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

Growing up in Miami, Florida was a blessing and a curse. 

A blessing because I was around my culture and roots at all times—allowing me to be my true self ethnically. A curse because there were body standards within the culture that I, and many others, were expected to achieve.

Growing up, I would watch telenovelas with my grandmother and would see tan-skinned, tall women with curves in all the right places. I would look at myself after watching these and think:

Why don’t I look like them? 

Going to school didn’t help either. There were many girls who were tanner than me, thinner than me, and overall fit the image of the Latina women I would see on television: the image everyone thinks of. These girls could also speak Spanish just a bit better than me. Needless to say, my insecurities were through the roof.

As I got older, I began to see these expectations on social media, which is hard to avoid no matter who you are. I would not only see actresses with a similar background not look like me, but friends of mine look completely different—better. They had thick dark hair and nice lines all along their bodies, something I can’t achieve.

Being around them made me feel very different. We looked nothing alike, most of them fit the Latina look, but I didn’t feel like I did. No matter what I did, I never felt like I fit the look of my culture. I was wider in the wrong places and was hairier than most girls. Of course, genetics plays a huge part in my look, but as a kid that’s the last thing you think about.

It didn’t help that a lot of the older women in my life would make me feel like I didn’t belong because of how I looked either. This happened because they were also of a bigger build, and wanted to make sure that I avoided getting to that point myself. I never understood why though—they were all beautiful. They would compare my build to the girls around me, saying I needed to be thinner and look more like them. I would exercise as much as I could, but it was never enough.

I of course appreciated their overall message, but I do wish I could just have lived a life without those cares. Moving north for college didn’t end these insecurities, unfortunately, but it did get better. The Latina women I would meet would still fit the image I had seen on TV all those years ago, but this time I didn’t care as much. 

I have learned to embrace who I am and accept that I don’t look like those women, but that doesn’t make me any less Latina. I am proud of my culture and as I grow older, I am proud of my look.

Written by Isabella Gattamorta

Edited by Elisabeth Kay and Kate Castello

Emptiness.

“Ms. Schwartz?” A gentle voice asked, pulling Nan from her thoughts. “Ms. Schwartz, did you hear me?” Numbly, Nan nodded, heart slowly moving up her throat as she struggled to breathe in.

“You said–” she stopped, voice trembling. She cleared her throat. “You said I have breast cancer, and I–”

“And you need a double mastectomy.” The doctor prompted, eyes filled with concern as she leaned across the desk, angling herself closer to Nan. “We can try chemo, of course, but with the aggressive nature of this cancer, to avoid further pain, I’d recommend immediate surgery.”

Further pain? Nan questioned, her thoughts frantic as her eyes scanned the informative pamphlet being pushed across the table to her. How is complicated surgery to remove my breasts a way for me to avoid ‘further pain’?

Taking her silence as an answer, the doctor smiled warmly and patted Nan’s hand, which she had forgotten lay motionless on the desk. “You can take a few days to decide. When you’re ready, give me a call.”

“But please,” she continued, leading Nan to the door, “decide quickly. The sooner we get in there the better.” Her smile, while intending to be kind, suddenly seemed saccharine, utterly artificial and cloyingly sweet. Nan pasted an equally fake smile on her face, and headed out of the door. As she walked down the hall, she hugged herself, wrapping her arms around her chest and squeezing herself tightly. The familiar swell of her breasts greeted her, comfortably firm under her forearm. Her throat tightened, a tell tale sign she was about to cry. Refusing to cry in her oncologist's office, she rushed to her car, silent tears falling as she ran, hand clamped over her mouth. She closed her car door with a slam, and sat, panting, her heart beating loudly in her chest, face growing redder and redder as she began to let herself go. Within seconds, her car was filled with the sounds of her loud, howling, uncontrollable sobs.

***

“It’s been over a week! What more is there to think about Nan? You have to do this! Don’t you want to live?” Her mother demanded, pacing in front of Nan, who was slouched back into the familiar red couch at her parents’ house. “Where is the phone? I’ll call her right now. Sometime next week would be perfect. I could drive you there and pick you up after. I–”

“Mom, stop!” Nan leaned forward with a grunt, her head in her hands. She took a breath, rolling her shoulders back. “I can’t have this conversation again. This isn’t about you. This is my choice. Mine.” She pointed emphatically at herself, hands shaking with tension.

Her mom’s chin trembled, face crumpling. “I know sweetie, I’m just trying to take care of you. Please–” her voice broke, as she stifled a sob. “Please. You’re my daughter. Let me take care of you.” The pure devastation in her voice made Nan pause. She sighed. The look of momentary hope on her mom’s face broke her heart. 

I can’t do this to her again. She crossed her arms across her chest, a motion now familiar to her.

