I am already predisposed to only favor hobbies that I consider myself “good at” and capitalism surely doesn’t help me overcome this tendency. Just a few months ago I was sitting outside with my friend who is an art major. As I admired her work, she encouraged me to try drawing. I immediately responded, “No, I’m not any good at it.” Her reply was simple but eye-opening: “That’s not the point, it’s about being creative and I think everyone is creative.” She handed me a pen and I started drawing, trying to accept that it was okay to aim for a pigeon and wind up with a chicken.
Her statement not only challenged me to face my own commodification of creativity, but it was also a quiet rejection of capitalism’s insistence that every activity must be tied to skill or productivity. It suggested an alternative perspective where creativity exists for its own sake, rather than as a means to an end. Under capitalism, hobbies become side hustles, and creativity is stifled by performance pressure. Now, social media reinforces this by turning hobbies into sources of validation through likes and shares. Endless content creators who once started on TikTok or Instagram to share their talents take a step back when they experience “creative burnout,” a term that should be coined something like “capitalist exhaustion” or “productivity fatigue” instead. Ultimately, rejecting this mentality affirms the right to joy, exploration, and self-expression without the burden of performance. Engaging in activities for the fun of it allows for a deeper connection with the self, a relationship capitalism has fought so hard to omit.
Now, thanks to my friend, when I journal I add a little image alongside my daily thoughts. I wouldn’t say my artistic skills have improved, but my ability to appreciate them has. I still fight against my inclinations of perfectionism, but every step of appreciating art and creativity for their intrinsic merits is a step towards dismantling a system that alienates the self from their work and their human capacities.
Check out some of my most recent doodles of defiance 🙂
This past week, I traveled alone to three new cities: Milan, Florence, and Rome, Italy in three days. Steering an unknown path without a conversation in mind and automatically understanding the public transit systems were two of the few things I could recall making this solo experience a special one. No plans in the beginning, Milan was a good one. The Duomo being the main thing to see was a slight understatement. So much art gives prosperity to its surroundings; this time to myself was quite necessary on the contrary to a walk alone. Florence held a smooth breeze that gave me the energy to continue towards the Ponte Vecchio bridge along the sunset. Rome, but replace Times Square with the colosseum. Down the boot; from the borders closer to France to a city where another sits within: Vatican City. It was an adjustment of 72 hours that taught me to take advantage of the days of rest, as the enjoyment continues in a new spot at any time.
I’ve gained a space of comfort internally that had yet to be discovered before arriving. Noticing things…everything, evoked an expression that displayed even the simplest forms of naturalism. What mattered most to me during those three days of traveling was time. How time is spent and what it can be used for without the presence and pressure of others. Ultimately, I was given the time to navigate through meals of its origin, architectural sites, and journals of those whom I cannot understand, yet immediate comprehension from an immobile figure.
There wasn’t a single person relying on my urgency to move along through the city. Nothing to wait for and nothing to take a short glimpse at. Instead, reading each description of pieces and sculptures where there are shared stories of how one’s livelihood was kept, tying a knot to mine as well.
Instead of speaking, I was observing. Those with families, locals, artists, pets, children playing on the courtyard, skaters, or other travelers much like myself. Initially, the tension was there; a nerve-racking feeling where it would be odd to travel alone. It’s something you should be doing with friends at this age. Nor that idea, however, using this age to be without anyone. And I’ve come to the conclusion that noticing others in groups together, chatting and laughing was something that I missed, displaying the experience that I was meant to have. Toward the end, I didn’t notice togetherness, much more being still. Still trees, bicycles, cars, and buildings that aren’t being controlled, ensuring a similar feeling for myself of being still and simply enjoying the observation.
He sang in an excruciatingly dramatic southern drawl that always made me laugh.
Everything that I got, is just what I got on.
He cocked his head playfully towards me as his fingers drummed on the wheel.
Resting my feet on the dashboard I pulled my sunglasses down; flashin’ him a look of playful annoyance.
