The moment my doctor looked at me, and told me, finally, conclusively, my diagnosis, it felt like a weight lifted off my shoulders. You wouldn’t think that the words “eosinophilic gastroenteritis” would be words of relief to anyone, especially a 16 year old girl. But, after years of searching, and months of a vicious cycle of school, practice, doctors appointments, scopes, blood tests and more, to finally hear someone definitively say anything to me validated me. I was still naive enough to think that now that I finally had the diagnosis, I could be cured!

But that’s not quite how chronic illness works. 

Eosinophilic gastroenteritis (EGE) is an incredibly rare condition in which extra eosinophils–a type of white blood cell–accumulate in the digestive tract causing inflammation, stimulating allergic reactions, and causing other symptoms like iron deficiency, migraine, and fatigue. The condition can be treated with medicine, but these are often steroids that cannot be taken for long; it is also treated through diet and monitoring. Often, the amount of eosinophils ebbs and flows, resulting in periods of downtime and periods of flares. 

For a while, I tried medication, and it helped immensely but I couldn’t take it forever. I tried limiting my diet, eating fresher foods–which helped, but not enough. This past Summer, I did an elimination diet–cutting out every major allergen (plus some extras) before gradually adding them back in. By the end of it, I had discovered that if I wanted to feel any modicum of okay, I couldn’t eat gluten, soy, dairy, shellfish, strawberries, or oranges. I don’t say this in a boo-hoo way, I say it because, for someone who has loved food all of her life, cutting this many foods out is incredibly painful, while also being necessary to my health; and that’s a difficult situation to explain to others without them dumping pity on you.

And I don’t want anyone’s pity. This is my reality. My life. I am fighting every single day to make peace with it–I don’t need someone to tell me how sad it is that I can’t eat all these things or to remind me of how much I used to love a certain food I can no longer eat anymore. I don’t want to be told how brave I am, how noble it is of me to go through this diet change. I didn’t choose this, it threw itself upon me, and sticking to these updates is one of the only ways in which I have enough energy and strength to get through the day, I don’t want to be turned into some kind of martyr for it. I don’t need you to comment on my food, my body, and its processes like I’m some sad little puppy. I am a real, human person, with deep and complicated emotions and I don’t want to be singled down to my illness. 

I know that people can be doing their best and it comes off in harmful ways, I understand that and I try to have grace for that–but I also have seen what it means for people to truly recognize, to be kind and willing to accommodate my needs in a way that is loving, affirming, and cognizant of the fact that I am making this choice so I can have a better life–and that I am empowered in that choosing. It’s okay to ask me questions, to need me to do specific things for a meal or bring an extra snack. That's fine, as long as it’s recognized that I am a person, I am doing my best, and I would rather be supported than looked at sadly. 

I have enough days and thoughts filled with that frustration on my own. 

For me, any trip to an unfamiliar grocery store almost always ends in tears as I walk back and forth across the store searching high and low for foods I can eat. Before I go out to eat I have to meticulously comb through the menu trying to find options that will suit my needs. If I don’t get enough sleep, or if my stomach has had a particularly rough time, it’s often a struggle to have energy for a full day of classes. I can rarely buy things from bake sales, and often have to turn down offers of food from well-meaning people, all with the fear that I’m hurting their feelings. I have to jam snacks and my lunch into my backpack and lunchbox because it’s hard to find snacks quickly that I can eat. I have to meticulously plan so many aspects of my day and my life around food so that I have what I need to eat. I can develop a sensitivity to a new food at any given moment, leading to new painful symptoms. 

I understand how hard this is because I live it every single day, and it’s difficult and frustrating and sometimes I stare at my roommate’s ice cream in the freezer and wish I could eat it. What I want, more than anything though, is the understanding that I didn’t choose this illness, that I don’t want it, but I have it and can’t do anything to make it go away. I have made choices to the best of my ability, and to the best of my attempts to have control over my body, to have a better quality of life.

Yes, I am sick. Yes, I go to the doctor more than others my age. Yes, I have a weirdly specific diet. But I’m also still a 20 year old girl. I want to experience the fullness of the world and of my life as best I can–and I may sometimes need more support than others, but I don’t need their pity. I am so much more than my diagnosis. I cannot make this go away, but I can learn to live with it, to cope with it, and to be loved as a person with an illness, not an illness as a person. 

