I’ve been an introvert since I was young and tended to have a small amount of close friends. Normally I would stumble upon someone who decided they wanted to be my friend, which made it easy for me to be their friend; it was like someone plucked me like a flower from the vine growing on the brick. 

This worked for a while, but I realized I wanted more friends after I began college. I watched as everyone else developed friendships and became closer to each other. Meanwhile, I developed one-sided friendships; I was so busy watching I forgot to reach out and talk to people—a key part of making friends.

 I can manage to talk to people, but I struggle to make those deep connections because I never did as a child. I understand the basics—talking, joking, hanging out— but I’ve allowed myself to be a wallflower for so long that it feels unnatural to advance my connections with people from surface-level to meaningful. It’s almost like a form of self-sabotage; I subconsciously keep myself from becoming close to people so I don’t have to worry about whether or not they want to be my friend. 

Occasionally I have random bursts of confidence. Something in my brain clicks and I can be an active participant in my life, not just an observer. I’m suddenly capable of having casual conversations with people or hanging out with someone outside of my friend group. 

Other times everything feels extremely forced. I want to talk to people, but at the same time, I just want to stay a silent observer, making the conversations seem forced and awkward. These interactions typically lead to me crying in the shower afterward because I overanalyzed what I said and now feel incapable of human interaction. 

I’m trying so hard to grow out of the habits I’ve been so complicit with, but it feels like I’m stuck to the wall I’m growing on. I had no problem being a wallflower when I was younger, but now it feels like my vines are wrapping around me, holding me hostage and slowly suffocating me. I know I have to do something soon, the longer I stay in these habits the harder it will be for me to escape the wall. 

Sometimes I feel like I can stretch the vines I’m hanging on far enough to connect with people, making everything feel natural. But it doesn’t take long for the vine to become taught, causing me to return to the comforting familiarity of the wall. Maybe someday I’ll be able to break off from the vine holding me captive to the wall, but part of me fears I’ll be a wallflower for the rest of my life. 

Written by Leigh Marks

Edited by Isa Gattamora and Elisabeth Kay

When I was growing up, I would always tell people I was born in Seattle. I had this innate need to be different and cooler than everyone else, and the West Coast was definitely more special than the Midwest town from which I was born and raised. But it didn’t feel like a lie. 

Have you ever felt so connected to a place you never really belonged to? That’s Seattle for me.

My parents lived there while they went to grad school at the University of Washington in their 20s. They got married, packed up their lives in South Carolina, and road-tripped across the country to their new destination. Neither had lived on the West Coast before that, nor would they again. It was a blip in the matrix, so why does it occupy so much of my thoughts?

I went for the first time when I was 3 years old for a wedding. That trip is the very first memory I have. I vividly remember what our rental house looked like; seeing my grandma in her light blue robe making us breakfast; singing “Living on a Prayer” by Bon Jovi, but accidentally saying “Living Upstairs” instead (this became a family joke in the subsequent years); my temporary pink bike with training wheels adorned with roses; my brother almost riding his bike off the side of a cliff, only to be saved by my Dad; going to the Space Needle and the mini carnival/theme park surrounding it; a trip to a pool with my cousins, aunt and uncle. Sometimes I think that I made these memories up—that they came to me in a dream and seemed so real that I just committed them to memory. But my parents have corroborated. Seattle was just that important. It was crucial.

It feels like I existed there in a previous life, beyond just my few trips there. My ache to go back rattled me enough that senior year of high school I applied to my parent’s alma mater for undergrad. They didn’t even have the major I wanted, I just longed for the Puget Sound and the Public Market and Mount Rainier. I think, if I decide to go to grad school, I’ll reapply. Or I’ll find a job there. I think it would be antagonistic to my character if I didn’t try in some capacity.

I guess I won’t ever know if I’d be doing it for myself or to chase some pipe dream of understanding who my parents were before I came along; to gain context for how I ended up here, with this life and these experiences. It must relate back to some time before my existence; some natural phenomenon of life.

I’m not sure how common a feeling this is—for someone to have their own Seattle. Maybe it’s a person or time for you. Maybe it’s a feeling. As humans, there’s always something we’re chasing. I think the only real question is if it’s worth it. I hope it is. I hope I reach Seattle.