When that sun is high in that Texas sky, I’ll be buckin’ at the county fair, we sang in unison with our bags packed in the trunk. I watched as we drove through tunnels, over bridges, and across state lines.
We knew there was someplace better for us. There had to be.
And as day slowly crept towards night, we watched the earth flatten from skyscrapers, like giants in the air, to the flat-earth, cattle-crawling land of tornado alley,
Amarillo by mornin’
and finally to the red rocks out west.
Amarillo I’ll be there
With a year gone and winter approachin’ he danced with me every night despite the weariness in his eyes and the callouses that plagued his hands, he turned on the old radio and held me close.
They took my saddle in Houston, broke my leg in Santa Fe.
But one night, instead of dancin’, he took me on a drive to “see the stars.”
Smellin’ the scent of stale whiskey and tobacco on his breath, he led me to the old Volkswagen in the garage and drove me forty-five minutes North.
Lost my wife and a girlfriend somewhere along the way. But I’ll be lookin’ for eight, when they pull that gate.
As he pulled the car to the side of the road, I watched as weariness turned to anger, and the callouses on his soft hands morphed into fists.
He came round to my side and ripped me from my seat.
And I hope that Judge ain’t blind.
I felt my body plunge towards the cold earth.
Rock in hand, I felt a white-hot searing pain expunge from my temple
Amarillo by mornin’
Feeling the warm blood from my head trickle down my face, everything went black.
Even the stars.
With a sudden gasp, my eyes lurch open as my deterioratin’ vision desperately tries to adjust. A sharp jolt of pain fully awakens my senses.
Sitting up, I lock eyes with the vulture; plunging its beak into the bloody wound on my thigh. I beg for it to stop.
Bendin’ my skull back to see the stars, I feel the slight patter of rain hitting my bloodied face and burying the sins of whatever happened that I can’t seem to remember deep into the ground.
A light in the distance emerges, wailin’ for help as the figure comes closer and scoops me up. He lays me down in the backseat, and as we drive off I see his thumbs drummin’ the wheel–
Amarillo by mornin’ up from San Antone, Everything that I got is just what I got on.
In order to find closure you must get everything off your chest. It’s hard. It’s uncomfortable. It’s vulnerable. It’s necessary. If you don’t lay everything out on the table, you’ll constantly wonder if things could be different. You don’t want to live your life without loving loudly and speaking your truth.
I had a massive crush on one of my friends, and we started talking. One night the line of friendship was crossed. We agreed we needed to talk about it. When talking I was caught completely off guard that he wanted nothing. I didn’t say what I really felt. In part this was because I was shocked. For the next two months he continued to lead me on. He didn’t know I still wanted him because I told him otherwise. How was I supposed to get over him if I resented him for dominating our conversation, and his continued faux interest in me? I needed to get it all out.
Jumping into the New Year from the comfort of my hometown friends and bubbles of champagne I call him and briefly explain how he made me feel. He apologizes. It’s not enough. I block him. I can’t leave things like that. I still see him everyday. I still haven’t explained my side. He doesn’t know how I feel.
We come back for the second semester and we talk. I am so panicked that no matter how hard I thought about it, I still don’t know how to articulate how I feel. I panic. I read to him from my journal. I find the way to walk him through my feelings. There’s no blame. There’s no judgement. It’s about how I feel, and helping myself get the closure I need to move on. Unfortunately, it’s not about him.
Life is too short to not tell someone how you feel. You need to have vulnerable and candid conversations to work your way through a difficult situation. Without truth you can never have closure. It’s your life, get it all out or be held back by the anxiety that you could have done more.
Nothing beats Halloween. As a kid, you'd wake up in the morning with a smile on your face, and the only disappointment was that nighttime couldn't come soon enough. School was filled with exciting Halloween themed activities, questions about your costume, a spooky lunch, and of course, tons of candy. After school, you'd walk past all of your neighbor's decorations and get into your costume. For dinner, it was "bloody" hot dogs and mac and cheese made to look like fingers.