“Fine,” she said, swallowing heavily, fighting back now familiar tears. “I’ll do it.” A sinking feeling entered her chest, weighing her down as her mom hugged her tightly. 

Emptiness.

***

Nan woke up to a steady beeping sound. Hearing snoring, she turned her head, groaning slightly. Her mother was asleep in a chair by her head, opposite the row of machines, her arms crossed across her chest. Gingerly, Nan moved her non IV-bearing arm to her chest. Her gentle fingers brushed against the neck of her hospital gown. She pulled it up slightly, revealing thick, tightly wrapped bandages. Shaking slightly, she dropped the gown, her fingers lightly tracing her chest. 

Emptiness.

They were met with an unfamiliar flatness that caused Nan’s breath to hitch. With a start her mother woke up, ending Nan’s private moment. “Oh my, you’re awake! I’ll go get the nurse!” Before Nan could protest, her mother had jumped up, ran across the room, and burst through the door. A single tear rolled down Nan’s cheek as she stared forlornly at her bandage-wrapped, hospital gown-clad chest. 

Emptiness.

***

“Come on Nan, it’ll be fun.” Her best friend Anastasia pleaded, rolling across Nan’s bed. As she neared, Nan tucked the pillow closer to her body, relishing in its cover. “I can’t,” she answered simply, “I’m not supposed to be outside too long while my stitches heal.”

“It’s been a month! They’ve healed! Please come! It’s the first nice day of the summer, we have to go out and enjoy it.” But Anastasia’s pleas were lost on deaf ears. Nan’s arms tightened in silent protest as she pressed the pillow against her chest. 

Emptiness.

“I can’t go outside Stas, leave it alone.” Anastasia opened her mouth to respond, but, upon seeing the look on Nan’s face, backed off. “Okay,” she held her hands up in defeat, “we’ll just stay in.”

***

“Nan! Let’s go!” Her mother called, fluffing her hair in the entryway mirror. Nan jammed her sneakers on, making sure to keep her gaze aimed at the floor as she walked down the hall. 

Emptiness.

She stepped outside, the bright sun making her wince. She wrapped the cardigan tightly around her, her arms covering her flat chest. Her mom beckoned to her, a bright smile on her face as Nan walked towards the car. “We’ll have a girl’s night! We’ll drink margaritas, have some tacos, it’ll be great!” She chirped as Nan slid into the passenger’s seat. Nan glanced over at her mom, whose smile faltered, and gave her a flat grin. “Yeah, it’ll be great.” Her mom sighed, tipped her head back, and swore silently under her breath. “Okay, scratch dinner. I have an idea.” She canceled the GPS’ directions to the restaurant and entered a new address. Confirming the drive, she pulled out of the driveway. After driving in awkward silence for a few minutes, Nan’s mother flipped on the jazz station. She hummed along, tapping the steering wheel as she swayed to the beat. Nan closed her eyes, leaning her head against the cool window as she let the sun warm her face. 

“Nan,” her mother whispered, shaking her shoulder. “Get up, we’re here.” Blinking the tiredness out of her eyes, Nan unbuckled her seatbelt and hesitantly opened the door. Her mom had parked at a strip mall, full of cheesy-looking pizzarias, pawn shops, and liquor stores. She turned to her mom, eyebrows raised in question. Her mom smiled slightly, and pulled her forward.

***

Nan dragged her feet, eyes trained stubbornly to the ground as her mom bounced into the tattoo parlor. “Hello!” She chirped, walking up the reception desk. “My daughter would like to get a tattoo.”

“I’m not getting a tattoo,” Nan grumbled, arms bundled around herself protectively, “and besides, you don’t even like tattoos.” 

Emptiness.

Her mom waved her off, eyes trained on the buff receptionist with a neck tattoo and nose piercings. “Why don’t you just talk to an artist? Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

The receptionist led them to a private room at the end of a long hallway. Nan ducked inside, taking a seat on the appointment chair. “I’ll be in in one second hon,” her mom called after her. She lingered outside, mumbling something to the receptionist, who nodded solemnly, and disappeared back down the hallway. 

***

After a few minutes, a slim, dark-haired woman who Nan assumed to be the tattoo artist, based on the tattoos on her thin arms, walked into the room. “Hi Nan,” Her cheery voice said, “I’m Victoria, and I hear you’re in the market for a tattoo today.” Upon seeing Nan’s stony expression, her resolute silence, she smiled warmly at Nan’s mom. “Ma’am,” she began, “if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I think we could do with some privacy.”

Ha! Nan laughed bitterly, Good luck getting Mom to leave. 

To her surprise, her mom nodded amicably and left the room. Victoria grabbed her mother’s once-inhabited chair, and pulled it over to Nan. “So you had breast cancer.” Nan flinched at the blunt words, her face blushing furiously. “No, no, no,” Victoria exclaimed, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” She began pulling at the buttons of her shirt. Nan flinched, covering her own chest.