Written by Lauren Deaton

Edited by JP Pello and Elisabeth Kay

“A love letter to female friendships.”

This is the title of my favorite Spotify playlist. Within it:

This Is What Makes Us Girls. Lana Del Rey.

True Blue. boygenius. 

Secrets from a Girl (Who’s Seen it All). Lorde.

Feels Like. Gracie Abrams. 

Clay Pigeons. Michael Cera. 

Gold Dust Woman. Fleetwood Mac. 

My secret recipe for curating a playlist for someone you love:

• Extract 3, or 7, or maybe 95 of the most gut-wrenchingly special songs. Sacred songs.
  • The song that would pulsate through your car on the first spring day that you rode with the windows down. Max volume. Bass boosted. 

• The song that would ripple and echo off the walls of the Urban Outfitters fitting room. Low-rise, medium-wash jeans. Shrieks and cheers and whistles of praise. “God, I love my friends.”

• The song with lyrics that rip and tear at clippings of your past and pierce them to a mental corkboard. You recommend it to everyone because it’s easier than talking about what actually happened last year. 

• Uproot these songs from their archives and lay them out in front of you. 

• Intertwine and overlay these songs. Let the lyrics bleed into each other. There is no correct, systematic order, just intuition. Maybe whatever feels aesthetically pleasing to you. Maybe there’s something spiritual about a Lana Del Rey to-house music pipeline. A seance of silk bows, champagne glitter, and clasped hands. 

• Name it. Dedicate it to someone, something, or some vague, nuanced feeling.
  • Something fleeting, but memorable: Carrie Bradshaw in season four of Sex and The City, the summer of 2018, a latte with oat milk and two pumps of vanilla. 

• Or maybe something so big and vibrant and ever-changing that it seeps through the constraints of time: A love letter to my female friends. When curating a playlist of such sacred nature, treat it with delicacy. It deserves i’s dotted with hearts, a label woven with care and consideration. Pretty packaging. 

• Play it habitually. Let each song unravel onto the next until it pools out in front of you.
  • Treat it like it’s a prayer before a meal. A blessing before the bar. A 4 p.m. post-class ritual. A reminder. A handwritten sticky note. A hand that holds back your hair. “Two caesar salads and a basket of fries, please!” Casual affection. A love letter to female friendships. 

Written by Delaney Pipon

Edited by Julia Maynard and Kate Castello

“Wow, you’re so brave” 

I hear it all the time when I tell someone I don’t drink. I’ve never been drunk, not even tipsy. At 13, I took my first sip of beer, which I immediately spat out. I remember hating the way it made my mouth feel, and how horrible it smelled and tasted. 

Growing up, I was always around alcohol. It was never bad or toxic, but my parents were big party people—and with parties, came drinking. My parents spent hours playing loud music and dancing, yelling out the lyrics to songs as if they were twenty-something-year-olds in a frat basement. 

I followed in their footsteps and became a party fiend. I loved the rush of dancing with my friends to classics like Cobra Starship’s “You Make Me Feel…” playing over the speakers. Yet, I never felt the need to have a beer in my hand.

Surrounded by alcohol my whole life caused the desire for a drink to fade away. The urge to get drunk and forget about the world never intrigued me. I can have fun without it.

We’re related to Bacardi, the rum company. Because my dad has worked there since before I was born, we always have rum/Bacardi-owned products scattered around the house. Our chairs are branded with the bat logo, along with our cups, shoes, and umbrellas. I always thought having this family connection was cool and a fun fact to share during icebreakers; but as I got older, it felt more like a burden because of my choice not to drink. 

When I got to college that feeling changed quickly. It was no longer just grown adults drinking, but people my age. The desire to get drunk took over everyone, but it never got to me. I felt like the fakest college student. 

I turned 21 this past year, and the feeling of staying sober felt worse and worse. All my friends get crazy at parties and we go out almost every weekend now. Although I have fun, there’s always a part of me that feels bad for not allowing myself to be a “real” 21-year-old. 

It doesn’t help that people make comments about the choices I make. Everyone always says that they could never do what I do. I know they don’t mean it rudely, but it always comes off that way. I don’t want to tell these strangers my entire life story to explain why I don’t drink, and it’s annoying that I have to. I get called brave, but I know they mean crazy. 