Your dad would dress in a vampire costume and chase you around the house saying, “I want to drink your blood!" in the worst accent ever. Your dog would begin to bark after you, so your mom would yell at you and your dad for riling up the dog as "Spooky Scary Skeletons" played in the background. As the sun finally started to set, it was still warm enough to go out without layers and grab your basket and run around the front yard with your brother as you both waited for your dad. You meet up with your friend and hit your first house which features full-sized candy bars! Throughout the night, other groups of kids complement your costume, multiple houses let you have a whole handful of candy, and not one house gives out dental floss! You finally get back home and run to your front door, ring the doorbell, and yell "trick-or-treat!" as your mother acts surprised. She has hot chocolate ready for you and your brother. You both dump out your candy and make your official candy trades after counting and sorting it all out. Your dad takes some as "the dad tax" and your mom tells you not to eat it all at once. You promise her you won't as you shove another bar into your mouth. Then, you change into your pajamas and fall asleep on the couch, excited to brag about how much candy you got the next day at school.
Written by Mal Creveling
McCall Road
The street I grew up on was a childless one. There were very few families with children and even
fewer with children under ten. Every year I would don my elaborate costume complete with face paint
and accessories. On Halloween of 2013, I was a vampire princess. Covered in an elaborate gown, frills
and all, I walked up and down my street with my apathetic father in tow. Many of the houses had their
lights off with no fake skeletons or pumpkins on doorsteps. When we finally found a home with their porch lights lit, I rang the doorbell and waited patiently. The suffocating silence of the empty street surrounded me. An elderly couple opened the door, arms outstretched with a plastic pumpkin full of candy. I was invited to take as many as I wanted as their scruffy Bichon Frise nipped at the hem of my dress. The warmth from their home spilled onto the doorstep, filling my nose with apple cinnamon. The walk back home felt long. An endless expanse of grey pavement lay in front of us.
When we arrived home, I sprawled out on the couch, cradling my pillowcase of candy like a newborn infant. My mother proposed watching a Halloween movie—one made for kids like Coraline or
The Nightmare Before Christmas. I vehemently refused, shaking my head violently back and forth until
my brain pounded against my skull. I was an easily frightened child. Once after playing the Halloween-themed Just Dance level, I couldn’t sleep for days. My parents had tried to get me to watch The Nightmare Before Christmas countless times, convinced that watching it was a quintessential childhood experience. Every time they attempted, I would snatch the remote and shut it off as soon as the “boogeyman” came on screen. We opted for Star Wars: Episode III – Revenge of the Sith instead, which was arguably more violent than The Nightmare Before Christmas.
We left the windows open, allowing the cool breeze to waltz through our home, dancing around the living room. The few older children that were still trick-or-treating giggled as they ran down the street. The warm glow of the street lights blanketed my face as I slept that night, a gentle embrace, a quiet night.
Written by Ariana Cator
The Last House
I was a late bloomer, so every Halloween from the age of 1-16, I went trick-or-treating with my younger sisters. When I was 16, I invited my friends to come with me, since my neighborhood was small enough were we could save ourselves from the embarrassment.
At the end of my neighborhood, about 40 houses down from mine, there was an older couple who always gave out king-sized treats. Even though it was freezing, raining, and we had to walk up a hill, our goal was to make it to their house. My younger sisters got tired along the way, so after taking them back home, we headed to our final destination.
When we arrived, we rang the doorbell and were greeted by my neighbors. The woman asked us if we wanted to step inside for a second to warm up, and the man went to grab the candy bars. When we finally processed what was going on, we realized how spooky their house was. Their foyer was massive with a grand staircase leading to the second floor. There were china cabinets, antique trinkets, and crystal chandeliers. Hanging on the walls were paintings of their children as babies- not photographs, but large 5ft by 5ft paintings. The house looked untouched, like no one had lived there in decades. We proceeded to chat with them for over 20 minutes, and even though they were being nice, we were still spooked.
That was the last time I went trick-or-treating.
