The first thing people often say when they hear I’m from Ohio is, “Oh, I’ve never been.” To which I reply, “It’s not really a place you visit.” In many ways it isn’t. Most people don’t vacation in Ohio with its endless alternation of corn fields and strip malls, but somehow it’s become a place I long for, that I want to visit, that I love to call home. 

When I applied to college, I was desperate to leave Ohio, I wanted a fresh start, a different place, a new adventure. Although I didn’t officially decide until March of my senior year, from the first time I visited Pittsburgh a piece of me fell in love with it. Pittsburgh was a ticket out, a pathway to that something new that I desired. Pittsburgh felt exciting to me, its winding rivers and endless bridges offering me a pathway to adulthood. 

However, about 3 months into being a college freshman, I came to realize that Pittsburgh wasn’t so different from home, from Cincinnati. Both cities built on industry and steel, medium sized, with a passionate love for their sports teams. Suddenly, it became clearer to me that perhaps I had chosen Pittsburgh not because it was an escape from home, but rather because it was like home. Pittsburgh is not a clone of Cincinnati, it of course has its own unique slang, more neighborhoods, and a wider variety of places for me to explore that I had not known my whole life. It’s more like a cousin of Cincinnati than a sister, but still it beckons me in with a familiar warmth. 

The more I fell in love with Pittsburgh, the more I also began to long for home, for the local coffee shop I always went to with my friends, the ice cream place I worked at throughout high school, the movie theatre where I watched double and triple features, and the sound of my dog running to me at the top of my stairs. And yet, these longings were also replaced by new places in my new home, a new coffee shop, a new ice cream place, a new theatre, a new home in my college apartment. 

Without me realizing it, I discovered two homes, one in Pittsburgh, one in Cincinnati, each of which I always longed for while in the other. College in Pittsburgh has taught me the beauty of place and people together, that it really is the people who make the place, the love and memories what makes it special, what makes it home. And now, I count myself lucky to have two places I call home, and can say, come visit anytime.

Written by Lauren Deaton

Edited by Julia Brummell

Graphic by Genevieve Harmount

I’ve always known that holding a grudge only hurts you. When you stay mad at someone, that anger really only takes life away from you, but simply knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to act on. In high school, I encountered many challenges: drama, jealousy, and even the loss of friendship. After my senior year, I lost one of my closest friends, and I found myself clinging to our friendship and our memories. I held on to anger and jealousy. I’m still holding on, like keeping the friendship close might somehow fix it; like the fact that my feelings haven’t disappeared must mean something. 

Could this attachment be a good thing? To love someone so deeply that you can’t let go of the good or even the bad? I feel anxiety and nervousness even returning to my hometown because our memories live everywhere here, and I am scared of facing those, facing her. I replay what happened over and over again, as if thinking about it might change something. 

Maybe the friendship itself hurt more than the ending. Maybe letting go of it feels like letting go of a part of myself;I’m not ready to let go, but I know I should be. I feel like I’m spiraling. 

I saw her in public the other day, like strangers carrying so much anger and love for each other. I can’t believe there was a time when I knew everything about her, and suddenly it was like a switch flipped. It just stopped. No closure. No real ending. 

Maybe that was the least painful way it could have ended. But was it? Can she even understand how much pain she caused me? My mom tells me that she’s not losing sleep over this, that she’s not overthinking it like I am. But that thought still sticks: what if she is? What if she’s waiting for me to reach out? I can’t even reach out; I am blocked on every social media platform, a quiet reminder of how carefully she manages the image she shows to the world. 

But what if she’s not waiting? What if she’s completely over it? How could she be? And even if she isn’t, could we ever reach a point of civility? With people from my hometown, it always seems like they either love you or hate you. I don’t want a best friendship again; after everything that happened, I don’t even think that’s possible, nor do I want it to be. But I do wish we could reach a place of simple cordiality - to be able to smile politely, to pass each other without tension, to exist in the same place without fear. I wish I didn’t feel scared to come home because she’s still talking about me, keeping my name in conversations I never asked to be part of, long after our friendship ended. 

Sometimes I think it would be easier to move away, to escape the memories, the people who disregard me now because of what she said and the power she holds over them, and the

places that remind me of what I once went through. I’m angry and hurt for what she did, for how she didn’t listen, for how she took the word of a person she unfriended over mine. I’m angry and hurt by how she handled the situation after it unfolded and the lengths she went to turn people against me. I’m angry at her friends. I’m angry and hurt that I can’t know her anymore, that I can’t show her my pictures from college, or have long talks about our lives. 

