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

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

In love, one and one are one.

Two souls with but a single thought, two hearts that beat as one.

Love doesn't just sit there, like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all the time, made new.

To love is to be known.

♡

June 20, 2022. I was a high school graduate, a few weeks into the last summer before everything changed. Before we fell in love. But I’ll get into that–first, I must set the scene.

We drove through backroads, passing farms with cows and goats and fields of Christmas trees and corn. I had been incredibly nervous. My friend, who filled me in on all of the details of the short trip as she drove, was bringing me on a lake house getaway for the week. Our host was to be a friend she made during her freshman year of college. We would be joined by her other friends, all of whom I had never met. I had no idea what to expect, and knew nothing of what was to come. So, as any girl trying her best to be confident, I expected nothing. 

When we arrived, we were greeted at the door by him. I stared (or so I was told many months after the fact) at him, taking in his expression, his smile beaming. It was a smile that reached his eyes. A true, genuine smile. He was happy to see us.

The next three days were a combination of boat trips, jet skiing, group lunches, conversations that went well into the night, and laughter. Through it all, I watched him. I saw how the presence of his friends made him glow with confidence and joy. I saw how he looked at me. How he saw me. Not in a lustful or prematurely romantic way. A simple acknowledgement– “I see you and I want to know you better.” Within no time, these people were no longer strangers. There’s so much more I could say about that trip, but what you should know is that I liked him. Maybe it was the way he smiled, or maybe it was the way we teased each other, or the way he always offered his hand to help me in and out of the boat, or how he grinned ear-to-ear when I caught my first fish–but I really, really liked this boy. I remember thinking to myself, “Even if I never see him again, knowing there are men out there like him is a comfort. Like maybe not every guy would ignore my existence or treat me like I was nothing.” I see you, I see you, I see you. 

But I did see him again. And again and again. And before I could blink, before I could register that someone I liked that much actually liked me back, we were dating. We were in love, and it was everything and more. How could it not be? It was weeks and weeks of FaceTime calls until 3 AM, good morning and goodnight texts, virtual dates (we were long distance), and counting down the days until we could see each other again. It was perfect. And then, as I always do, I thought it might be too perfect. I panicked.

After our first argument, over something so trivial and unimportant, I thought he would leave me. I remember genuinely thinking that it was over, the fairytale had ended as I always knew it would, and he would be gone within the day. But he stayed. He soothed my soul, all of my pain, worries, and doubts melting away like snowflakes. 

Things got harder, worse even, as the relationship set in and I realized it was, in fact, not perfect. We both made mistakes, and that devastated and scared me more than anything. When you have something you treasure so dearly, the thought of losing it is paralyzing. Yet, any time I was certain he would pack it up and leave without turning back, he stayed. Even when I pushed him away, when things were the messiest they had ever been and I felt so unlovable and tired, he was there. I was there too, through it all. 

It’s now October 2024: two years since he asked me to be his girlfriend. Looking back on all I’ve been through, what we’ve been through, I think I know what love is. Love is hard. Love is a lot of hard work. It is humbling, it brings out our deepest fears and our worst flaws and exposes them to the one person who you want to hide them from. Love is terrifying, it’s doubtful, and a struggle at times. Love is getting to know another person the way you know yourself–more so, even. 

Love is like art–not always beautiful, but enduringly real, raw, authentic, true, and genuine. Genuine, like the smile on his face when we met. Like the way he saw through me, straight into my soul that was staring right back at him. 

Written by Emma Mutis

Edited by Karlynn Riccitelli and Julia Brummell

The term “pick me girl” originated on Twitter in 2016,  became more widespread through the use of the media, and is now a phrase easily identifiable in conversations. Dictionary.com defines the term as a woman who obsessively desires male approval and validation, often at the expense of other women. Usually, this is done in a way that separates themselves from the female gender and disassociates them from anything seen as typically feminine. Essentially, these women themselves are “anti-feminist”, acting in a way that benefits the male agenda. While I do believe these women exist, trying to conform to patriarchal ideologies, the terminology of a “pick me girl” has reached shocking levels. In this day in age, classifying another woman by this term can be seen as an insult. Consequently, we put ourselves up, describing ourselves as far from the title of a “pick me girl”.