I asked my sister if she’d ever thought about this before. She says she feels the same way. I also brought it up to my cousin who just entered high school and started partying. She says she doesn’t like alcohol at all because of her growing up around it. 

People in high school and college drink because they aren’t supposed to. They love the rush of doing it secretly. At the end of the day, everyone loves to break the rules in some sort of way. 

Alcohol was never a mystery to me. I understand it more than most people probably do. I know how to take care of someone, and I know what not to mix. This is what I was taught growing up. 

In some ways, I thought I was letting my family down. I’ve tried to get into the “party drinking mode” before, but the thought of being drunk around other drunk people made the urge instantly go away. I know I would feel anxious, which defeats the whole purpose of drinking. Still, I wonder, “If my parents were not this way, would I drink?” “If my dad was not related to Bacardi, would I drink?” Those questions will never be answered, but as long as I stay true to myself, I‘ll be okay. 

All I need is good music, good vibes, and a nice cold Sprite in my hand to have a good time.

Written by Isa Gattamorta

Edited by Sydney Mahmood and Kate Castello

1. Elementary school.

I miss the old school. Not so much the homework or learning, but I miss the parachute game in gym class where we’d all run aimlessly under a waving cloth of colors until the entire rainbow was reflecting underneath us. I miss when everyone was friends with everyone and you weren’t too insecure to sit at any lunch table. I miss the art teachers who would always say “just a dot not a lot.” I miss all of the circle times and reading corners and games around the holidays. I miss when the biggest stakes were whether or not everyone passed a spelling test with a high enough grade to get a pizza party on Friday, accompanied by an episode of The Magic School Bus. 

I miss the old school where I never cried over failing tests or had to pull all-nighters just to barely pass a class—back before the stress and drama and anxieties. Before everything became a contest of who was smarter than whom and your entire future was based on three numbers on a transcript. 

I miss the old school where my biggest concern was whether I was going to play on the slide or the monkey bars at recess.

2. Lunch.

I don’t miss lunch itself so much as I miss what lunch meant. I miss being excited to open my pretty pink patterned lunch box every day, like it was a present on Christmas, sitting with my friends and trading snacks, comparing what our parents had packed for us that day. My friends usually had some form of sandwich, like peanut butter and jelly or bologna, but I didn’t like peanut butter and I don’t like bologna, so I was usually just a leftovers-from-dinner kinda kid: tacos, chicken nuggets, just jelly sandwiches. 

I looked forward to lunch; it was my favorite part of the day, closely followed by recess. I miss having handwritten notes from my mom with silly food-based jokes or I love you’s scribbled on them with hearts beside her name on the ziploc bags holding my crackers and cheese. 

I wish I had been aware that one day they would stop—I would’ve kept them like treasured keepsakes in a box that I could pull out whenever I’m feeling lonely and missing home instead of racking my brain for fleeting memories of simpler times. 

It’s a rarity that I even eat lunch now. I just don’t have time, I am just not motivated. Within the hour and a half I have between classes, I would rather take a nap or do homework than scour my desolate fridge for scraps. It feels like there are so many more important things going on in adult life than deciding what I’m going to eat for lunch. That meal becomes a hassle like most things are now.

I miss the days when lunch wasn’t a chore and I wasn’t rushing out the door each day, forced to grab a granola bar or banana. I don’t even like bananas. 

3. Being afraid of the dark.

It seems silly, I know, to want to be afraid of something again, but I do. It seems that as I grow older, there are so many more complex ‘adult appropriate’ things to be afraid of: ending up alone, whether or not my friends actually like me, failure, where to go and what to do after college, student loans! Will anyone love me enough to want to spend the rest of their life with me? What if I fail—at anything and everything?

And I am afraid…of all those things. The world is so scary.

But, I miss being afraid of the dark because the scariest thing out there was a tree outside my window making shadows on my bedroom walls. I miss waiting to see a non-existent monster come out of my closet at night to taunt me. I miss when monsters only existed in my head and that darkness could be battled with night-lights and hugs from Mom. 

It’s not that easy anymore.

4. Being excited.

I don’t get excited anymore. Not often anyways. It’s scarce and fleeting and it takes something drastic to induce it. I miss being excited about little things like a trip to Tim Hortons or the supermarket because they offered samples on Saturdays. 

