I would love to know who decided to keep it a secret that your first year of college is terrible. No exaggeration, it is flat-out awful and I feel like no one prepared me for that. This isn’t to say that there aren’t outliers– statistics class taught us all that even in a normal distribution, there will always be data that doesn’t fall in line with the vast majority– but, I would venture that for most of us, it is extremely difficult to be a college freshman. 

All throughout high school, I used to daydream about college. The fresh start, new friends, endless clubs to join, and classes that I actually wanted to take were beyond alluring. For four years, any social mishap, embarrassing mistake, or traumatic misstep was only temporary, an afterthought that I could chalk up to silly high school memories soon to be laughed at with an abundance of college friends. 

When the time finally came to move 6 hours from home and the realization that I was leaving behind everything and everyone I had ever known set in, I started to waiver a little bit in my intense faith that college was a magical cure-all. I still held out hope though. “This is what college is all about,” I thought. I was ready to step outside of my comfort zone and the confines of the small town that I had grown up in. Let me tell you, there was no “stepping.” The only way I can describe my transition to Pittsburgh is if you can imagine pole vaulting out of your comfort zone and then looking back to realize that it had altogether vanished. 

No one warns you that making friends isn’t as easy as walking up to people and asking “do you want to be friends?”. No one warns you that classes really are hard and a big jump from high school. No one warns you that it just feels so isolating. I spent an entire semester clinging to platitudes like “keep your head up” and “hang in there!”. I couldn’t fathom ever feeling like Pittsburgh was my home or finding people that made me look forward to coming back year after year. 

Winter break went all too fast and before I knew it, I was begging my mom not to leave me there again. As dramatic as it sounds, I pleaded and cried, desperately trying to avoid going back to a dorm room that felt steeped in sadness and a campus that acted as a looming reminder of how far I was from my family and childhood friends. 

One of the biggest lessons I learned from my freshman year (as cliche as it sounds) is that it just takes time. As the second semester went on, I began to form a routine at school. I created a mindful set of steps to walk through and each day began to get easier. Slowly, I started to recognize people in my classes and form relationships outside of the classroom. I became more involved in on-campus organizations and honed in on my studying skills. The longing for home began to ease and by the end of the year, I wasn’t just doing okay, I was genuinely happy. Never in my life had I been a particularly patient person, but I discovered that a little bit of patience was all it took to get acclimated to my new environment, and from there, I thrived.

I am so serious when I say that no amount of money could convince me to live my freshman year over again. If you’re one of the lucky people who doesn’t relate, I mean it from the bottom of my heart when I say that I am so happy for you. But if I hit just a little too close to home, just know it gets better, I promise.

Written by Emily Harper

Edited by Edited by: Diya Aneja and Elisabeth Kay

I often find myself zoned out in the shower; I come up with elusive stories or recall random info from my daily Twitter scroll while my conditioner soaks in my hair. I come up with movie ideas, take part in interviews as if I’m famous, write poems, and spin webs of how everything in my universe is connected. Eventually, I come to and realize my fingers are pruning, so I turn to rinse my hair.

I have a deep fascination with pop culture and fictional worlds. Typically, I feel alone in this fascination. “No way others are dedicating this much brain space to their favorite movies, shows, songs, and actors,” I remind myself almost daily. But is this belief of mine true?

Most, if not all people, daydream to get through the day. It is almost a form of adaptation humans have built to survive the sometimes monotonous world we’ve created. But who’s to say what it is that others dream about? It could be what they might do when they get home, an exciting event a few months away, meeting their favorite celebrity, or something completely different. What I do know, however, is that most humans have an inextricable tie to media in the twenty-first century, and whether we like it or not, phones and our perpetual access to it, are literally in our pockets. This means that there is a pretty slim chance that I am the only one who uses pop culture as an escape route in my daily life. 

We see it a lot in the public sphere now, that word: parasocial relationships. Each time you scroll through your Instagram feed and a post from Zendaya is sandwiched between a girl you went to high school with and your younger brother, it feels like you are connected, as if through some web you really know each other, maybe even on a metaphysical level. But when does this behavior get taken so far that it requires calling out? 

Towards the end of the summer, Taylor Swift was attending her friend's wedding in New Jersey. When fans caught wind of this, they flocked to the venue, getting hoisted up to peer through windows in hopes of catching a glimpse of the star. This kind of behavior is an example of an unhealthy relationship, with a stranger, mind you. Though it is fun to indulge in fictionalized versions of these people, it isn’t okay to invade their personal space. Usually, I just stick to the daydreams. 

