I’m sitting on the bathroom floor, head resting on my knees, wondering why the LSAT was so hard for me. After a day of not being able to focus and missing “easy” practice questions because my mind convinced myself that this bad day would result in nothing more than failure: no law school, no prospects, and isolation…
Your waitress hates you. Certainly a vitriol comes from the customers few and far between with an attitude, a ripe, untraceable smell, or dietary restrictions that turn the back of house into a horserace parlor—except all the horses had to get taken out back and shot…
The first time I saw the shrine my aunt set up for my grandmother’s urn, I walked backward into a wall and started hysterically laughing because shrines and all kinds of “dead stuff”—ashes, bones, crypts, tombs, catacombs, and so forth—absolutely repulse me…