I may look forward to things but even then, it seems like my body, my mind, my heart cannot emotionally support any anticipation. Excitement never comes to overtake me, not like when I was younger and would babble for hours and hours about finally going to Starbucks or trying to fidget out of so much pure excitement for Christmas to come that I physically could not sit still. 

Maybe I’ve conditioned myself to be this way. Maybe I’ve done this because adulthood comes with disappointment: people will disappoint me, so I don’t get excited for plans in case they fall through. I think, ultimately, being excited then disappointed is worse than not being excited at all.

5. Dressing up:

To dress up now is to go out: to go to a fancy somewhere and wear makeup and take pictures. To dress up is to look good, but it used to be a time for play and imagination—to finally be the Disney princess you grew up watching on TV or the heroic firefighters in the neighborhood. I miss when dressing up was a game, void of all the pressures of matching up to other people and feeling inferior when I don’t feel as pretty. 

It feels like now, each and every time there is an occasion where I have to wear something other than the sweatpants and hoodies I hide in, every insecurity I have ever had surfaces. It’s always the same story: my hair being down makes me look chubby because it doesn’t frame my face right, but I won’t match the aesthetic if I wear it up, none of my earrings will match my necklaces, it’s too cold for skirts, but too warm for jeans, but too casual for a dress, but too fancy for casual wear. Nothing I do will make me feel pretty. The story ends with me attending wherever late, wearing leggings and a hoodie, my red puffy eyes and swollen cheeks being the perfect accessory to the hair I threw up in a ponytail.

I miss when I didn’t have an ideal body type or could leave the house without earrings or without having to put twenty different products in my hair just to not feel terrible about myself, just to feel somewhat okay to walk outside. I miss when I could wear giant butterfly wings and a princess dress with uncomfortable, mismatched plastic sparkly heels in public without feeling judged. Everyone judges now—I cannot go anywhere.

6. Innocence:

In adults, innocence, like naivety, has been villainized to a certain degree with negative connotations. If you are innocent and naive, you are ignorant and therefore, ill-educated. However, as kids, it is the ideal state of being. When you become aware of the cruelties of the world, you lose a certain critical part of your childhood in which the bliss of life withers away.

I miss when I was innocent; when I knew no misery or heartbreak. It’s as if my perspective on life shifted once I knew about things I didn’t deem possible before. 

The first being the loss of my grandpa—death is so strange. The second, when I found out that there are people who don’t have food or homes or money. Santa isn’t real? Some kids get neglected, malnourished, and abused? What’s abuse? Cancer? Pets don’t live forever? It’s not safe for women outside at night? Alzheimer's, war, poverty, assault, drugs, dementia, depression…the list is endless.

Oh how I miss being small and innocent. 

How I miss not knowing the evil that comes with growing up. 

How unfair to be a child and to lose your childhood because you’re now scared of the world around you that you used to love. 

7. I miss how carefree, innocent, exciting, simple, freeing, open, and blissfully happy life used to be. 

I am in a constant state of mourning for my five-year-old self.

It horrifies me that at some point in time, I put my toys in the toy chest for the last time. My mom wrote a funny food pun on a post-it-note on my lunch box for the last time. I started dressing myself, stopped playing pretend, stopped watching the shows I loved, and never pulled out my princess tiaras again.

That was when I was supposed to grow up.

But I don’t want to… not just yet. I don’t think I’m ready for adulthood. 

I delay it by clinging to whatever pieces of childhood I have left. I cuddle up with my stuffed animals and blankets and watch old Barbie movies because I know when I stop wanting to do these things is when my childhood truly ends. 

Maybe I should’ve wished harder on my birthdays, maybe then the next one wouldn’t have an extra candle and I would’ve stayed five forever.

Written by Camille Ware

Edited by Jess Colicchie and Elisabeth Kay

At the beginning of the summer, I’d made the decision that I wanted to cut my hair. My hair was always something I leaned on to define myself. When I looked in the mirror all I saw was ringlet curls perfectly laid right above my ribs.  My hair was its own being, its own entity, that lived alongside me. It was my comfort blanket, my safe haven.