Post-shower, I set my phone down on my nightstand and shuffle into a comfortable position. As I close my eyes, trying to go to sleep before my 9 a.m. the next morning, my mind is awake. Deep in my neural pathways, I am on set rehearsing lines with my co-star, getting a quick nap in my trailer, and chugging coffee in between takes with my parka on. I go on like this until my daydreams drift into dreams. 

This is how I get through my days, and it brings me great joy. My mind is my greatest weapon, so I feel no need to sit outside the most popular New York restaurants to run into someone famous. Instead, I could be inside the restaurant and part of the inner circle, without the hefty price of a plane ticket.  

I don’t like to indulge in the concept of “guilty pleasures,” because you should feel like you’re able to express your enjoyment of something, no matter how silly you feel it may be. I bet you, a million times over, someone in the apartment right next to you or on the opposite end of the bus or one of your best friends is doing it too.

Written by Leighton Curless

Edited by Meagan Meyer & Elisabeth Kay

As a child, I jumped from activity to activity hoping to find one that would stick. 

Seriously, my parents tried so hard to find something, anything that I liked. We began with ballet: I didn’t really have the patience. Then, swimming: I was pushed a bit too hard and, honestly, I was a delicate child. Soccer: too much cardio for a girl that just wanted to talk about American Girl dolls. Then, violin: I played for nearly a decade until a voice deep inside told me I wasn’t good enough to keep playing. Horseback riding: got into a tiff with one of the other girls, left a bad taste in my mouth for the culture. Hip-hop: forgot half of the routine when it came time to perform. Art classes: made one solid piece for our living room and claimed it was sufficient. 

The thing is, I did enjoy trying out new activities—I just never quite stood out. When I didn’t become a prodigy within the first ten seconds of trying, I would become violently uncomfortable. I’ve always hated being bad at anything (and don’t even get me started on any type of water game). 

I have interests, of course. I could talk about pretty much all of Martin Scorcese’s films (not in a film bro way, I promise), and give a detailed description of every Amy Winehouse song, but being surrounded by people who can literally lap me multiple times on the track or can belt out a perfect note—is truthfully horrifying. We’ve all heard the expression, “Comparison is the thief of joy,” but it’s inevitable when your environment is made up of well-rounded people. 

I’ve always appreciated these utterly fascinating individuals though. In all honesty, I feel envious that they’ve found the thing they love and enjoy so much. There’s a sense of pride that they exert when something related to it comes up, and I’ve since realized I love engaging with these people. 

People are what I am fascinated by. 

I love seeing my friends laugh, and I enjoy watching their facial expressions when they talk about a situation they just can’t seem to get over. Being in discussions together about our histories and backgrounds often changes our perspectives of one another. Bringing all sorts of people together and just seeing if they click brings me the utmost joy. It’s an indescribable and exciting feeling when you find a few people who mesh perfectly with you. Even if it’s a person I meet one night and never see again, I’ll continue to bring them up for the next few months just because of one unique quality they had. 

As a freshman, I hope to be introduced to lots of different interests and explore even more passions. I pledge to continue my ways of childhood and put myself in a weird range of activities.

Hopefully, something will stick! 

Written by Julia Maynard

Edited by Allison Defriece and Kate Castello

To My Childhood Home,

I’m writing from my first apartment’s front porch, the one I’ll be moving out of come August. I have no attachment to this apartment—unlike my home forty minutes east of Pittsburgh in Latrobe, Pennsylvania. I grew up in a small, what my friend Bella, calls a “mountain town” outside of the city. The people there love to spread the town gossip like it's nobody’s business but their own, and treat the Fourth of July as if it’s a holiday the town made up for its own over-the-top festivities. 

Latrobe is not a place many call home—not even my parents. My mom is from a tiny town in Indiana, small enough to only have a five-way stop sign in the center of town and that’s it. My dad is from Uniontown, south of Pittsburgh, and by god am I glad we didn’t move there. Instead, my parents settled on Latrobe and built a new life for themselves, my brother, and me to form our own, unique lives. I’m thankful my parents moved to Latrobe because it is where I found my best friends—my two neighbors who turned into the sisters I never had—and a life for myself. I know everything I know today because of Latrobe and for that, I will forever be grateful.

However, not all stories have a happy ending. 