Written by Leighton Curless

Edited by Leigh Marks and Elisabeth Kay

I have always struggled to be content with my age. 

However, I have never really been able to pinpoint why. I understand my closest friends, possessing older siblings and eager to grow in age, watching their brother or sister access opportunities before them while they’re stuck in their childhood bedrooms surely wasn’t exciting. But I don’t have an older brother or sister; the only elder comparison I have in my life are my parents, and I am not particularly sure I want to be 60 years old just yet. 

When I was 7 years old, with freshly divorced parents and a newbie to my large public school, I only wanted to be 10, maybe 11, if I felt particularly antsy. The thought of being in the fifth grade exhilarated me. I wanted to have crushes and date boys: by date, I mean ignore each other in the hallways and swiftly break up two weeks later. I wanted my mom to finally hand me the American Girl Doll, The Care & Keeping of You book, and shortly after, buy me a training bra from Justice. I wanted my dad to stop embarrassingly making me sit in a booster seat: the front seat seemed to be a utopia. 

Then I turned 10, and six months shy of my 11th birthday, being 13 was the object of my desire. I wanted braces so badly that, in a hypochondriac fashion, I convinced myself that I could feel my teeth aching. Something about having a metallic smile felt sophisticated. I didn’t only want an iPod Touch, but it was essential, like my ability to breathe air. Even more so, I needed to go to the local mall with ONLY my friends (bringing a parent would be too humiliating), enter PINK Victoria’s Secret, and buy the trendiest $30 hoodie in my line of vision. I wanted to have my first, real, absolutely romantic kiss, Pride & Prejudice style. 

And then I was 13, and my teeth stung because my orthodontist was trying to “move things along quickly.” Now, being 18, a real, true adult had all of my attention. I would finally be a woman, whatever that meant. I could reject my hometown, go to college in a land far, far away, and learn to be my own person. I could form serious opinions about the world and buy a lottery ticket while I did so. Maybe I would even get a piercing without telling my mom and feel incredibly rebellious. I might go to parties with my friends, stay out all night, and wake up with eyeliner streaked down my face. It wasn’t necessarily what I would be doing or who I would be doing it with; it was the freedom I yearned for.

Now, I am 19, just on the cusp of being 20, no longer a kid or preteen, and it’s hit me: I don’t want to be any older than I am right now. Each stage of my youth went exactly how it was supposed to. I had fake boyfriends at age 9, I ritualistically purchased overpriced brand-name clothing at 14, and I picked a college a state away from home at 17. However, it is only now that I have learned to relish the value of being exactly where and who I am. I am anxiously awaiting who I will become in my twenties, but learning to savor where I am now, 19-something years old. 

Written by Ella Romano

Edited by Cassidy Hench and Julia Brummell

The soft light of a familiar sun rises above the invisible line in the sky Man has created. Delicate shades of orange and yellow dance on my wide windows. I don’t stir. I don’t, until a soft chirp breaks the silence. There is another one. And with a dramatic crescendo, a throbbing, visceral ringing sounds beside my head; it travels like a racehorse into my eardrum and gallops into my brain. My eyes slowly peel open,  it’s morning. The sun sets off on its journey westward as I slink out of bed. Stumbling to the mirror, like I do every morning, I observe the hollowness of my face. There is a deep black and purple bruise stretching from right below my bottom eyelashes until right below my emaciated eyebrows. I stare until my eyes disintegrate into the black void, spreading like a virus. A large black divot replaces my nose. It has an odd shape, like an upside down heart. I caress my new facial arrangement, feeling the thin, brittle bone on the pads of my fingers. The flesh evaporates. Finally, bringing my fingers to my mouth, I expect to feel the warm sensation of my lips; but like grapes, they shrivel into my skull. My hands, vibrating with the sensation of human bone, jump to my scalp. Whatever hair I have left is  thinning quickly. It falls like water from my head as the hair follicles tighten, close, and vanish. I feel it again: smooth cold bone. What has happened to me? Diving to the ground, I try and collect my hair, but it’s all gone. Was it ever even there? Instantly, my face tightens, my brow bones furrow and the heaving sobs begin. Taking my sleeve, I go to wipe my tears but it’s bone dry. I don’t have eyes anymore. I am skeletal.