In seventh grade, I had the first realization I wanted to cut my hair shorter. This was foreign to me– though my mom never told me I couldn’t, cutting my hair short was something that felt like an unspoken but firm no. But my favorite YouTuber at the time had just chopped all of her hair off, so why not me next?

This was a rude awakening to the curls on my head. I learned the lesson of how important it was to find the right hairdresser– and that it certainly was not my local Great Clips. For years and years and years after that tragic haircut, I’d sworn off touching my hair with a sharp object. It was never going to go above my shoulders ever again. Even when I’d used a permanent box dye to color it purple, and it nearly fell off in chunks, I didn’t even consider bringing scissors to it. Once again, the long length stayed stagnant, and so did I. 

I depended on other people for validation. The only time a true smile crossed my face was when I was gleaming in the attention of others– particularly a man. I’d tuck a curly strand behind my ear when a man makes me blush and bat my eyes until he calls me pretty, or at least thinks it to himself. Chasing after men was a norm I’d made for myself. I only felt whole when having one texting me, even if it was sporadic and obvious I was putting in more than he was.

But in August, I took an elevator up to a new hair salon, and put my trust into a woman I had just met to cut at least seven inches of hair off of my head. The cut looked perfect on the women in my Pinterest board, like something that a man would still want. But when the hairdresser spun me around for the final look, I hoped she didn’t catch the split-second look of horror wash over my eyes. I didn’t recognize myself. 

I didn’t have a long enough strand to tuck behind my ear, barely had enough for a ponytail. I tried to convince myself I loved it. I tried to convince myself I didn’t feel the emptiness of the hole where male validation used to reside. It took months of me hating it, staring at the bottle of Biotin on my nightstand. Until one day, I no longer had to try and convince myself. It was a realization my heart had been waiting for– I am so much more than where my hair falls, than what a man thinks of me, than what I put myself down to be. I started to feel full again. Though I’m still unsure of how soon scissors will meet my curls, the hole is no longer empty. It's been filled with different kinds of love I no longer take for granted– pebbles, loosely filling that space.

Written by Elisabeth Kay

Edited by Belle O’Hara and Kate Castello

In elementary school, I had a friend group of typical 6 to 11-year-old boys. From time to time, some would talk about their celebrity crush or a girl they liked in school. When they would ask me, I just shrugged it off, thinking I didn’t have one. People would talk about the opposite sex, but I knew I wasn’t drawn to females. Now that I have just turned 20 years old, I can finally admit that my celebrity crush was Nick Cannon from TeenNick Top 10… let me share my story. 

Middle school is where my sexuality became more ambiguous to others. I started to upload Musical.lys to music like Meghan Trainor, Ariana Grande, Jessie J, and Nicki Minaj. This caused a lot of craze around the school. 

“Are you gay?”

“What do you mean?”

There were times I would say “yes” because I thought it meant that I was happy which isn’t necessarily wrong, just not the answer they were looking for. Eventually, they let go of the

idea of me possibly being gay. When I was about 12 years old, wondering why I would blush uncontrollably at attractive male leads on TV shows, it finally hit me. 

I’m gay.

I started by only telling my close friends in middle school. Yet one “close friend” happened to tell my sister that I was gay. I was stunned and embarrassed. She was clearly in shock and forced me to tell my parents when I didn’t feel ready. There was a lot of crying…and arguments. However, I wasn’t super surprised by this. My parents are baby boomers, a generation more close-minded to homosexuality. My dad cried saying that he was very upset that I trusted my friends over my family. A few days later, my parents confronted me. 

“You’re not gay, son. You’re just confused.”

They truly didn’t believe me. Years passed by, and I stayed silent. 

Why should I tell them again if they are not going to believe me?

I don’t want to get yelled at again. If they don’t know, everything will be great.

Finally, when I turned 18, a yearning in my heart told me that I should tell them. I didn’t want to live in fear anymore; whatever the consequences may be, I would persevere. I told my parents one by one, and the results were remarkably relieving. My father told me that he believed I should be happy. He added though that I would still “find my perfect girl someday.” My mother also obliged, as long as I didn’t “wear makeup and become some sort of flamboyant drag queen.”

Being a teenager is hard. Everyone is figuring themselves out. Not everyone can say that their parents are accepting. Though the reactions weren’t perfect, I am eternally grateful that I was not kicked out of my home or sent to conversion therapy which is an unfortunate reality for many queer people. 