My parents divorced in 2020, leaving our family split into four, fractured pieces. My father left in pursuit of his own happiness; he walked out one day during the pandemic and didn’t look back on the pieces he left behind. My mother fell apart. Her husband of almost twenty years had left her for the simple reason, “I’m not happy.” My brother took a vow of silence, maybe if he didn’t speak about it, it would go away. 

But I chose to talk. I chose to cry. And I chose to scream.

The place I called home was going up in flames and I felt partially to blame. Was it something I did? Was it something I said? I asked my brother an assortment of questions on drives when I just needed to go somewhere to sob to Phoebe Bridgers. He gave me no replies, which made me feel crazy. How can you not feel anything? Our dad just left us and you feel NOTHING? He chose silence. 

Maybe it was his form of protecting his peace? I don’t know. All I know is that the family portrait on the wall was shattered, like the glass holding it together in its frame. My life as I had known it was broken.

Telling my friends was hard because Latrobe isn’t a town where people get divorced. All I ever heard from people was their pitiful “I’m sorry”— talking began to feel tiresome and useless. 

A few months into the divorce, my home started to feel like a house. A place we came into and immediately shut our doors, ignoring each other as if we were suddenly roommates and not a family. Without my dad, I felt as if the world had come to a screeching halt. 

During the months without my dad in the house, I opened up some boxes of memories he had left for us to sift through and I came across a camera with our home video tapes. One tape was of the day I was born, and I pressed play, nervously waiting to see what was on the other end. The video started, showing my dad holding a baby version of me, born only hours before. What struck me most was not that my dad looked like a child, but what he said to the camera. He said, “Hi Will, I want you to know that we love you,” and I had to pause the video before I started to ball.

The twenty-nine-year-old version of my dad didn’t know he had told his seventeen-year-old son that he loved him, and I needed that. I needed him to give me reassurance during a time of uncertainty—especially during the pandemic. My house had finally felt like it was my home again, and I packed up that box to save as a memory. Now, there are many boxes in my basement: they’re sitting and waiting for someone to move them to another town far away from Latrobe. After my Mom decided to move back to Indiana in 2020, I would tell my friends, “Just a few years from now my Mom will move away!” But a few years have passed and now I’m the one that's moving.

Everything in that house is a part of me. The memory of my friends dyeing their hair in my bathroom, my bulldog coming home for the first time with us, and the many dinners at the table with family and friends. I chose to leave my home not with the anger I used to have, but with the love that filled the hallways I used to run down with my brother. I chose to leave my home with the same comfort my mother gave me when I ran into her room scared of a monster under my bed. I chose to leave my home the same way I came into it, with love. 

From the wooden floorboards, to the fake granite countertops, to the hole in the wall we moved an ottoman in front of, to the doorway that I will walk through one last time. It has been a journey—it has been a life. I am so glad that I was able to call you home.

Love,

Will

Written by Will Beddick

Edited by Elisabeth Kay and Kate Castello

When you realized what the word “college” represented, what was your reaction? Was it excitement about leaving home? Sadness because you were leaving your friends? 

What about fear? 

What they don’t tell you about going to college is the amount of pressure there is to find out who you really are in the next four years. I imagined myself immediately transitioning into college as the same bubbly, outgoing friend I was in high school. Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t had a particularly hard time making friends, and yet…

I still feel like a fish out of water. 

Perhaps it’s a dramatic idiom, but simply put, I am unapologetically awkward. I laugh at the wrong time, I hate having nothing to contribute when someone asks for my opinion, and I have no idea how to engage in small talk without silently praying to be run over by the Port Authority bus. 

It’s like there’s a switch in my brain I unwittingly turn on to embarrass myself—as if my subconscious wants me to make a fool out of myself for others’ enjoyment. And of course, in the (frequent) instances where I do embarrass myself, I never let myself forget. 

A few weeks ago I was studying with some friends and we were engaging in a normal conversation—the occasional fake-mean, bitching back and forth, and roasting each other—or it would have been normal if I knew exactly who my audience was, but I only knew four out of the six people sitting with me. So, when I accidentally took our bantering a little too far by jokingly berating one of the two people I didn’t know, I was left with awkward, uncomfortable silence. Arguably, it was warranted, considering I had just aired out this guy who didn’t even know my name (and I hate to say it but I didn't even know his). I admit that I got carried away with the joke, but I had just committed what felt like social suicide. Obviously, I left immediately and went home to scream into my pillow, but why?! What was it all for?!