Emptiness.

“I had breast cancer too,” she said as she hastily undid the buttons. Nan relaxed, arms sliding to her side once more. “I got a double mastectomy. And I felt like a piece of me was missing after that. I shut myself in for months. I didn’t want to go anywhere and see these whole, happy, feminine women walking around, enjoying their lives.” She laughed bitterly, reaching the last button. 

“I had nearly given up on ever feeling beautiful, or even whole again, but I joined a support group on Facebook. And I saw a woman, a tattoo artist, who had gotten a chest tattoo after her incisions healed. A lotus, to symbolize rebirth.” She pulled her shirt open, revealing a beautifully shaded peacock. Its body was a brilliant blue, seeming to shimmer on her skin. The feathers were light and detailed, and appeared so real Nan wanted to reach out and touch them. Their iridescence spread across Victoria’s chest, covering her scars entirely.

“I wanted to feel beautiful in my body again. I wanted to be able to walk proudly, strutting, if you will, like a peacock. So my friend gave me this tattoo. And it’s the best decision I’ve ever made.” She smiled shyly, buttoning her shirt back up. “And, if you give me the chance, I’d love to give you one too.” Tears welling up in her eyes, Nan nodded, her mind instantly made up. “I’d really like that.”

***

Two weeks later, Nan walked out of ‘Pins and Needles’, the name of the tattoo shop. After five painful sessions with Victoria, her tattoo was complete. Her mother sat in the car, waiting in the parking lot. “How does it look?” She asked eagerly, clapping her hands together. Nan shook her head. “I haven’t seen it yet.” 

“What? Why not?” Her mother asked. “How can you not have seen it?”

“I didn’t want to,” Nan replied simply, “Not until it was ready.” Her mother threw up her hands in exasperation, but Nan could see a bright smile cross her face. They drove home, listening to familiar jazz. They hummed along, spirits high as they danced in their seats. As soon as they got home, Nan ran up to her childhood room. “Don’t you want to see it together?” Her mom called. She was answered with the slamming of Nan’s door.

Nan leaned against her door, breathing heavily. Her heart pounded and blood roared as she slowly unbuttoned her red and black checkered flannel. It’s okay. It’s not empty anymore. She thought to herself as she stood with her back to the mirror. Just turn around. Arms clenched by her side, eyes squeezed shut, she inched around. Slowly, she cracked open one eye, then the other, and a sob broke out of her throat.

Victoria had drawn a beautiful tree. Its roots were strong and defined, curving around her scars. The leaves were shades of blue and green, bright and vibrant against Nan’s pale skin. Their carefully drawn lines gave them the appearance of being in motion, waving in an invisible wind. The trunk was supple, yet strong.

Nan pulled open the letter Victoria had written to her.

The Tree of Life, Victoria had written in delicate cursive, To show that your life is strongly rooted. It’ll go on, growing and changing, just as you will. 

Sinking to her knees, Nan cried out in relief, eyes trained stalwartly on her reflection. 

Whole.

Written by Teagan Chandler

Edited by Leyla Akselioglu and Kate Castello

I didn’t get my first A minus until my first semester of college. 

It’s a perfectly respectable grade, especially as a new college student, yet part of me felt strange to see the foreign minus mark next to the A. I was an overachieving perfectionist in high school—to put it lightly—and my status as a distinguished honor roll student was both a source of pride as well as one of shame for me growing up. So when I saw that dreaded A- appear on my transcript, I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. 

Mostly, though, I felt relieved. 

This small, pale stain on my academic record would finally relinquish me of the “perfection” that claimed my identity in high school.

When I look back now, I realize my perfectionist problem started much earlier than high school. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always excelled in my school work. I’ve loved reading even before I could actually read, and as early as second grade, I was labeled “gifted” despite the fact that my tiny, rural school offered no real opportunities for kids like me. 

In middle school, my classmates started calling me “Robot,” for my high grades and strong participation in school. Usually, I simply laughed or brushed it off, pretending it didn’t bother me that the only thing kids saw when they looked at me was my ability to rapidly solve algebra problems or earn an A on a challenging science test. 

In high school, I decided to try to change the way people saw me. I sat strategically near the back of the classroom. I didn’t share my grade when the teacher passed back tests and answered questions only when called upon, hoping people would forget their nickname for me. 

This strategy (shockingly) didn’t work out so well for me. I wasn’t willing to compromise my desire for academic success, and I couldn’t bring myself to refuse to try at something so important when I knew I was good at it. I’ve always had a passion for learning, for being deeply curious about the world. My hard working nature was already ingrained too deep. And like my love for learning, the perception everyone in my life had of me felt too rooted in place to ever change. 