Written by Madeleine Kania

Edited by Sienna Hudon and Elisabeth Kay

Imagine this. It's 2017 and my cousin, whose highschool years consisted of the late 2000s and early 2010s, drops off a large Victoria's Secret duffle bag full of hand-me-down clothing for me. In the present, I would consider this a gold mine. Abercrombie low rise jeans, cropped sweaters, tanks upon tanks covered with lace applique and beading, ugg boots, juicy couture and coach bags, bangle bracelets, and more. It was the epitome of the 2000s teenage girl stuffed into one duffle bag. I remember so vividly from my childhood her room having a black and white bedspread, bright teal accent pillows, and all white furniture with crystal drawer handles. She was everything I wanted to be when I grew up, and yet, when I received that duffle bag, I slightly shifted through it, picking out a top or two, maybe a pair of lowrise jeans to have as a keepsake, and then completely donated the rest to goodwill without a second thought. You can't blame me, I was a 13 year-old middle schooler whose wardrobe consisted of leggings, sweatshirts, and slip-on vans. I had absolutely no desire to wear anything in that bag that would make me stand out. 

Another instance. Just about a year later, my mom had asked me to help her go through her closet and get rid of pieces that were no longer trendy. At age 14 fashion had become my obsession, so I gladly offered to help. It started with us simply getting rid of pieces that no longer fit her, but as my so-called “expertise” on the fashion trends of the time kicked in, the closet clean out session became intense. She was in her college years in the late 90s/early 2000s, which meant she had a lot of what she called “party pants” (low rise, wide leg, bedazzled button jeans), long sleeve tops in muted tie dye colors, platform sandals, Calvin Klein dresses, and shoulder bags that were just big enough to fit a, a lipstick, a pager (what they had before phones I guess), and maybe a tampon if you were lucky. She made me a pile of clothing that I could pick through if I wanted any, and again, I vetoed nearly everything and donated it to my local goodwill. I had yet again given away precious hand-me-down items. How was I supposed to know that they would be trendy once again, my style consisted of brandy melville tops, mom jeans, and converse. I couldn’t appreciate anything she offered- to a 14 year-old, everything felt dated, and although the clothes fit me nearly perfectly (I have come to the conclusion that clothes back then just fit better) it wasn’t “in” to wear low rise jeans. It wasn’t “popular” to wear platform shoes. 

It wasn’t until I was about 16 when I discovered the world of vintage clothing. I had always admired vintage clothing and past trends of the fashion world, but it wasn’t something that I ever desired to own- I had viewed vintage clothes as mostly costume pieces. My nonna cleaned out her closet and passed down numerous leather jackets to me, and my obsession with vintage clothing and thrifting just escalated from there. The more I went thrifting, the more I realized I was buying the same pieces my cousin had passed down to me just a few years before and the same pieces I helped my mom to donate. I had become an animal on the prowl for the best fitting low rise jeans or for the perfect pink cropped sweater- both items that I could have easily found in hand-me-downs I had received just a few years before. 

At 17, I finally understood- Fashion is a cycle. Trends come and go, and everytime they are reborn they are slightly different. If I had decided to keep all of the items in that duffle bag from my cousin or all of the pieces my mom gave to me, I would have been sitting with my closet stuffed to the brim for years with clothing that I wouldn't wear until later in the future. I probably wouldn’t have thrifted my favorite pair of jeans I own or curated a collection of vintage bags or even explored the antique stores that I passed by everyday. I probably wouldn’t have felt inclined to go thrifting with my friends over and over and over again until we found exactly what we were looking for. If I had just taken all of the hand-me-downs, I wouldn’t think of the lives that my clothes had lived before me (a silly concept. . .I know). So now, everytime I get ready in the morning, I am grateful for the new life I am giving each piece of clothing I own. I am grateful for the story behind where I found each piece, who I was with, and why I wanted it in the first place. And yes, if I were able to go back in time and keep all of my hand-me-down clothes I would in an instant, but also knowing that they have a new purpose and a new person to style them, makes me excited for what else there is out there for me to find in the world of vintage fashion and clothing.

Written by Giulia Mauro

Edited by Angela Hoey and Julia Brummell

The lesson’s been learned

I’ll stop sugarcoating sandpaper 

and putting ice on burns

Sweet ruminator!

