I crave perfection. I crave results. I crave approval. I crave success. I crave admiration. I crave love. I crave peace. I crave meaning. I crave acceptance. I crave a routine. I crave, I crave, I crave. I crave so many things, and will never have any of them. No matter how badly I want it, perfection is unattainable. There is never a right time, or a right moment, and I have to accept that. I will never appease everyone, but must learn to appease myself. But how do I appease myself when all I’ve wanted is the validation of others? Who am I when I’m not giving to others? 

I have always been an overachiever. My father measures people in terms of quantifiable success. So does the rest of the world. I was raised on gold medals and extra credit. I was pushed to be involved in anything I could be. My days were filled with rigorous course work from my prep school with notable alumni such as Joe Biden. My nights were filled with community service, work, theater, student council, yearbook committee, anything that I could win. I was raised on perfection. 

My junior year of high school, my dad came to see the musical I led. Head Over Heels. I had the largest role. I had the final bow. My name was at the top of the cast list. I always ask my parents what they think of my shows. Who the standouts are. Who the weak links are. When I ask them what their favorite part is, the answer is always the same. Me. Not only because I’m their child, but because I am the best. I have to be. I’m the lead. Not only does the lead have to be the strongest part of the show, but I have to be the best. I don’t know what to do when I’m not succeeding. This time was different. I asked my dad what his favorite part was. He said my best friend, Robert. Truthfully, at the time, it didn’t bother me. Robert was also my favorite part, and this was his biggest role to date. I laughed it off, “Okay. But what was your favorite part I was in?” 

My dad, similar to me, doesn’t like his authority being questioned and jumped to the defensive. “Well, you were good, but you sounded strained at times, that’s all. I could just tell this role was a lot for you, but they had no one else to do it,” I was stunned. I anticipated him to respond with the title of any of my multiple solo songs. Instead, he told me I was good, but strained. I was ok. I was not the standout; I was the weak link. I have never been the weak link. I drove to my show hysterically sobbing in my car. I almost called out of the show. My dad and I made up, the mechanics of it don’t matter. When I bring it up now, he gets defensive saying that three years later I must see his side of the story. And truth be told, I do get some parts of it. I had the hardest part and the least support. People always assume I can handle a heavy workload because I insist I can. I don’t know how to say that I can’t. I don’t know how to not carry my own cross. I don’t know how to not give people what they want because I don’t know what I want. 

Whenever I call my mom crying, she asks me how to help me and I always respond in the same defeated tone, “I don’t know,”. I am the person with the solutions, so when your rock doesn’t know what to do, you panic. I was at a party while my best friend got broken up with, I found a sober person to drive me to her. My little brother is confused about his English homework, I help him with his assignment and stay up later finishing my own work. I’m at a bar and a drunk girl I’ve never met comes up to me throwing up and crying that her friends left her, I’m getting her home. I fix the friendship drama. I compartmentalize my own issues. I don’t get confrontational with people, I justify their actions and move on. When my research advisor asks me to pick up slack I do. When my internship boss complains about a low quality of work I help others fine tune their projects. I crave perfection. 

I hate that I have no idea what I want to do with my life. I know what I’m good at, but I don’t know what I want to do. I only know how to do what others want me to do. Can I make a decision? Sure, but it’s for the collective good, not my own well being. I spend so much time prepping for interviews, but when I’m on a date and asked what I like to do in my free time I freeze. I laugh it off explaining that I don’t get free time and instead list my resume as an explanation. These experiences have haunted me. I know what I can do. But what do I want to spend my time doing? Who am I in those fleeting moments of silence? I’ve been so caught up in other people’s metrics that I lost sight of what matters to me. So, what does matter to me?

Honesty matters to me. Kindness matters to me. Being a team player matters to me. Stopping in the middle of the street to pet a dog matters to me. Helping other people matters to me. Family matters to me. My friendships matter to me. A sunny day matters to me. Curating the perfect playlist matters to me. My summer camp matters to me. So many little things matter to me. 