This lingering Robot perception of me extended beyond my involvement in academics. Being noticed only for my brain reinforced negative self-images I had of myself, and I thought that no one found interest in me romantically. I thought that the problem was me: I wasn’t attractive or desirable enough. I had to be a brain, I couldn’t simply be a girl. 

It was true I had never been particularly feminine. Actually, growing up I had an aversion to all the conventional “girly” things. I hated school dances and renounced anything pink. I never liked wearing a dress or makeup or jewelry. I never wanted to go shopping or get my nails done. My mom teased me for wearing only sweatshirts and jeans but it was what I found most comfortable, especially at an age when I simply wanted to disappear. All of this made me feel like I didn’t know how to dress or date or even truly be feminine. I struggled to feel beautiful, confident, and worthy of love. 

It took a long time for me to realize this glittery pink version of femininity wasn’t the only way to be a woman. In fact, there is no one right way. Contrary to what society might condition us to believe, women can be both smart and beautiful. It sounds obvious, but it took me longer than I’d like to admit to realize I shouldn’t have to sacrifice part of myself in order to feel desirable. My intelligence isn’t the only facet of myself worthy of notice from the world. There isn’t anything wrong with me for the way others choose to characterize me. The problem was never internal but external, and I realized no matter what I did, how other people perceive me isn’t necessarily a true reflection of who I am. What’s wrong is their perception, the fact that they only cared to look at one piece of my identity.

This simultaneous struggle to define myself as a woman, see myself as beautiful, and be perceived as something other than a Robot is my fight to overcome what I call the Robot-Barbie Dichotomy.

Society has countless expectations for women, many of which are contradictory: Be smart but not the smartest person in the room because no one likes a know-it-all. Be pretty but make it look natural, even effortless, don’t wear too much makeup. Be confident but don’t flaunt it; no one likes a girl who’s arrogant. Smile. Be nice but not a pushover. Let guys pursue you, but don’t be too easy. Be a cool girl, don’t let anything make you emotional. But be strong and assertive, don’t let anything get in your way.  

It’s easy to see why so many women struggle to make sense of their identities, to break free from the dichotomy society tries to pigeonhole us into. Sometimes it feels like the world will only ever see you as one of two things: a Barbie or a Robot. And although some of these statements may seem outdated, the reduction of women’s identities remains a very real and prevalent issue. I’ve experienced it and I’m sure many of you have too, whatever your version of the dichotomy might be. I’m still working on letting go of the versions of myself I once thought I had to be, and even more difficult, the shame that accompanied the desire to fit myself into a neat box within the dichotomy.

So my encouragement to you now is this: be contradictory. 

Be surprising, be creative, be whatever you want to be. Don’t let anyone convince you that you aren’t capable of becoming whoever you wish to be. And don’t feel like you have to choose between identities; embrace them all.

Written by Lauren Myers

Edited by Kate Castello

When I was younger, I was obsessed with Justin Bieber. When it came to birthdays, Christmas, or any other holiday that required my family to buy me a gift, any piece of Justin Bieber memorabilia was their first thought. So, when going back to school, I had to have at least one notebook with Justin Bieber’s face on it.

I remember walking in on my first day of school, so excited to show my friends my new school supplies; I thought the mass-produced notebook I had bought from Target was so special—as if Justin himself had hand-delivered it to me. 

While my friends were just as excited as I was, some people—mainly the boys in my class—had begun to tease me for it. While the comments weren’t malicious, they still bothered me.

As years went by, my obsessions grew. I had a One Direction planner all throughout middle school and chose to wear 5 Seconds of Summer shirts on the days our Catholic school had allowed us to dress out of uniform. I was proud of the things I enjoyed and wanted to showcase them to other people.

So why were people constantly making fun of the things that made me happy?

I remember feeling a need to not be too ‘girly’ in elementary school; I never admitted my favorite color was pink because it seemed too feminine. But, as I grew, I began to love the different aspects of femininity, like playing around with makeup or dressing myself up for different school events. 

When telling people that I’m an English Writing major, and have dreams of becoming an author, they’ve asked if I’m going to write cheesy romance books, or instantly make a joke about me writing smut for the rest of my life. 

As I discovered my body, and what brought my body pleasure, it felt as though it always got pushed to the side. The other person values their own pleasure and desire before mine, and when they’re fulfilled it’s over. My body is just another body to them. 

For a while, I’d wondered if the fact that this upset me so much made me a narcissist– I was just being too selfish, and my pleasure shouldn’t mean this much to me. That maybe I was just meant to settle in the state of being averagely satisfied. But that’s not true.

To want to experience pleasure and satisfaction, and to simply enjoy what you’re doing, isn’t rooted in narcissism; it’s a basic human need.

Written by Elizabeth Kay

Edited by Wendy Moore and Kate Castello