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(03/14/22 4:00am)
This March 14th, I’m turning 22 years old, and just like these very words as I first write them down are filling the very first page of a brand new, blank notebook, I feel like I’m entering this year with the world wide open before me.
(03/15/22 2:31am)
The following is a precise itinerary on how to travel from Princeton, New Jersey to Buffalo, New York.
(03/04/22 3:39am)
It ended like it began: with a prematurely-published website update blowing up group chats and social media, all in anticipation of an official announcement intended to be released on the Wednesday of spring midterms. What began and ended in this manner isn’t the COVID-19 pandemic itself, of course. Rather, these parallel fumbled announcements — to send us home two years ago and now, to remove most precautions — so neatly bookend this pandemic chapter at Princeton.
(02/22/22 3:16am)
Each morning, whether I’m sprinting to my 8:30 a.m. Writing Seminar or strolling leisurely to my 10:00 a.m. lecture (I can assure you, the difference this hour-and-a-half makes is monumental), I cross through an arch known as “Einstein Walk.” I noticed this when I first moved in, but since then, the fading plaque has become just another peripheral blur on my morning sprints to class.
(02/18/22 2:41am)
Recently I fell down a rabbit hole of Wikipedia articles, as I tend to do when I have important responsibilities that I’m trying to ignore, and somewhere along the way, I stumbled across an archive of Van Gogh’s letters: ones he’d sent to his brother, to his friends, and to fellow artists, all seeking to create something grand and important, something that could change the world.
(02/15/22 3:51am)
Content Warning: The following essay contains mentions of transphobia.
(02/14/22 3:51am)
This Valentine’s Day, I’m going to kill the mood by talking about heartbreak.
(02/09/22 3:54am)
I spent nearly 18 months buying myself flowers every two weeks. Starting March 2020, it had fallen on me to venture out of the family home to buy groceries. I took the solitary trip to Costco and Kroger — and occasionally another store, like the Mexican market shop — only once every two weeks. I didn’t go more frequently, at first because that was the longest that we could store fresh food in our fridge space, and then — once our initial precautions relaxed — because the habit had formed.
(01/28/22 2:32am)
On Wednesday afternoon, as I sat in the first meeting of my French seminar, I found myself writing — in French, of course — a version of the following question: What is the significance of live theater? The exercise was to write the introduction of an essay about a topic on my mind, and thanks to the many hours I’ve recently spent in rehearsal for the Princeton Triangle Club’s upcoming show, I’ve been reflecting a lot on the significance and privilege of once again participating in live theater.
(01/26/22 4:17am)
The first time I read ‘The Alchemist,’ by Paulo Coelho, was in December 2020. Fresh out of high school, I spent that month grappling with a deceptively simple question: Now what? Despite being a liberating experience for most, life after graduation left me feeling hollow. As I traded in my childhood for a fancy diploma, I realized that I had no routine, no goals, and a great fear of the unknown.
(01/20/22 2:59am)
I love when my accomplishments make other people happy: like when I did well on the midterm exam I studied hard for last semester and my professor praised my performance, or when one of my friends told me I should ask for a promotion and I received it. These are things I ostensibly did for myself, but I cared more about how the people around me reacted to what I did than about actually doing those things.
(01/20/22 2:51am)
Olivia Gatwood is my favorite slam poet — and probably the only one I can name who doesn’t attend Princeton. My favorite poem of hers is “Alternate Universe in Which I Am Unfazed by the Men Who Do Not Love Me.” In the last line, Gatwood sums up her experience in this alternate universe: “I have so much beautiful time.”
(01/06/22 2:51am)
I often consider a day’s work and a life’s work to be something different. In your life, you might want to be a senator, or save the world, or write the next great American novel. I have big plans, places to go, a long road ahead. We might feel the things we do each day are productive only if they get us toward some bigger goal.
(12/24/21 4:49am)
Throughout my years, I’ve had the opportunity to live, and other times, I’ve had the task to survive. I was reminded of this while traveling home for the holidays. Scrolling through Twitter while waiting in an airport terminal, I stumbled across a short essay by Jonny Sun that reminded me of this distinction. The former allows — encourages — flourishing, while the latter necessitates endurance, at the cost of pretty much everything else.
(12/08/21 5:33am)
I recently realized that come Dean’s Date, I’ll be exactly three months away from turning 22, and this provoked a mini existential crisis along the same lines of a question I’ve been asking myself all semester long: What do I want to do with the time I have left?
(12/06/21 2:14am)
When I went home for Thanksgiving break, I realized that it had been three months since I’d driven a car. It’s not only that I don’t need to drive at Princeton (I hardly leave campus, and when I do, there’s a bus or train), it’s that I can’t — my car is back in New Mexico. As a result, I spend much more time than I ever have walking.
(12/03/21 1:00pm)
For 21 years, I have had to exist as a disabled woman in a society not built to accommodate me.
(12/01/21 3:23am)
Content Warning: This piece includes references to mental illness, suicidal thoughts, and disordered eating.
(11/23/21 3:14am)
Before she had even said a word, I knew that something was wrong. I could sense it in the hitch in her breath as she tried to quiet her crying. “Hello, this is Sim calling for our weekly conversation. How are you doing?”
(11/30/21 1:42am)
I felt something was off this term when I started picking my courses, and it took a while for me to understand what it was. Finally, it hit me. For the first time since I graduated preschool, I won’t be enrolled in a math class come spring. As I finish ORF 309: Probability and Stochastic Systems, the last math class I might take on the normal progression, it feels like I’m closing a book I’ve been reading my whole life, having to be content that it’s a story I’m never going to finish.