Written by Giulia Mauro
Patrick Bateman
I love Halloween. It’s my favorite holiday, and I go all out.
This year, I went as Patrick Bateman (#performativefemale) —complete with a mini skirt and fishnets. This year, Halloween was different because I was going to my first ever Halloween party thrown by my ex-boyfriend and his best friend.
The party was huge. So many people from my high school were there, including all of my best friends. It was a blast until my evil ex got involved. For some background, this man broke up with me, and in public he pretended to hate my guts. We were also leads in the musical that year and had to be close to each other often.
He got with a lot of women after we broke up and was very mean to me, but at this Halloween party, he flirted with me the entire time. I, however, had a bigger secret he was not aware of; I wanted his best friend.
His best friend pulled me aside many times and told me I could not tell my ex that we were even chatting because my ex had told him and everybody else at this party that they weren’t allowed near me. I was in shock. I had no idea this man thought about me at all. Multiple times while I was talking to my ex, his best friend would be making eyes at me across the room, trying to get me to be alone with him. It got to a point where I could not drive home, and my friends asked my ex if I could stay the night. He of course said he would take very good care of me and sent them on their way. He sat me on the couch with a big blanket and laid down right next to me. We were watching a movie, but the whole time I was secretly texting his best friend. He ended up moving closer, and I ended up on the couch in between them. I fell asleep next to my evil ex and his best friend.
Months later, my ex found out I was dating his best friend. He threatened me and spilled drinks on our cars. I am now doing long distance with his best friend. We have been together for almost a year and are still going strong.
Written by Gabrielle Bleice
Furry Head
My favorite Halloween memory would by far have to be when I stole a furry head from a frat house. Freshman year of college, I was at a Halloween party with a large group of my friends. The party was split between two backyards with a fence dividing them. We made it to the original party but heard a rumor that there was a bathroom in the other house. I hopped the fence with my friend Luke in an attempt to use the bathroom. We got inside and walked down the hallway, but two guys were blocking the door. They let me use the bathroom just fine, but not my friend Luke—simply because he is a guy. They told him to “whip it out” outside, and I was fed up. On our way out, there was a furry head sitting on the kitchen counter and I grabbed it, ran, and then hopped the fence. I then flaunted my prize to the other party and walked away unscathed. Even up to this day, my friends and I sporadically put the infamous furry head on.
Written by anonymous
Trick or Treat
Trick-or-treating falls on the Thursday before Halloween every year. And every year without fail, it’s 30 degrees. And if you’re really lucky, it's raining. It’s Ohio, so what more can you expect? However, this means that every costume from ages 0-12 (because at 13 I was too cool to trick-or-treat) was also stocked with thermal leggings, winter coat, mittens, and a hat. Trust me, this was not my choice. Every vampire, bee, and snapchat filter was over taken by the marshmallow that I was underneath. And as I think of what I am going to be this year, I laugh at what my younger self would think. She’d be proud that I’m sticking to the authentic vampire, corset and all. One thing I know, however, is I was never cold those nights. Embarrassed, but not cold. I’m hoping only one of those things will be true this year.
Written by Cassidy Hench
My Halloween Memory
I have a distinct memory of the first Halloween I didn’t spend carving pumpkins, watching Halloween movies, trick-or-treating, and trading candy. It was my freshman year of high school at a new school. My friend had a small Halloween party, and I was so happy to be invited. I dressed up as a go-go girl with my four other girl friends. I had a fun time that night, but the only memorable part of it was how I felt. Although I was so grateful to be included, I was heartbroken that I left my mom alone that night. And although she was happy to see me socializing with new friends, she felt the pain of letting go. This is why fall is such a hard, but beautiful time for my mom and me. The Halloween season and cooler weather brings change, as the trees begin to let go of their leaves and my mom lets go of me more. But, as the leaves always come back in the spring, I will always return too. Fall always reminds me of this moment, the feeling of love and letting go.