I want to leave here and never look back. But how would that fix anything? How would disappearing teach me how to face things like this? How could I ever learn from it if I can’t even stay? 

People say these things take time, but how much time? I’ve heard it takes half the length of the friendship to get over it. Do I really have to wait nine years? For eighteen years, I’ve known her. For eighteen years, we have had some kind of relationship. For eighteen years, we promised we’d stand in each other’s weddings. So how do you move on from someone you’ve known for so long, someone you loved so deeply? 

Maybe the answer isn’t about forgetting or forcing myself to “get over it”. Maybe it’s learning to live with the ache, without letting it define me. Maybe it’s accepting that love can change shape, that people can grow apart, and that sometimes the most painful endings teach us the most about who we are. 

I don’t have closure from her, but I’m beginning to realize I can give closure to myself. I can honor what we had without holding myself hostage to it. I can carry the good, learn from the hurt, and still keep moving forward, knowing that I am proud of myself for how I handled that situation. 

Maybe moving on doesn’t mean letting go of her, it means choosing not to lose myself and living in the love we did share and the love I am capable of giving and receiving. 

And maybe, deep down, somewhere in her heart, she’s holding a grudge or still holding on to what we shared. Maybe she does know the kind of person I am - the kind of person I showed her throughout our friendship. Maybe she will read this and take a true moment to think. Maybe she thinks it was a mistake… or maybe not - I’m not going to lose sleep over it anymore.

Written by Avi Mucci

Edited by Lauren Deaton and Julia Brummell

Graphic by Johannah Ryder

In middle school, I loved to read. My favorite books were the ones with unassuming scrappy heroines. Hermione Granger in Harry Potter, Annabeth Chase in Percy Jackson, Tris Prior in Divergent. Those girls were never the bold girls. Sure, in their own way, they were, but they didn’t start off bold. They came from a sub-average background and worked their way to the top. They were cutthroat. They were no-nonsense. They were not focused on boys. They always wore their hair up in a ponytail. 

When the subject of cotillion came up, I had no idea what to do. I was sure I’d find a dress, but I knew nothing about makeup. I couldn’t curl my hair. I decided I’d just wear my hair up so people forgot what it looked like down, and that would be extra enough. Well, I liked wearing my hair up. It was always out of my face. I never had to worry about it falling into my face during a Latin quiz or getting into my mouth during lacrosse. A ponytail became my thing. 

As high school approached, I adamantly protested the all-girls Catholic school I would be attending. Yes, I attended private school for the majority of my life, but never a Catholic school. Never a school with uniforms, where everyone would look the same. I despised the grey mini kilt every girl wore with their black sweater on top of their crisp white polo. That could never be me, I thought. My protests shortly wore off. I liked the camouflage the new uniform brought me. I was able to blend in and look like everyone else. I didn’t have to worry about whether people thought my outfit wasn’t quite like everyone else’s because we all needed to wear the same thing. 

Sophomore year rolls around. I have my first boyfriend. He’s a senior. I wanted to do anything so badly to impress him. To remind people (and him) why he chose me. I knew I stood out from the girls at his school. They were blonde, played field hockey, and drove Jeeps. I was brunette, did theater, and couldn’t drive yet, but knew my car would be a Subaru. I started learning how to do my hair. I wore my hair down around him. I talked less about theatre and more about college in order to fit in. I pretended like I knew what a penalty kick was around his soccer friends. As spring came around, St. Christopher necklaces were all the rage. At a school with a uniform, fads often flew over our heads because we couldn’t alter the decades-old uniform. St. Christopher necklaces, though, those were different. First, they were necklaces featuring a saint, perfect for the Catholic demographic. They were unassuming and small, but you could wear multiple. They came in every color imaginable. In order to fit in, I bought two. I was Catholic. I didn’t believe in the Church because I thought it was oppressive. Here I was, donning a necklace named after a saint. 

After the boyfriend and I broke up, I began to feel like myself again. I cut my hair shorter, read more, and talked about theatre. This stayed true for a while. I kept my focus on getting out of my small town and excelling in any way possible. My hair returned to its ponytail and did not leave. I shed the St. Christopher necklace. I wore my unassuming uniform with pride.