So slow to anger 

So quick to yearn 

When it comes to love

you say you’re only a half-believer, 

well I’m just a snake-charmer

and a bit of a schemer

If your head is in the crook of my neck,

but your mind’s across the moon

I’ll be wearing your T-shirt

as I’m saging my room

Catharsis is my unpolished laugh 

as I finally walk out the door

And the yawn

from all my friends 

as I play them the chord:

That you loved me fine, 

just loved yourself way more

It’s always so strange

the things I do to let go

today my hair is chocolate 

tomorrow I’ll bleach it gold

As you read what I have to say, I hope you find me to be conceited. I hope that you think I have a big ego. I hope you even hate me. 

Because the truth is, I haven’t been able to love myself since I was 15. It feels as though the past 5 years of my life were taken from me, my inner child was eaten up whole. Through abuse and complicated relationships, bad decisions and reactions, hurt feelings and damaged souls, I went through hell and back to say the least. I am not a “perfect” victim…well, I’m a survivor now. I was angry, I was bitter…I was broken. I had no sense of self, no sense of right vs wrong, because for the longest time my mind and body belonged to someone else. I was a piece of meat. Yet I made so many mistakes, so many bad mistakes that deeply hurt other people. If you know me personally, and still think I have always been the sweetest person you’ve ever met, hear me loud and clear now: I was a monster at one point in my life. My mind had shattered into a million different pieces, and I was truly a danger to myself and others. 

And for the longest time, I thought that meant that I deserved everything that happened to me. But that's not true, that will never be true. I thought it was true at one point, but no Mia. No it is not. 

So here I am now, building myself back up from rock bottom, piece by piece. So as I speak, I want you to look at me and be conflicted on how to feel. Look at me and think better of yourself. I want you to think I’m a bitch. I want you to hate me, so I can love myself anyway. 

I am Mia. 

Mia Stack. I have no middle name. 

My favorite place on this earth, 

Is in the middle of the woods at golden hour 

When I am there, 

I feel the air 

I feel the sun 

Its gold beams encasing my beauty 

It complements my golden brown hair 

And my light brown eyes, my long eyelashes falling over them 

I feel what is right 

Everything is no longer unfair 

I am what I make of myself,

I can paint myself into any collection of colors 

As beautiful and as wonderful as can be,

Into a bed of grass is where my pride smothers 

I am perfect on the outside, 

I’m conventional in the eyes of society 

But on the inside I am beautiful 

My anger and pride sitting inside of me

They smile at you evil as can be, 

Because they know they are royalty 

They know how weak you really are 

You can't take me down 

You can hear my laugh in the wind,

And the vibrance of my voice in the trees 

Im beautiful when I sing 

Small and pretty, 

Until I want to be something else 

I could scream and not be afraid 

I screamed in a fit of rage when I was 16 

My lungs boiled and burned as I let it out, 

My face streaked with tears 

I had never screamed like that before,

It scared me to finally see how much anger I had inside of me 

But now I realize that, 

Exerting a power like that is good 

It is your voice 

Scream until the windows break, 

Let it all out my Mia 

Scream and feel the flowers growing in your lungs,

You are so pretty my love

Let them destroy the patriarchy,

Destroy what wants to destroy them 

Because you will not be destroyed my sweet girl,

I won't let that happen again 

Look at you on your own two feet,

I’m smiling at you from within 

See the sun and stars look down on you,

Shining brighter for you every day 

“Look at us the way you used to Mia” 

Your heart will never be something they betray 

Look up and see that 

The world is so much bigger than you think 

You never needed that boy,

He needed you

Because look at you! 

Dancing in your room alone at night 

You feel everything he never could,

Your light shines so bright it hurts 

You get goosebumps listening to music 

You’re good with kids 

Your smile is contagious 

You’re allowed to take up so much more space than you already do 

I have freckles 

That you can only see up close 

You will only know I have freckles 

If I let you come that close 

I could hold a finger out at you 

To keep you at arms length: “NO!!” 