 It’s as if something hiding in my head takes over and chooses to embarrass me in ways unimaginable compared to how I used to embarrass myself in high school. Even better, I just asked a friend of mine if she wanted to hear the beginning of this article and her response was, “I feel like you’re just gonna read it to me anyway.” GOD, WHY am I asking to be embarrassed? It’s like the Grim Reaper is looming over me, but instead of dealing out death, he deals out humiliation and uncomfortable silence.

Now, you may think, “Oh Will, this is probably all in your head,” and that could be true; but I would be lying to myself. For years, I’ve been an incredibly awkward person. It all started with stage fright as a young child and the consequence of the spotlight hitting my face as I sang my first solo. As I write this, I am cringing at the face I must have been making as a nine-year-old.

Obviously, I haven’t gotten over it. 

Coming to college, I didn’t expect my awkwardness to take center stage, but that’s where my realization lies. Maybe this is who I really am, awkward and embarrassing mixed with bubbly and outgoing. Coming to this conclusion took a lot of self-reflection, (which was my backup plan after a New Yorker article wouldn’t reveal why I’m so socially inept). I’m even beginning to embrace that part of myself and not wallow in the embarrassment—although it’s easier said than done. It’s especially infuriating to be fed the lie that awkwardness is just self-failure, or that you have to put yourself out there more or act in a certain way to get attention. 

With that comes the ability to stop listening to what people think about you and I promise, I’m trying to listen to my own advice. Screw the things left unsaid at the library table or the Irish exit where everyone clearly saw me walk out without saying goodbye. Awkwardness is just part of who I am. I appreciate it for leading me onto a path of self-discovery and not for pushing me to close off that part of myself to others. I am proud to be awkward! Okay, I’m never saying that again, that was embarrassing.

Written by Will Beddick

Edited by Priyanka Iyer and Kate Castello

It’s Sunday morning, and my sisters and I are piled on my grandmother’s bed watching TV. If we were home right now, we would be getting ready for church, but our grandmother isn’t religious and so we engage in a different kind of Sunday ritual at her house: Say Yes to the Dress. As dozens of white dresses parade across the screen, we debate which is prettiest, which the bride will choose, and whether her mother’s comments are helpful or bitchy.

If you haven’t heard of SYTTD, go spend a few hours watching clips from the show’s 19 seasons and 2 locations (Kleinfeld’s in New York is superior; you can fight me on this). Here’s the basic premise. Bride needs a dress. She has a huge budget. To help decide, she brings an assortment of friends and family, helpful and unhelpful. She tries on three dresses before she decides which one to say “yes” to. 

The reason for my long-standing attachment to the show is simple. Growing up, I lived and breathed weddings. My dad, an Anglican pastor, regularly officiated the weddings of family friends, and I imitated him at every mock playground wedding, looking sternly at my friends and reciting, “Do you take this woman…?” But my obsession mostly grew at my grandma’s house, where I spent afternoons paging through wedding planners’ books and trying on stowed-away wedding dresses with my sisters. Each dress told a different story: my grandmother’s dress, so tiny I’ve never been able to fit it…my aunt’s, a poofy product of the ‘90s, covered in hand-sewn seed pearls…my mother’s a stark contrast, extravagantly simple…and the ancient great-great-grandmother’s dress, yellow with age. We pulled out photos of that last wedding, the bride shaking with laughter, her husband’s barely-contained grin. 

My perspective on weddings in general, and SYTTD in particular, evolved with every passing year. At eight, weddings seemed wonderful because they were an excuse for a party and a pretty dress, with the groom as an afterthought. At boy-crazy thirteen, weddings were not only the most important day of one’s life but also the end of all unhappiness. Once the vows were said and the bouquet was thrown, the bride and groom rode off into the sunset and never argued, fought or got fed up with their in-laws. 