Though coming out was meant to be a celebration, I was still stuck in my overwhelmingly conservative hometown. Yet with college coming around the corner, I knew this would be my chance to meet new people and different backgrounds. 

After being here almost two years now, I can say that I’ve become a stronger person while being surrounded by a stronger and more accepting gay community. Though Nick Cannon is no longer my celebrity crush, ask me what it is now. I don’t mind answering.

Written by Justin Pello

Edited by Diya Aneja and Kate Castello

For four years I walked from the Lasalle Blue Line station to Jones College Prep. It was a fairly mundane walk – sometimes I was freezing, sometimes my vision was impaired by rain, sometimes I was in a rush, sometimes I saw someone I knew and hoped they didn’t see me. Regardless of what high school nonsense or commuting struggles I was up against, I was always hyper-aware of the experience. I would look up to the tops of the tall buildings as I was passing them as a tourist might. I would think to myself this is high school. This is my life. I had the same experience last year walking from the Frick Fine Arts Building to Tower B. This is my freshman year of college, I would think. I do the same thing this year as I walk through the streets of South Oakland. This is my sophomore year of college. I wonder what might cross my mind a year from now… 

When I have a this is now moment at 19, I think about the ones I had at 18, 17, 16, and on and on. It’s almost like Inception (2010). The younger versions of myself exist within me the way Leonardo DiCaprio exists in dreams within dreams. The only difference is I’m not a 49-year-old man who stops dating women when they turn 25. In all seriousness, it trips me up to know every stage of my life has built on itself to place me where I am now. This feels unsustainable in a way – like as I get older and things keep multiplying I might just explode. I am constantly fighting to figure it all out, and my brain refuses to give me a minute of rest. 

There is merit to being a thoughtful person. It allows me to be truly present in every moment – observing and analyzing life. I hope this awareness keeps life from passing me by. However, it is exhausting to feel it all the time. When the overwhelming weight of feeling everything all the time is especially burdensome, I crave an ‘ignorance is bliss’ outlook. I find myself moving through my own house in a calculated way and I wish I were on autopilot. I can’t walk down the street without clocking everything and everyone in sight. While this can be entertaining on a stroll to class, it prevents me from just being in my own little world. 

This overthinking will never leave me, it’s how I’m wired. I wish I could experience one day in someone else's brain to compare it to mine. Anyone with anxiety has been told that it will always be a part of them, and it’s just a matter of figuring out how to work with it. While true, this is the worst thing to think about. I love that I think deeply about the moments I’m in. It’s so cool that everything I’ve experienced is analyzed and broken into subcategories and run through my mind machine over and over again to figure out what it means. It’s so great, yet I want to rip my brain out of my skull. I want a break from myself. I want to turn it off!!! Then, maybe, I can turn it on when it serves me and have it both ways. Freakish girls like me want to have the best of both worlds all the time. Is that so wrong?

Written by Clare Vogel

Edited by Briana Malik and Elisabeth Kay

In my life, I have moved five times: twice in elementary/middle school, three times in high school, and once to college. All of my things haven’t resided in one place since I was 10; I have grown accustomed to living out of boxes, suitcases, and duffle bags. It wasn’t until I started my Freshman year at Pitt this past August that I realized how scattered my life really was, and with this move ensued a series of extremely displacing events. 

When I was in 7th grade, my family moved away from our previously suburban life into a bright yellow house about fifteen minutes away from downtown Cincinnati. My mom lived with us in that house for the two following years, then moved out when she and my dad got divorced. Two months before I moved to Pittsburgh, my mom moved again from East Walnut Hills into a house in Prospect Hill. I had been switching between each parent’s house for the past couple of years, but as my things became scattered between places, as I was moving houses and trying to pack for college, I struggled to feel settled anywhere. Even as my mom acclimated to her tall, new, but old house, I had a hard time connecting with the tan walls, the creaky wooden floorboards, the drafty, cold spots, and even the dishwasher that had been broken since we moved in. I couldn’t understand how I was meant to form a bond with this strange new place, how I was meant to feel “at home.”  