Written by Avi Mucci
Hippies
In sixth grade, my friend group and I dressed up as hippies—AKA wore tie-dye and circle glasses. We trick-or-treated in my friend, Del’s, neighborhood. I remember the streets being filled with parents and kids running around. This memory has always resonated with me when I think of the fall. Being with a group of girls (that are still my best friends) reminds me of the friendships I have built. To this day when I drive through Del’s neighborhood, I get flashbacks to this moment in my life.
Solitude is a delicacy that not everyone can digest–rich and robust and somewhat difficult to swallow. To some, it’s a treat. Sure, if you indulge in it too often, it may become a bore. But if you allow your taste buds to mature, taking in the flavors bite by bite, it may grow on you.
Solitude has been my comfort food. I’ve sampled it during walks in Schenley Park, at-home movie nights, and Sunday morning resets.
But lately, I’ve been fantasizing about living in a four-bedroom apartment with three other girls. We wouldn’t need to plan nights out; we could live off of spontaneity, eating Trader Joe’s microwave dinners and randomly deciding on a Friday night that we have the energy to dance. We’d flood into a bathroom far too small to fit us all, and take turns sharing a straightener while picking out everyone’s tiny top, baggy jean combo. The best part: I wouldn’t return to an empty home. There’d be a debrief waiting for me at breakfast. A meal I normally skip.
If I followed the recipe for making friends in college, I’d be planning group grad pictures for the upcoming spring. Maybe my group would be my roommates, or the friends that I met on my freshman year floor. We’d take photos of us standing in front of the fountain near the Frick Fine Arts building with Cathy in the background, and post to our Instagrams with the Dr. Dog song, “Where’d All the Time Go?” Eventually, we’d walk home with our heels in hand and gowns draped over our shoulders, reminiscing about all the memories we made across the four years we spent together. But I skipped the recipe.
Solitude has an aftertaste, and people are quick to point it out:
“Don’t you get FOMO?”
“You're too friendly to be an introvert.”
“If I were you, my thoughts would get too loud.”
They do: What if I hadn’t let my previous experience with roommates scar me, and I had actually taken the leap of faith and lived with girls for my last two years of college? What if I weren’t such a pushover and let people abuse my social battery? Do I even blame them?
For so long, I’d proudly exclaim how I’m an introvert. My time spent alone wasn’t only necessary, but sweet: staying up late, listening to my records, and dancing around my living room like I’m in a 90s coming-of-age movie. My at-home concert attire was an oversized t-shirt thrown over some underwear, and fuzzy socks to top it off. And when I started feeling breathless from jumping on my bed for far too many minutes, a tub of ice cream would be waiting for me in the freezer. I could turn off my records, crawl into bed, and let the sound of trains passing by lull me to sleep.
The second I put my social battery on the back burner, my time alone turned into doomscrolling until 3 AM and sleeping in until 5 PM. It tasted sour, but I was willing to sacrifice my emotions to be there for others. In reality, I was draining all the energy I had left, so much so that my alone time wasn’t enough to recharge me.
Solitude should be savored.
As I’ve entered my senior year, I’ve let people go and have felt my stomach ache because I don’t know how to tell them why. How does one explain they need more time alone?
I remember that I don’t have the stereotypical friend group that people write sitcoms about, and I begin wondering where I fit in. But I do have friends from freshman year who I can happily say have stuck by my side throughout all my ups and downs. I have close ones who welcome me into their homes so often that their roommates have become my friends as well. They inspire me to make last-minute plans, listen to undiscovered artists, unapologetically speak about politics, text that one person I’ve been meaning to catch up with, and fully embrace time spent alone.
It seems counterintuitive, but all this time spent with people who fill my cup has made me crave solitude again. That time to reflect, to consume, to create, to dance, to sing off-key. I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t admit to the occasional loneliness, but I can confidently say that solitude has started tasting sweet again.
For the past year and nine months, my relationship with my boyfriend has taught me so much about myself and how I navigate life.
Although the honeymoon phase of my relationship has worn off, the awe of being loved by someone hasn’t. Every day I look forward to seeing my boyfriend, and I am always willing to drop all to help him with whatever he needs because I know that he would do the same for me.