During therapy I discussed my warped metrics for measuring success. My therapist asked me to describe what I thought were the key aspects of my identity. I’ve never had to think about my go-to adjective: hardworking. While I was raised on perfection, hard work took precedence over that. My father grew up in poverty, got a full ride to Syracuse, and now heads a global company. To be a Kessler is to work hard. When I responded my therapist stopped me. “Liv, you’re more than your work. You work hard because you’re passionate. You care so deeply, that’s why you do everything that you do,”. After my initial pushback, I reflected. She was right. I didn’t even realize it. Yes, I work hard in my own life, but I work hard to help others. 

When I was in middle school, the stereotypical group of mean girls started cajoling a new girl who sat next to me in English class. They made fun of her Jansport backpack as they donned Vera Bradley bags. I was pissed. I knew what it was like to be a new transfer into this daunting prep school. I wish someone stood up for me, so I stood up for her. There was a time where I labeled this instance as me simply being outspoken, it was driven by empathy. Qualities such as leadership and public speaking so often outshine basic kindness. I know people will describe me as determined, and I’m okay with that. I still crave perfection, and maybe a part of me always will. But I’m slowly coming to terms with the fact that I need to focus less on results, and more on myself. My accomplishments are worthless if I can’t go to sleep at night feeling okay about myself. 

So, how would I describe myself? I am my father’s daughter. I look for the best in myself and others. I work hard, but I work out of love. I do care what other people think about me. I want my parents to be proud of me. I love to sing. I’m a terrible dancer, but regardless, I still try. I’ve learned that I love to work with kids, they make me laugh. I’m a good friend. I’m my friend's biggest cheerleader. I’m supportive. I cry at sad movies, and sad books, and I have cried at the closing performance of every show I have ever worked on. I cry a lot, and that’s okay. I’m a big sister. I’m my mother’s daughter. I smile at strangers and spend my free time painting. I’m still learning how to define myself and learning what I crave, and that’s OK – Olivia Kessler.

Written by Olivia Kessler

Edited by Julia Brummell and Elisabeth Kay

Graphic by Kate Madden

I love my noise-canceling headphones. Sometimes life can be too loud, too stressful, and too much. I cherish the way I can block out all of that commotion–live my life in spite of everything going on around me. It makes me feel whole; it makes me feel seen.

 I love my noise-canceling headphones because it feels like the songs I listen to are mine. The soft yearning of Cigarettes After Sex or the joy of Olivia Dean. The tunes that float out are for my ears only. It’s like a deep breath. I get to listen to songs that help me process my emotions the way I want to. No one is telling me what I should do or how I should act. There is something personal about that, I think.

 I find that I am the most creative, too, with them on. I feel like I finally have the power to see clearly. I can untangle my knotted thoughts and visions and turn them into a poem or a story. Even while I write this blog, I'm wearing my noise-canceling headphones. Society is constantly chattering in your ears, every second of every day– but with the click of a button, external opinions and demands are silenced.

 I am my own person when I have my headphones on; I’m in my own world. I have my own thoughts–thoughts I can ruminate on in the quietness of my own mind. 

When I have my headphones on, nothing else matters. Not the six-page paper due or how others perceive me. I don’t care if my hair is frizzy or if my makeup is flaking off in the cold weather. All of my usual worries quiet down along with everything else around me. I am allowed to do what I need to do without a care in the world.

But most importantly, I love my noise-canceling headphones because I am able to appreciate the hustle and bustle of the crazy atmosphere around me a little bit more when I finally decide to take them off.

Written by Alyssa Valdivia

Edited by Zoë Fontecchio and Elisabeth Kay

Graphic by Ariana Stranere

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 🙂

Written by Ellen Kurr

Edited by Jadeyn Lieu and Elisabeth Kay

Graphic by Sara Duffy

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.

Written by Alicia Sayaka

Edited by Daria Shepelavy and Julia Brummell

Graphic by Wendy Moore

The Perfect Halloween Night

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.

Written by Abby Cacoilo

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.

Written by Nina Southern

Edited by Wendy Moore and Julia Brummell

Graphic by Nina Southern