Now that I’m eighteen and a cynic, weddings are a big question mark. Is there really any guarantee of happiness at the end? I wonder. All the little conflicts on SYTTD between the bride and her parents, sisters, in-laws, or fiancé could be overblown to make the show more dramatic, or they could be cracks in relationships that will eventually grow to fissures. The main conflict on the show is always the bride having to defend her favorite dress to her friends and family. As she inevitably falters before their disapproval, I’m reminded of shopping with my maternal extended family. I know the pressure of standing in some boutique’s dressing room before your grandmother, mother, aunts, sisters, and female cousins as they give their opinions on a dress you thought was cute. I know all the soft-pressure techniques the brides use to try to convert the dissenters. I know the happiness of finding something everyone likes, and the disappointment later on, when you realize you actually hate it.
But if Say Yes to the Dress has a message, it’s this: It’s your wedding and your choice. The hosts and assistants are masters at helping the bride realize this. In one episode, the bride’s mother belittles, degrades and gaslights her daughter until she ends up rejecting the dress she loved. At the end of the episode, the bride sits down with Randy, the New York host, and says “I don’t know what to do.” They talk about the situation, and Randy tells her, “At some point, you have to think about not disappointing [yourself].” Hearing Randy give that bride his support and room to voice her opinions almost had me in tears. Although we never find out whether the bride ended up getting the dress she loved, she ends the episode by standing up to her mother. That’s the power of Say Yes to the Dress. It may be a formulaic reality TV show with predictable outcomes (she’ll find a dress, someone will cry), but it’s also surprisingly empowering.

Written by Lizzie Dickerson

Edited by Kate Castello and Madi Milchman

When I was a little girl, I used to think 16 was the perfect age. Not only is this a pretty, even number, but sixteen-year-olds have cell phones and boyfriends. They carry purses and wear low-rise jeans. It was the oldest age I could imagine myself being. It was peak maturity. 

I just turned twenty, and I’m trying my best to cope.

I used to want to age so badly. I hated my braces and the fat on my face. Now I’m turning twenty and feel deep down that I wasted my childhood. There are six-year-olds that can code and eighteen-year-olds saving lives. I’m twenty, and I have no idea what I’m doing with my life. I don’t want to sound bitter but sometimes opening social media to see another story about a thirteen year old that has gotten into college or a young actress that just had the role of a lifetime makes me want to throw my phone out the window.

Twenty seems like a space caught between two extremes. There is the side that is the kid in college. Don’t waste your time to have fun. Go out every weekend and drink yourself to sickness just because you can. Even if you don’t want to, you should do it because it’s what college students do, and you won’t be young enough to get away with it forever. Soon you will have a real job and people that rely on you. It’s also the time to focus and figure out what you’ll do with the rest of your life. Go to all of your classes and get the highest grades possible so you can get into your post grad program. Join clubs to set you apart because a high GPA won’t be good enough. Have leadership positions because you have to fill that resume somehow. Also, you should probably get a job because living on a campus isn’t cheap. 

If the expectations of being older aren’t enough to crush you, there are also the beauty expectations of beauty for women of all ages. None of this is helped by the fact that my tiktok is pushing anti-aging straws and miracle creams to prevent wrinkles. Twenty-year-old girls are selling LED masks that will prevent the look of aging on apps that are targeted at an even younger demographic. 

Not only is everything about being an aging woman difficult, it is also hard getting used to birthdays in college. Your parents, the people who were there for every birthday before, aren’t there. It’s not like high school when enough people knew that you would get stopped in the hallway with happy birthdays. Now, it feels lonely to sit in a two hundred person lecture where no one even knows your name. 

I was prepared to feel the crushing birthday sadness. I was prepared to feel the age on me. I thought I would be filled with overwhelming hatred of womanhood and all of the expectations that only increase as I age. 

Instead it was a normal day. I went to my classes and did school work. I had dinner with my friends. We sat around in my living room talking about the dumb things that we can go back and forth about on any day of the week. 

Once they left and I was finally alone with my new twenty year old self, I braced myself to feel the walls close in around me. But I felt fine. I was happy. I looked in the mirror and wasn’t met with the old and wrinkled face that I had expected. 

Aging will happen. The worst thing that I can do is be anxious about it.

The richest celebrities may get surgeries to make them appear to never age a minute but that doesn’t change the fact that getting older is inevitable. Backs will hurt, and the skin will wrinkle. No amount of lotions or skin care regimes will stop that. In the end, it won’t matter how we look, but what we feel looking back. Instead of worrying about living up to the expectations, look inside and focus on what you want for yourself. When it comes down to it, the only person that’s approval matters is your own.

Written by Jameson keebler

According to my mother, I’ve always been someone who cries on birthdays. When I was little, I used to cry on everyone else’s birthday—especially my siblings’—but for the past couple years, I’ve been crying on my own. 