When I came to college, this all changed. I was surrounded by former homecoming queens. They infiltrated every aspect of my life. As someone who did not grow up understanding how to best pose or determine what my color palette is, I felt out of place in the world of glamour I suddenly entered. When I didn’t have my uniform to hide behind, I found other ways to conform. 

I shared clothes with the homecoming queens I befriended. I wore my hair down. No matter how hard I tried, I was still the black sheep of the group. My hair wasn’t glossy enough. My going-out top was thrifted. I wasn’t different enough for the “cool girls”, but too different for the “basic girls”. I lost myself. How are you supposed to find yourself again? Are we defined by what we wear? Are we defined by the clubs we’re in? Our major? At what point do we begin to define ourselves? What does redefining yourself look like if you don’t even know who you are?

Written by Olivia Kessler

Edited by Julia Brummell and Elisabeth Kay

Graphic by Giulia Mauro

Healing is a really weird process.  I learned from my internship that all healing happens within relationships. We talk about trauma-informed approaches all the time, and how to deal with the kids in a way that won’t retraumatize them. This ultimately means that we should lead ourselves with curiosity, remain calm and consistent, and become a “safe” adult in their lives because oftentimes they don’t have that at home. We discussed Developmental Trauma Disorder (DTD) to describe childhood trauma instead of PTSD. Childhood trauma isn’t characterized by just one event like PTSD defines, it shapes how you are as a person. We talked about how children are ultimately powerless in their situations, leading them to form their entire personalities around surviving it instead. It’s sad—but that’s why my internship exists. That’s why therapy in general exists. Healing from trauma doesn’t just mean not being traumatized anymore: it also means building a sense of identity and community— understanding who you are so you’re confident in your choices again. Something I’ve personally really struggled with. 

But I love the kids there. I love forming inside jokes with them and applauding their successes. I love seeing them get their grades up after struggling with them. I love it when they ask for my help or want my opinion on something. I love the little rituals I have with them where I use the same prank every day and see if they fall for it, something they do right back. 

I even love it when I mess up - when I make a mistake, so I can apologize for it later. That look in their eye, that shock and curiosity. Their anger and passive-aggressive comments to see if you really mean it, until they finally realize that you do, and they turn back into a small kid again. I had to hold back tears when I apologized to the most reactive student there, and for once, he was soft spoken. For once, he was waiting to see what I was going to say instead of jumping into ‘fight’ mode, something he does with everyone. How odd is it that when kids cause that much trouble, we can sometimes forget that they’re just kids? They act in ways I’ve never even thought about acting, even now as a 21-year-old. Yet once you have enough experience with them, you realize they are just trying to feel like they’re on the same level as the adults in their lives. They want things to be fair, and they want to be heard. The adults are acting like children, and the children feel ignored because of it. So in response, they start yelling. They start bullying. They start wearing clothes that make them look way older than they are. They start swearing every other word and saying awful things. I know of kids who have started beating up old people on the sidewalk and setting fires around the boulevard. I know of kids who have gotten a hold of vapes, and even worse: knives and guns. I know of kids who steal, lie, and cheat.

They can’t leave their home situations; CPS would put them in a worse spot than they already are. So they have to learn how to survive it, even if it looks unrelated on the outside. Understanding this doesn’t mean we excuse it; kids get sent to juvie for these behaviors all the time…but nonetheless, we understand.

“I don’t think your reaction was entirely your fault,” I told him. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to say that, but I felt as though it was true. Even if it was an accident, I pushed him to his limit, and I acknowledged that. 

“I’m still sorry,” he said. I was shocked; he was not the kind of kid to do something like that, especially unprompted. Or maybe I just hadn’t seen that side of him yet. Maybe he still wanted to feel equal to me, even if it meant being vulnerable. 

The thing was, the week the conflict occurred really messed with me. I’m still learning about how much my past affects how I view my mistakes, and I think it is more than I thought. In many aspects of my life, making a mistake is life-shattering. I feel like I’m not good enough or that I’m just not in control of my life when the mistakes are accidental. It’s hard to trust yourself when every bad thing you do is a “sign” that you’re failing, because that is what people have made you believe in the past. 

So when I made that mistake at my internship, I felt like I had failed. That I was a fraud, and that no one should trust me because I didn’t trust myself. But after that moment of repair, it made me realize that true failure would’ve looked like avoidance. It would’ve looked like not caring about how you made someone feel, because mistakes are inevitable. It would’ve looked like never getting to see an explosive kid be small and vulnerable with you. It would’ve looked like never getting to connect with a student who constantly pushes everyone away. 