My dad lived in that yellow house until I moved to college. He grew up in Pittsburgh—in Ellwood City–and last October, he moved back, this time to live in Brighton Heights. He lives now with his girlfriend and their two dogs, one of whom was mine when I lived in Cincinnati. They invite me over for dinner often, but when I go, the cold tile floor, the singular bathroom, and the skylight on the third story right over the bed that isn’t mine remind me that this isn’t my place; this isn’t and has never been my home. 

When I finally moved to Pitt, I was excited for my fresh start, and to not be living with my parents anymore. To have a place that was my own. I adorned my desk with my favorite books—Maggie Nelson, J.D. Salinger, Audre Lorde—my Sonny Angel, pictures of my friends, and dead flowers; I decorated the walls with my brother and best friend’s artwork, my mom’s posters from college, my own Donnie Darko poster and various postcards. I made the room as much mine as I could, but still, the dents on the wall that I didn’t make, the beige furniture peaking through my decor, the scratches and nail polish marks on my desk that I never put there, the squeaky bed that so many kids slept on before me all emphasized that this wasn’t my room. Still, my belongings remained scattered, now across multiple states and houses. I tried to push past this feeling and the sadness of not belonging because this is where I finally thought I would.

Over winter break, I stayed at my mom’s house. My room there is filled with my clothes and belongings, gifts from my friends, my jewelry, my prom dresses from high school, and my old journals, but when I woke up in the bed there and moved about the house, I found myself tiptoeing, trying to make as little noise as possible, like a guest staying at a stranger’s home. When I hung out with my old friends, things had become so much more distant. When they told stories of their new friends, I didn’t recognize any names, and I no longer knew what their room looked like. Being back where it was supposed to feel like home only further emphasized my displacement after moving away.

When I moved out of my childhood home when I was 10, I never imagined how jealous I would be of my friends who would always go back to their bedrooms, to those walls where every paint chip, every knick, and every carpet stain was made by them; the rooms and corners that held their youngest memories, good and bad. And I stand in so much anticipation for the day when I move again to a place where I can belong, for the day where maybe just for a bit I can feel like my room is my own.

Written by Ruby Kolik

Edited by Brynn Murawski and Kate Castello

Will Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce be breaking up soon? How long did she take to move on from Joe Alwyn after their breakup? Will her next album be about this breakup? If so, is Travis Kelce going to get his own album? In short: who cares.  

By either scrolling on Instagram, turning on the TV for Sunday football games, or watching FOX news, it is almost impossible to escape the Travis Kelce and Taylor Swift romance. With a celebrity made for the girls (Taylor Swift) and a football player all men admire (Travis Kelce), this seemingly perfect couple has blessed household televisions, becoming the next all-American couple. 

As a hopeless romantic, I too often idolize celebrity relationships. They often seem glamorous, spontaneous, and almost magical, much like the relationships we see in movies. From 10 things I Hate about You, to The Notebook and When Harry Met Sally, rom-coms often provide nostalgic support with adorable couples and predictable plots and endings. One of my favorite rom-coms for these reasons is Notting Hill, a movie where a famous actress, Anna, and a bookstore owner, William, fall in love. The film portrays what it would be like to be a “regular” person dating a famous person (12 year old me’s Wattpad fantasy). With paparazzi bombardment and secret dating, Notting Hill shows the complication with this couple while still being a cherry and uplifting movie that I often revert back to.

 Yet, as a rom-com lover, it is important to admit that rom-coms are made to be happy, often at the expense of being realistic. Although rom-coms may show disagreements and fights that arise between the couple, the movie will almost always end with a marriage and happy ending (excluding La La Land). Therefore, it is easy to idolize these fictional couples as they seem to represent a perfect relationship, and the idea of these relationships carry over when we see our favorite real-life celebrities dating. The relationships we see in movies are the best versions of the couple, and as humans looking for happy little things in a flawed world, celebrities provide a glimpse into a fairytale romance.  But the thing is, celebrities are not a fictional couple. They are real people, with their own lives and privacy they are entitled to, even one on the mega level like Taylor Swift. 

Truthfully, when I first heard about the Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce romance, I thought “Oh? That’s cool I guess.” With Taylor Swift’s love life always being so public and a seemingly open topic of discussion, Swifties and NFL fanatics alike immediately had opinions on their relationship. Some thought they were the perfect couple, some mourned Swift’s previous boyfriend, Joe Alwyn, and others assumed this would be a short fledged romance. While everyone is entitled to an opinion and would probably have one anyways, should the internet really be so obsessed with this couple?