Every time my birthday comes around, I set myself up for disappointment, and usually, it comes. I don’t know if it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, or if all of the issues I have year round feel so much worse on a day when I’m meant to feel happy and loved. 

I’ve never been someone who consistently had a lot of friends, and I’ve definitely never been someone who consistently had big birthday parties, but I think everything about my birthday really started to go downhill when I turned 12. At the time, I had two really close friends, and maybe three or four other girls that I was close with. I was so excited to actually have a bigger birthday party, something that I hadn’t had in a couple years, and I spent hours deciding what I wanted to do—have a spa day, and have my godmother (who went to cosmetology school) do our makeup, basically the coolest thing I could think of as an almost 12-year-old—and making invitations by hand for all of my friends.

None of them could come.

I was crushed, and I remember feeling like it didn’t even seem like it mattered to them. Probably me-of-now projecting my feelings onto me-of-then, but still. After that year, I mostly gave up on celebrating my birthday with anybody other than my family. I think there was maybe a year or two between middle school and freshman year of high school where I had one or two friends over to watch a movie, or something like that, but mostly I didn’t do anything at all. 

Somewhere along the way, I started expecting, and dreading, the disappointment that was inevitably going to come when January 22nd rolled around. 

In high school, it was worse. I started struggling to connect with people, especially my friends, more than ever, and that made my issues around my birthday a whole lot bigger. Most of my friends didn’t seem to know, or care, that it was my birthday—the few that did absolutely made my day—and I didn’t even bother to ask if anyone wanted to do anything with me. For a big chunk of my sophomore year of high school I felt like I was completely fading into the background, completely losing touch with my friends, and my birthday certainly didn’t help. Neither did the fact that school closed in March of that year, and I didn’t go back in person until my senior year. I didn’t have anything close to a sweet 16. 

My 17th birthday wasn’t great either, but my 18th was by far the worst. Not only did I do absolutely nothing with my friends—I don’t think more than 2 or 3 even messaged me a quick happy birthday—I had an entire crisis. My 18th birthday was officially the end of my childhood; my last chance to have anything resembling the birthdays I saw in all the movies and tv shows I watched growing up, the last birthday I would get to spend at home—with my family, especially my mom, who were always the best part of my birthday—for at least a couple years. All of the things that I had wanted to do as a teenager, all my hopes and dreams for close friendships and parties and effortless hangouts, went up in smoke. And believe me, I cried about it. A lot. Mostly in the shower, or anywhere else I didn’t think anyone would see me. 

This year, thankfully, was measurably better. I’m officially a college freshman, and since coming to Pitt, I’ve made closer friends than I’ve had in a very long time, if not ever before. In the days leading up to my birthday, I still couldn’t help but prepare for the crushing disappointment that at that point seemed inevitable, expecting none of my friends to know or care about it at all (irrational, I know, but I can’t help it). My family came to visit me on the day of my birthday, and I got to not only see them and take them to my favorite part of Pittsburgh I’ve had the chance to visit—the Strip District. After we went out to get hotpot, one of my favorite birthday meals, and on top of that, I also got to do something with my friends for the first time in years. My mom brought the birthday cake she made for me, and we ate it at one of the tables in the WPU with my two closest friends. It was such a small moment, 20-30 minutes max, but it was huge for me. I had worked up the nerve to ask some of my friends if they wanted to do something for my birthday, and hadn’t gotten a huge disappointment in response. Maybe next year, I’ll even ask all of my friends if they actually want to go and do something with me, instead of being too afraid to ask, like I was this year. 

In all honesty, I’m writing this because I know I’m not the only person to feel something like this, and I want anybody who’s reading it to know they’re not either. For a long time, I felt like there must be something wrong with me, not just because I wasn’t happy on my own birthday, but because I struggled so much with the whole friendship aspect of it. It really wasn’t until I downloaded TikTok (I know) that I saw other people who felt the same as me, or at least similarly. Birthdays can be scary, and they can be hard—especially when we’ve been taught our whole lives that getting older is something to fear—but they can also get better. I hope my birthday keeps getting easier for me, stops being something that I dread so much, and I hope yours gets better for you. If it doesn’t, it’s just one day; you have the entire rest of the year to celebrate yourself. If you need to take your birthday to just feel what you feel, even if everything you feel is negative, do it. And, if worst comes to worst, take a page out of icaruspendragon’s book and just pick a new one. You deserve it.