Typically, women are classified by the stereotypes created for us. The prejudice against women can be summarized into two main categories, maternal or hypersexual. Women are expected to fit into these two categories of being either sexually pleasing to a man or waiting on them hand and foot. Along with these stereotypes also come the things that we see as typically feminine, like enjoying things that prove us as soft and delicate i.e. enjoying beautifying ourselves or liking the color pink. These things put us into the category of “classic women.” The problem lies in the fact that we constantly try to separate ourselves from specific stereotypes, to prove we can be more than what society expects of us. Othering ourselves can sometimes feel like the only way to prove that we have worth beyond our gender. In many cases, this comes from the need to prove to men that we stand apart from the rest and our value is higher. We’re special. Mind you, in this case, I am only referring to the heteronormative perspective of this phenomenon. Though this may seem trivial, it's the human condition to want to be wanted and valued. Due to the patriarchal society we are a part of, women are conditioned to believe that men are inherently better than us. That it's necessary to prove ourselves, a standard of which men are never held to the same level of. So by this need to other ourselves, certain interests and such can often be held to different standards of what makes someone a “pick-me girl” (it's also important to note the terminology of girl, a phenomenon which mainly affects teenage girls still understanding their identity). 

It’s important to understand how we perceive the “pick me girl” to be, usually a girl who very loudly unidentifies herself with typical female attributes. She wears baggy clothes, is interested in “boyish” things such as video games or sports, has mainly male friends, and most importantly is not offended by unfeminist statements repeated around them. She is perceived as being “one of the boys” but has a secret vendetta of dating these men first, proving to them that she is the better choice as she is inherently above other women. Then like a cycle, she comes to realize that despite her hard work to differentiate herself, she is still seen as a woman and not valued how she wants to be. No matter how hard we try, women will never be granted the same respect given to men. 

At this point, the “pick me girl” has become an over-dramatized characterization, used as a means to make fun of women without being viewed as anti-feminist. It repeats the cycle of women putting down other women to prove that they are superior. "Pick-me girls" clearly distinguish themselves from other women by making fun of those who may do outlandish things to seek male attention, all while doing the exact same thing but in a different way.

 There is a reason that a “pick-me boy” doesn’t exist, it’s because men aren’t prosecuted for the things they choose to have an interest in. Except when these interests are associated with femininity, which is then viewed negatively as it emasculates the personality of said man. Essentially, femininity is repeatedly slandered. And of course the defining factor is that straight men are never held to the ethical standards women are held to, this standard of being special. 

Written by Elena Kimberling

Edited by Charlotte Ilik & Julia Brummell

As a senior in college, it’s been fun to reminisce with my roommates about our four years here, discussing things from becoming friends, to living with each other, to all the monumental moments that have shaped our group. A main point of discussion has been our “group bits.” 

These bits and phrases have defined the way we speak and see each other. When we explain them to others, the majority of the time we are told that we are fun and unique and that they wish they had a similar group dynamic. 

These bits range from my prediction dreams, where my dreams (most of the time) come true, to one of us turning every moment into a slam poetry event, to raising a baby gnome named Gnorbie together. The biggest bit that came out of these moments was LINT. 

LINT is a five-day event, or tragedy depending on who you ask, on the third Monday of March. We give up a bad habit or do a challenge, and if you lose you do a punishment. This all began freshman year in Tower B, where most college memories are made. It was inspired by the Catholic season of Lent, but for a shorter time, hence why the challenges are more extreme. We thought it would be something silly; we clearly did not see it going as far as it has.