Or I could pull you in: “Yes my love” 

My kiss powered by strength 

I am beautiful 

I deserve a good life 

I deserve the right to love 

Of which is all around me 

As well as way up above, 

Even the sun and stars are painted with care 

Let the flowers grow in your lungs my sweet mia 

Wipe the tears off your face 

Forgive yourself my love, 

That little girl inside you 

Doesn't deserve all that pain 

You were only 15 Mia 

You were so young 

And yet here you are now 

Bigger and stronger than ever before 

Your inner child was never taken away 

I’ve been here protecting you this whole time my Mia And I will always sit inside of you 

You don’t need to protect yourself anymore, Just feel

Written by Mia Stack

Edited by Neena Tavik and Julia Brummell

I’m not religious. I’d deem myself spiritual at most– I believe in a higher power, I’d like to believe I have an angel number, I say affirmations here and there. But if I’m moseying around a crystal store and they’re offering tarot card readings when I have an extra $30 to spare, I will gladly put myself in a curtained-off room and believe whatever the cards on the table say if it resonates with me. My mom will always roll her eyes upon hearing that I’ve gotten a reading, but listen with intrigue if I decide to tell her what I took away from it.

While I was home during Christmas break, my friends and I found ourselves in the parking lot of the local crystal shop in my hometown. With a sliver of my Christmas money, I willingly paid the $30 and was excited to sit down across from a stranger who would tell me more about myself while flipping through some cards face-up on a foldable table. 

I don’t remember all of what they said to me that day, but they asked if I cry a lot, to which I nodded instantly; most of my emotions manifest themselves through tear-stained cheeks, and I have no ability to stop it. No amount of maturing or growing will lessen the number of tears I cry. My reader nodded with me and assured me of something: “tears are medicinal.”

I’ve never really been ashamed of my tears– my sister and I often joke about how I can cry to any movie, no matter the genre (Sing 2 puts me in tears every single time). I’ve always hated crying in front of people when the tears are over something more than an animated lion singing to a crowd of thousands, though. I’ve hidden in numerous bathrooms to open the floodgates that are my tear ducts and move on with my day. I’ve perfected how to make it seem as though I was simply going to the bathroom for its functional use– not to fight off an oncoming panic attack or respond to a text that made my eyes water a little too much.

But if I get caught with a stray tear on my cheek, though my cheeks might flush, I know I shouldn’t be embarrassed. It’s a sign that I’m healing from whatever caused the state of my puffy eyes, or got out whatever emotion was overwhelming my brain. I’m free of something that was fogging my every thought. Tears are medicinal– letting it all out isn’t something that makes you a baby or weaker than others, it makes you human. To cry is a gift, not an ailment. 

Written by Elisabeth Kay

Edited by Ruby Kolik and Julia Brummell

When I was in the second grade my school hosted a Right to Read Week, a competition where every student competed for who could read the most hours in a single week– I was determined to win. So, I read books for three hours every day for the entire week on my quest to win the contest. Not only did I win, but I did so by a substantial amount. The day I won, and got a giant trophy and my picture in the newspaper, I was the happiest little girl in the world. 

Reading has always been my favorite thing; it’s been my safe space, my shoulder to lean on, and my home away from home. Reading feels as necessary as breathing air, I cannot exist without it. I’ve been lucky enough to have been exposed to books my entire life, it started with the picture books my parents read to me as a kid–and me begging for them to read even more, then it was the longer books that my mom read to me as I feel asleep such as The Chronicles of Narnia, Little Women, and Anne of Green Gables. However, the books I was desperate to get my grubby little hands on were the ones that I read for myself. The Rainbow Fairy books, Geronimo Stilton Mysteries, and young reader comic books were some of my favorites. The rate at which I was reading led me to the library- again, and again, and again. Summer reading challenges became my personal Olympics, I was even on a first-name basis with many of the librarians. The library was everything I ever imagined, full of stacks of books that could take me wherever I wanted to go. 

When I moved in the fifth grade, it was the library that helped me to feel like my world hadn’t totally crumbled. My new town had an even bigger library which meant, of course, even more books. In a place where I didn’t know anyone, the new library was my very first friend. I also was lucky enough to have one of the best teachers in the world for fifth and sixth-grade English. I met one of my best friends in that class and started to feel safer and more secure in myself and my new place all because of the love and kindness she showed our whole class. In high school, and even after graduation, it would be this same teacher who helped encourage me to follow a path in English Literature. At so many turns in my life, it has been words and stories that have caught me and held me up and helped me to continue forward. 

