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In 21 days, I will be 20 years old. The notion intermittently fills me with dread and delirium, and then again with excitement and elation. It feels as though 18 and 19 only offer mere tastes of adulthood, fleeting flavors of what life on one’s own might look like and of what it means to become one’s own person, independent from their relationships with other people.
I have dreamed of visiting London for a long time. My tenth-grade English literature class left me fascinated with the vivid pastoral descriptions nestled in poems by Sir Walter Raleigh and John Donne. Awash in these idyllic scenes, I yearned for the day that I too would get to relish the city’s treasures.
I’ve always been disturbed by how casually people will say “I love you.”
My biggest fear is being alone.
It was the day of my first final of last semester, and a cold spell had settled over Duke. I sat in Cafe, sipping on masala chai to restore some semblance of warmth to my veins and to distract myself from the test anxiety quivering in my chest.
I unclip my hair from the roller and fasten gold hoops into my ears. My hair bounces in blow-dried waves on my shoulders, my loose waves cascading to the edges of “DUKE” emblazoned on my navy blue sweatshirt. My sloppy gait has turned into a confident cadence, and I grow sharply aware of my surroundings.
A bright neon red sign hung outside my elementary school guidance counselor’s office. In delicate letterings, it laid out the steps one ought to take if their feelings had been hurt. The first steps outlined various combinations of having open conversations with the other person and being honest about your feelings.
As we computed the areas of scalene and obtuse triangles, my ninth-grade geometry group was discussing the latest updates in the football recruiting process for our town’s seniors. One boy remarked on the particularly impressive abilities of a graduating senior in the school across town.
Do you remember the first time you were struck by your own reflection staring back at you in the mirror?
My sister is a huge Taylor Swift fan. And while I am sick of her belting about short skirts and sneakers and Romeo and Juliet and love stories (but why are these lyrics so catchy?), I must admit that I am often struck by the profound nature of Taylor’s lyrics.
There are some connections that we have with certain people and places in our lives that are inexplicable. They carry microscopic missing pieces of our heart that were destined to find us but only when the moment was right.
Hello My Love,
“Why aren’t your lips light pink like mine?” asked the girl sitting next to me on the bus.
Have you ever noticed how hard it is to have a bad day in the spring? As trees flower with iridescent blossoms, forsaking their wintery nakedness; as a supple wind weaves through the dancing grass; and as the sun sweeps over the cold earth, every atom comes alive with new life. Your feelings feel trivial compared to this miracle of nature, and the whole world feels complacent in a conspiracy to uplift you.
Wilting roses are currently deposed in my dorm’s hallway trash can. Their fading fragrance sends a clear message: the love, all too pervasive in the air a few days prior, is now merely a dying relic.
I had a rough day today. My back was hurting, my head was heavy, and my vision grew blurry. With classes from 8:30 to 3:00, I had no time to consult student health, so I resorted to the WebMD symptom checker instead. After all, with such an easily accessible resource, why would I undertake the additional burden of having to visit the doctor?
I was wallowing in anxious possibilities for the first few weeks before I arrived at Duke. Thousands of questions swarmed my mind: would I make friends? What if I couldn’t contend with the social and academic pressures of college? What if certain attributes I possessed made me unlikeable in a more diverse setting, suitable only to the small town that I had grown up in?
As everyone was crafting exciting new year’s resolutions at the beginning of the year, vowing to go to the gym or to learn how to play the piano, I had a different plan in mind: I promised myself that this would be the year that I reduced my crying frequency. I have always been an emotionally expressive person, but crying seemed to induce a crippling weakness that portrayed me as overly histrionical. No longer would I project such a frenzied image to the world.
After a long year of drudging through daily life’s mundane motions, it is finally the holiday season! As joy and merrymaking commence in dining and living rooms across the country, so too does Netflix’s lucrative commercial holiday film season.
If there’s one thing I love about attending Duke University, it’s that my male classmates appear to value my contributions in the classroom, encouraging me to bolster my participation in the classroom and uplifting my intellectual abilities.