Written by Kaitlyn Sedel

Edited by Kate Castello & Lauren Deaton

“She’s definitely on her period.” This sentence is repeated over and over and over again. It’s said by everyone. Peers. Family members. And even friends. Anytime women express anger or moodiness, people automatically assume they are menstruating, and characterize women with periods in a demeaning manner. 

The statement might seem silly or harmless, but it does hurt. It attacks our character, emotions, and most importantly, our very normal bodily processes. Being patronized by others for an uncontrollable part of our identities is a trend within our society and it must end now. Rather than feeling ashamed and hiding a tampon under our shirt sleeves as we make our way to the bathroom, us women should feel empowered by our menstrual cycles. 

Oftentimes, girls do not receive education on their own hormonal cycles, so they live under the misconceptions of society. Menstruation is not just a week of bleeding. Our period is actually just the first of four phases in a cycle that repeats every month. 

Not only are women misinformed in the classroom, but also in doctors’ offices. Although hormonal regulation can occur through natural remedies like food and exercise, women are often prescribed “band-aid” medications that do not treat the root cause, but rather lead to a plethora of other side effects. To read more on the impact of band-aid medication, here is another Studio 412 article written by Belle O’Hara. 

To prevent other women from feeling ashamed of their periods, I will do a quick explanation of our menstrual cycle in relation to the four seasons. Women can live synced to their menstrual cycles by following the descriptions below. My explanation will, hopefully, shed light on the power that is a woman’s body.  

It is important to keep in mind that every woman’s cycle is unique. Therefore the days of your phases might not exactly align with the phases detailed below. 

The Menstruation Phase: Inner Winter

The menstruation phase typically lasts from day one to day five. This is where the bleeding actually occurs. During this time, our reproductive hormones are at their lowest, leading us to feel exhausted. Winter is a season of rest, hibernation, and even depression. To preserve energy levels, engage in self-care. Restorative yoga and gentle stretches are the ideal exercises to partake in during this phase. Freeing our schedules, journaling, and reflecting are also vital. This is a time of emotional release. A time of rebirth. A time of intuition. It is the perfect season to create a vision of the goals and desires we have for the next three phases. 

The Follicular Phase: Inner Spring

The follicular phase is a menstrual cycle equivalent to spring cleaning. It lasts roughly from day six to day eleven. As the sun comes out and the weather warms up, we feel the desire to plant new seeds. These new seeds might come in the form of ideas, relationships, or even food. Women emerge from their “winter hibernation” during this time and can feel a mood boost. Catching up with friends, fostering creative energy, participating in physical activity, especially cardio, and exploring new tasks are extremely beneficial throughout the follicular phase. The desires that we reflected on during menstruation can now be put into action. 

The Ovulation Phase: Inner Summer

The ovulation phase brings out our sparky, light inner selves. Our inner summer occurs typically around day twelve to day nineteen. Oftentimes we feel more confident in the summer because we are tanner and have less stress. The ovulation phase carries the same traits.  Our skin is glowing. Our libido levels are high. Our confidence is through the roof. This is the perfect time to form strong emotional connections with others. We can capitalize on our buzzing energy by doing high-intensity workouts, socializing, sharing our passions, and forming intimate connections. Ovulation time can make our goals become a reality. 

The Luteal Phase: Inner Autumn 

The luteal phase, which is the final step of the cycle, lasting from days twenty to twenty-eight, begins a stage of irritability. During the luteal phase, we must trust our guts, accept ourselves, and identify our mental blocks in order to combat fatigue and mood swings. This is the most important time to be kind, loving, and gentle to ourselves. We are learning. We are changing. We are growing. Autumn comes with unpredictable weather, just as the luteal phase can come with unpredictable moods. Remind yourself that mood swings are justified and that no season lasts forever. Before the cycle begins again, we must now release all negative intentions and energies that we no longer want to carry on our minds. 

The menstrual cycle holds the power to unlock creative energies that can allow one to become more in tune with their body’s requests. Having the ability to sync our lifestyle with a complex bodily function is beautiful. We feel more energized. More stable. More mentally available. We have more control over our life. Embracing our menstrual cycles can be so empowering and beneficial for our physical, emotional, spiritual, and social well-being. 

So the next time someone says to you, “Stop being so moody, you’re just on your period,” you can tell them to f*ck off! Why? Because a woman’s bodily function is not something to be ashamed of, but something to be proud of.