In high school, my English teachers quickly became some of my favorites, they were some of the most influential people in my life. They encouraged me to keep writing and dreaming, and of course reading. These same teachers exposed me to so much more literature than a girl from suburban Ohio had even fully realized existed–I read my favorite Shakespeare play Julius Caesar for the first time, I fell in love with Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God, and just before I made my decision to commit to Pitt I read August Wilson’s Fences. Because of my high school teachers, I came to begin to better understand what it meant to read more widely, to actively seek out better and wider representation. When I went to college there was never a huge question of what I was going to do, it was always English. In my first class of my freshman year, Representing Adolescence, we were assigned The Hunger Games. I brought my well-worn copy from fifth grade, with my childhood handwriting and my old address scrawled on the front. From the moment I read that on the syllabus, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I had made the right choice. And that’s not to say there haven’t been many bumps along the way, or times I was frustrated with my course of study, or so much confusion on what I even want to do as a job for the rest of my life. However, it is to say that I’m deeply in love with reading and I wouldn’t change it for the world. I have spent my entire life loving books and I can’t wait to spend the rest of it doing the same.

Written by Lauren Deaton

Edited by Gabriela Amorim and Elisabeth Kay

I am chronically bad at answering my phone. It’s a bit of a joke at this point, my allergy to answering text messages, but if I’m being honest, I find myself overwhelmed by it most days. I spend most of my days running around like a lunatic, with hardly any time to breathe, much less look at the growing list of notifications pinging from my phone. Right now, I probably have at least fifty messages unopened. And I’m not even counting all my other notifications: if I counted up Instagram comments and TikTok DMs, there would definitely be over a hundred little red dots blinding me every time I open my phone.   

It’s gotten to the point where texting my friends feels like another task on my never-ending to-dos, which kinda makes me want to scream. How can talking to my friends sit on a list between doing my laundry and filling out my grad school applications? 

Being a college student is an overwhelming experience. I think everyone can relate to that. We all have so much to balance, that it makes even the smallest things feel completely so much larger than they actually are. But I think it’s more than just the college experience. Sometimes, it feels like the world itself is moving far too fast. Five conversations are happening all at once, just three clicks away from each other. Last month’s trends are already waiting for me in the thrift store bins. Beloved celebrities are thrown into the trash just as quickly as they rose to fame.

And it feels like we’re expected to be going just as fast: if my schedule isn’t filled to the brim with classes and meetings and parties, running from one thing to the next, to the point where if there’s a blank few hours it feels like I’m missing something. Everything changes so fast, that it feels like my own life is blurring in front of my eyes, running away from me, trying to keep pace with everything around me.  

Two weeks ago, I woke up with the hint of the sun rising above the horizon. It was six a.m. on a Saturday morning, I had been out the night before, and my body was very unhappy that I was up as early as I was. I considered going back to bed, but instead, I grabbed a hoodie and my old sneakers, quickly ate breakfast, and stepped outside.

Earlier that week, I had felt so stressed that I forced myself to work on the quiet floor of the library, which is probably the closest thing to actual torture a yapper could do to herself. Sitting in the quiet under blinding lights, one thought kept circling in my mind: when was the last time I had actually gone outside? I had asked my friend that question when I saw her later that day and didn’t have an answer either. 

This led me to that early morning, tying my shoelaces outside Schenely Park, my phone completely off in my pocket. We spent a few hours that morning hiking through the park, and I think it was the first time in weeks I felt like I was moving at the same speed as everything around me. It sounds so stereotypical to say so, but I actually felt at peace, listening to my friend and our footsteps and the breeze against my hair and the families walking past us and the little birds in the trees. I didn’t even think about everything else I had to do until long after I stepped back into my apartment.

It felt like, just for a moment, I had managed to pause the world. 

And while that cannot be my every day, maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up late and not think about the stack of papers sitting on my desk. Maybe instead I’ll sit and lay in bed for a little longer and watch the sunlight pouring through my drapes. Maybe I’ll make myself a cup of tea and head down to the park near my apartment. Maybe I’ll sit in the grass and remember how to breathe.

And maybe, just maybe, I will open my phone back up and finally start making those red dots disappear.

Written by Emma Moran

Edited by Delaney Pipon and Elisabeth Kay