And not only did the repair ease the tension, it built respect. I’ve had many moments of repair with other kids as well. The kids who were once cruel and threatening towards me started to become incredibly nice and protective of me instead. Not that I need to be protected, but they made it known that I deserve the respect that I give out. 

Last week, for some reason, I tried wearing lip liner. I’ll be honest, it didn’t look good, but I gaslit myself into thinking that it did. Or that I didn’t really care what other people thought anyway. Even if I knew the kids might make fun of me, I knew that my coworkers would be supportive. They are all such nice people.

As I went into my internship, I saw the kids notice it, but they didn’t say anything. Until a student sat down and said that she liked it. She thought it looked pretty. She had the same excitement on her face and in her voice that my coworker and I give her whenever she walks into the room. At the end of the shift, another student who I’ve grown close to over the semester said that she liked it too. This student wasn’t the kind of person to compliment girly things either, so it really took me by surprise. And maybe they didn’t actually think it looked good, but they still wanted to support me. Because they have a connection with me, and they wanted to let me know that they noticed I was trying something new. 

It’s been a weird experience building connections and creating mutual respect with these kids, and honestly, it’s been healing. I think that healing truly does happen in your relationships, and I feel myself accepting respect from many other people in my life as well. People are kind to me, people do care. Empathy, kindness, and respect can come from everyone in your life, and no one deserves any less than that. The student who beat people up and set fires around the boulevard is back from his six-month ban, is finally on meds for ADHD, and has improved significantly. Not only does he act better, but he feels better, too. He’s extremely smart and good at math, and he enjoys doing art activities with me. He’s turned back into a 5th grader, in a way where we can see his vulnerable side again. His defense mechanisms are down, and he’s able to be a happy kid again. 

 These kids don’t ever have to know how they’ve contributed to my own growth, but that doesn’t take away the fact that they have. Learning and growing with them is an opportunity I’m really grateful for, and I hope that other people can have experiences as fulfilling as mine. Hurt people hurt people, and the only goal is to grow and get better, not shame and punish. Actions have consequences, but they don’t warrant disrespect. I admire my supervisor for being a founder of the non-profit that my internship is at, and I aspire to be like her one day.

Written by Mia Stack

Edited by Leigh Marks and Julia Brummell

Graphic by Tristyn Nguessamble

On a cold winter night, I peer through a window into a living room lit only by a stained glass lamp. Aside from the street lights immediately guiding my path and the larger light pollution all around me, I am enveloped in darkness. My gloved hands push down in the pockets of my hand-me-down black puffer. The cold shoots up my pant legs, and the wind whips at my sides. I’ll find a safe haven inside soon. Another room brightened by electricity, warm enough to shed my jacket.

 There is something magical about being cozy indoors – alone on my living room couch, amongst bustling bodies in a crowded restaurant, or fidgeting with the register on a slow evening – while the outside world is raging with snow, below freezing temperatures, or rainstorms. This sort of peace is inversely replicated as I walk down a snow-trodden street, looking into every house’s front window. 

I confessed this guilty pleasure to my roommate. I spoke of my affinity for looking into houses in the dark. Extravagant mansions and their minimalist decor, college apartments and their tacky posters, brownstones and their dutifully adorned fireplace mantles. My obsession with knowing strangers intimately, though not at all. She told me about the Danish and how they leave their curtains drawn open to prove their respectable place in society. A purposeful, seemingly accidental, act. Enough transparency to confirm the homeowner’s respectable place in society, but not too obviously manufactured to be seen as flaunting. 

I’m unsure whether this attitude translates well to Americans. On one hand, most windows show nothing more than a continuous television stream. The average person is probably similar to myself, an enjoyer of natural light who is too lazy to shut blinds when it gets dark. On the other hand, I’ve seen lavish housing that lends itself to peeping behavior. The astonishing floor-to-ceiling windows displaying, for all to see, the confidential confines of homes on busy intersections,s beckoning for glances and begging to be seen. 

It really doesn’t matter who the house belongs to, though. Wealthy or not, the beauty of a home lies within the inhabitant. Each window gives an insight to the life behind it. If I’m lucky, I catch bodies dancing or arms passionately flailing in heated discussion. If I'm really lucky, I see a cat perched on the window, glancing outwards as I look inwards.

Written by Clare Vogel

Edited by Nelly Forrest and Elisabeth Kay

Graphic by Sydney Williams