Written by Ella Logan

Edited by Kate Castello and Teagan Chandler

To know me is to know how deeply I love Greta Gerwig; and while this might seem dramatic, she is my hero, my inspiration, and my favorite writer/director in the entire world. A corner of my dorm room is carefully adorned with my Lady Bird and Little Women posters, a piece of the wall above my desk holds a picture of Greta and my favorite monologue from Frances Ha. In other words, if I ever go through a day and I don’t mention Greta Gerwig there’s probably something seriously wrong with me. 

First Encounter

The first time I watched Lady Bird I was sitting alone in my room, huddled in my bed with my computer next to me and a pile of blankets on top of me. Upon first watch it wasn’t the mother-daughter relationship I was hyper-fixated on (although this would come to be incredibly important to me and be the subject of my college essay), it was Julie and Lady Bird’s relationship. I remember sitting there, staring at the screen with tears rolling down my face, feeling like I’d been struck in the heart as Lady Bird showed up at Julie’s house instead of prom, and Julie looked at her and said, “Some people just aren’t built happy.” Never, in my entire life, had I found myself feeling so fully seen by a film. In this one moment, of tender reconciliation between teenage girls and the deeper understanding of emotional health and mental states, it felt like my soul had been stared into. This was the definitive moment I fell in love with Greta Gerwig’s work. 

The Little Women Phenomenon

Growing up, there were a lot of days I ended up staying home sick from school for one reason or another; and many of these days meant my mom staying home with me, us curled up on the couch or in her bed watching the 1994 version of Little Women. Some of my sharpest and most treasured memories from childhood involve watching that movie with my mom, from Amy’s clothespinned nose, to the infamous snow day in the film, there’s so much I so deeply cherish. So, in 2019, when Greta Gerwig released her version of Little Women, it was love at first sight. I was head over heels for the film the moment it began, the color palette, the incredible cast and performances, the beauty of the screenplay and the film as a whole, all of it completely captivated me. The tenderness and earnestness in the girl’s love for each other, the hillside confession, all of Amy’s monologues, it was beautiful and right in front of me, and it was mine. 

Whenever I tell people about my story with Little Women now I always tell them that it’s like the 1994 version was for my mom, and the 2019 version was for me, and the story itself was for us to share. 

In Search of More

After quickly falling in love with Little Women, Greta Gerwig became a central point of my interests and my life. I grew quickly interested in the way she writes, the specific vigor and involvedness with which she directs, and even in the roles she’s acted in. When I first watched Frances Ha I had no idea Gerwig had any writing credit on it, I thought she was just the main actress. In reality, Gerwig co-wrote the film with her partner Noah Baumbach while also starring in the film. The film, which is essentially about a struggling 27 year old dancer, is really about female friendship above all else–as basically all of Gerwig’s work is. There’s this moment in the film, where Frances (Gerwig’s character) delivers this monologue about how she wants to be in love, and she says, “...it’s that thing when you’re with someone…and you love them and they know it…and they love you and you know it…but it’s a party…and you’re both talking to other people…and you’re laughing and shining…and you look across the room…and catch each other’s eyes…but-but not because you’re possessive…or it’s precisely sexual…but because…that is your person in this life.” And although Frances is talking about what she wants out of romantic love, she’s also talking about what she already has found in her incredible friendship with her best friend. 

At its core, Gerwig’s work is about feminine love. About the ways women love each other, the deep tenderness of it all, the fierceness of it, the sheer depth and terror of it. 

Lovely (Difficult) Womanhood

Gerwig’s work resonates so deeply with me because she allows her women to take up space–they are embodied people, messy, confused, a little lost, but lovable nonetheless. Gerwig’s characters feel like people–like someone you know, or in some cases someone you are. They are believable, and broken-hearted, and full of life. You scream, and cry, and rejoice along with them, it feels as if they could walk through the door at any moment. 

For me, no one’s work has ever shook me quite as deeply as Greta Gerwig’s; it’s like her work is reflecting pieces of my own mind back to me. The empathy, care, and pieces of herself that she pours into her work just feel so tangible and evident. I love Greta because she makes me feel seen; watching her films feels like being sure I have a place in the world, like it’s okay for me to take up space. I am so utterly thankful for her, for her work, for the way it’s woven its way into my life and changed it for the better. I am who I am in part because of Greta Gerwig. I may not be a poet, but Greta definitely is. Greta, I love you. Thank you for everything. 

Written by by Lauren Deaton

Edited by Kate Castello