But, slowly, I noticed that I had started to center my relationship around being perfect for him, and not the actual connection between us.
Most days when I woke up in the morning, I got ready thinking, “What would a girlfriend wear?” When I went grocery shopping, I thought of meals that I know he would like, even if it’s not something I would typically eat, and numerous times throughout the day, I would text, call, or even just wonder what he’s doing.
At first, I thought nothing of this. Habits shift when you're in a relationship, but what I thought was consideration was turning into clinginess. I started to become insecure about myself. That's when I began to wonder, “When did I lose myself in my own relationship?”
Before my boyfriend, I had never dated anyone– I had never even had a semi-successful talking stage, so when we started dating, I created this idea of “the perfect girlfriend,” and she was who I aspired to be. The so-called selfless things I was doing for him were fueled by my own insecurities. He’s never asked me to make him dinner, but in my mind, the perfect girlfriend knows how to cook (something that I am terrible at). He doesn’t ask me to help him tidy his room, but in my mind, the perfect girlfriend offers. He doesn’t ask me to pick him over my friends, but in my mind, the perfect girlfriend chooses her boyfriend above all.
Sure, being in a relationship changes other things in your life, too, but being “the perfect girlfriend” became my whole personality, and it wasn’t something he had ever asked of me. It's cheesy, but I wanted so badly to be the girl that you take home to your family for the holidays or the girl that you buy flowers for every Friday, that I forgot who I am, what I stand for, and how to be content with myself.
Although it took a while, I started to remember that he knew me before I was a girlfriend. When I was just me, dressing in what I wanted to wear in the morning, never offering to cook a meal for anyone, and especially not trying to be perfect for a man. I can’t create an unrealistic expectation for myself because, at the end of the day, he fell in love with me, not “the perfect girlfriend.”
Growing up, I had a unique combination of being shy while also badly-behaved. I was curious, and, naturally, a little bit annoying. I had chunky blue glasses, and I was the tallest girl in the classroom until I eventually peaked at 5’5”. “Why?” was my favorite word, and I wouldn’t hesitate to ask it! Even in inappropriate settings, because I had no situational awareness.
Writing came easily to me. In elementary school, I won the end-of-year “Best Writer” certificate three years in a row. My high school superlative was “Most Likely to be a Famous Writer.” My dad once told me that me choosing not to write would be like Muhammad Ali choosing not to box. That hurt my feelings, and I couldn’t tell why.
Writing was something that I could use to make myself easier to understand, because, at the risk of sounding corny, I have felt hard to understand for most of my life. Personal essays allowed readers to see me for who I was beyond their initial perceptions.
In college, I obviously chose to major in English Writing. Thinking back, this is probably when I started to fall out of love with it.
We have so many talented writers on campus. I quickly realized I was no longer the best. In fact, I may be terrible!
As late assignments started piling up–even as a senior, they still pile up, and I feel like I never fully adapted to a college workload–I got more and more discouraged. I would write whatever got me a passing grade, and I faded into the background as a below-average student. I write for fun, it doesn’t work. It feels like nails on a chalkboard.
The fear is, maybe I only wrote because it was what I thought I was supposed to do.
I recently had a meeting with one of my favorite professors in the English department. I was listing my concerns to her, and she said words that were equally freeing and terrifying: “You don’t have to write anymore, if you don’t want to.”
My first thought was that I still have to finish my major, so she’s technically wrong, but she had a point. Why does this have to be my creative outlet? I’m not chained to writing personal essays, but consciously choosing to give it up entirely feels like a death sentence.
So, I concluded that I do love writing–maybe just not right now, or at least, not in the way I used to. I like writing scripts, and talking about media critically. I like interviewing people, and researching. I guess I’m just not in the mood to get personal.
Maybe I finally don’t feel the need to justify my every action to you through recounting my own inner dialogue. I now need to understand the world as I see it. But, one day, I have faith that I will inhale and exhale again. You’ll all hear from me when I do.