I am not debating that celebrity relationships aren’t cute and fun to follow. After all, there have been many happy couples that I too admire when they have matching red carpet outfits. However, we are living in a social media obsessed and judgemental world where it is hard to look beyond the celebrity relationships we see on television. Yes, we see Taylor Swift attending NFL games, but we don’t see and are certainly not entitled to the little moments between the couple, like waking up next to each other in the morning and cooking dinner after a long day. However, as an 18 year old with what I would like to argue plenty of life experiences, I got to see these moments between couples. I got to see my mom cook dinner for my dad every night after he was done working. I got to see my friend struggling with his situationship. I got to see my next-door neighbor fall in love. I got to see my two classmates slowly begin to like each other. I got to see real relationships, one’s that I can look up to. Relationships are real, beautiful, messy, and often tragic. Let’s not get so caught up in celebrity couples that we miss the little moments that make life so much better. 

Written by Emma Hannan

Edited by Teagan Chandler and Elisabeth Kay

Growing up, I believed identity was merely a collection of favorites: an animal, a movie, a sport, a book, a color. I weighed these favorites as if they said something massive and unchangeable about my character. If you asked me then which color was my favorite, I would have said red. Red appeared perfect: primary, self-assured, bold, difficult to ignore. I always admired the things I figured I could never be.  Though I felt my favorite things were such a vital aspect of my identity, I was more concerned with how they would be perceived rather than how much I enjoyed and resonated with them.

If a person was as simple as color, Pink would have been a more accurate assignment. But I hated the way pink made me feel. It felt like a mockery-- a watered-down version of what I wanted to be. As much as I wanted to be, as a young girl, I was not red. Red was not quiet, sensitive, or naive. I felt imprisoned by my flushed face and fantasies of who I would rather be.

 My mother, who I always saw as a prime example of red because she was intelligent and confident, and said things with resonance, enjoyed the color pink. She said that there was power in being thoughtful and sensitive. I hated that she called me sensitive.  I blamed heredity: It wasn’t my fault that I had been born with a heart tattooed on my sleeve. But she was right, and since I did not know how to change my feelings, I changed the way I spoke about myself. 

Years later as I approach adulthood, though I feel I have changed in nearly every other conceivable way, I still often find myself preoccupied with attempts to simplify self-definition. I give power to astrological placements, Myers-Briggs personality types, and the things people say about me. I prize the way they help me gauge who I am as a person, or who I appear to be. However, I am growing comfortable with the notion that the sense of self is complex and hard to grasp, no matter how many online quizzes I take or how many friends I ask to describe me.

I don’t remember the last time anyone asked me about my favorite color. It turns out to be not nearly as important as I once believed. But for my introspective purposes, I am sticking with red, and this time I mean it. I finally recognize the shades of red inside me. I know how to deal with passion and anger. I can bandage up blood and add fuel to a fire. Still, I try to hold on to this softness from my youth, that lets me forgive the knife and the match: a skill mastered by all the pink people, present and prior. 

That is the beauty of identity-- it is everchanging. I can have two favorite colors, one for each side of me, and miraculously, no one will care at all. I am reworking my self-portrait, and I feel no shame as I color my cheeks in my most trustworthy hues. They are the only ones who know that I can be tough and mean, even if I cry at the movies and refuse to kill bugs. They understand why I embarrass myself often and with ease, why I make the same mistakes over and over, and why I sleep soundly in red pajamas, but in the comfort of light pink sheets. 

I draw on, reminding myself a person is much more than an assemblage of things they like and dislike, or pretend to like and dislike. More than a list of nouns and adjectives. I look into myself: a twenty-year-old true friend of a friend, a red woman’s daughter, and the sister to a blue man’s son. I can appreciate things I once despised, and I know I may soon change my mind. I am a collection of transformations, things I have seen, jokes I shouldn’t have made, bruises from things that hurt me, bandaids from a hundred songs, and countless fragmented stories of people I loved and even some who loved me back. Most of all, I am learning to be okay with the fact that who I am is imperfect, uncertain, and to my greatest dismay, open to interpretation. 

Written by Grace Catania

Edited by Emma Moran and Elisabeth Kay