The first year was simple: I gave up gossiping (the worst five days of my life), someone gave up social media, others video games, and one of us gave up online shopping. The second year we added the punishment element. One of us gave up talking about Taylor Swift, I had to change my terminology (slay, bestie, etc), one had to clean their room every day, and someone else had to have a healthy sleep schedule. The punishments that year ranged from going to the gym for a week to getting your ears pierced. 

As the years progressed, things got harder. Last year, I gave up social media (if you know me, you know this was a brutal battle I almost lost), one friend gave up snacking, and one of them had to cook all their meals. Last year was the first time a punishment was actually executed and, unfortunately, our chef friend failed. Their punishment was to keep track of the NFL ‘24-‘25 Season, and so far they are on top of it. 

This year will be our last time doing LINT, and we’re saving the best ones for last. Every single person involved is dreading it, as am I. However, it’s very bittersweet. LINT is one of the moments that brought us together, so having it all end kind of sucks. I’m excited to explain all this when I reminisce on my college life and share stories with my future family. LINT may be five days of hell, but it certainly has created a lifetime of memories. 

Written by Isabella Gattamorta

Edited by Emma Mutis and Elisabeth Kay

What is “cool” to you? What do you see in a person and immediately think, “Wow, I want to be their friend”? I argue that the concept of “cool” is nominal; though we see it everywhere–from the “Cool Girl” monologue in David Fincher’s Gone Girl (2014) to the influencers of TikTok telling us, flat out, which shoes are “cool girl,” which books make you a “thought daughter,” which movies make you “esoteric.” Abusive nomenclature is thrown around, most criminally and least tangibly on social media. Words once confined to academia are commonplace on all platforms, making a performance of pseudo-intellectualism among young women who feel pressure and influence to match this expectation of “cool.” As the definition changes,  to be “cool” now is to be a mixture of smart and stylish–a nice, chic sense of dress paired with an appropriate popular culture. You are scoffed at for not knowing Fiona Apple, the Smiths, or Lana del Rey, laughed at if you don’t read Dostoevsky or Kafka or Camus, abhorred if you have never seen a Sofia Coppola film. Current internet culture omits that everything about you depends on how you appear, rather than who you actually are. If you can adequately show off things that you only seem to like, then you’ve won! Therefore, intellectualism and style become a mere commodity—an adornment of your personality rather than an actual facet of it. 

However, women are placed at the firm center of this concept. So much of female personality is quantified by how we look, rather than what we like. Appearance for women has always been everything, even before the internet existed. The patriarchy has pushed this idea for centuries, and women have unfortunately fallen into its trap. Do we like what we like quietly, or do we publicly convey the things that we like only to a degree of acceptance? Who cares if you have not read all of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment if you can dress well and flaunt the novel like an accessory? Women are the primary victims of this newer “esoteric” phenomenon. Now, if you wear leggings, Uggs, don a slick back, and listen to Taylor Swift, you could face the threat of being called “basic.” Men, however, are essentially free from this struggle; they can express themselves with almost complete freedom without any pushback. Since they are the patriarchy, they are automatically accepted under it. There are, of course, exceptions to this, but men face less pushback on their aesthetic presentations than women do, at least on social media.  All forms of media tell us that men want “weird girls,” a gross imitation of Ramona Flowers to fulfill their manic pixie dream girl fantasy. They want well-read, self-proclaimed “esoteric” women until they actually get one. You cannot fall too far on one side either; neither too basic nor too cool. Men are threatened by your being too much of one thing. If they begin to see your personality as a threat, they will throw you aside for the benefit of their own self-actualization. 

It seems as if what you say you like is far more important than what you actually do. The pressure of having “good taste” is more important than ever, a pressure felt by many women in physical and online spaces. To be “cool” is a measure, sometimes, of being wanted. I ruminate on this idea with conversations that I have had with people in my life, including my best friend. We are both interesting, well-read, reasonably stylish women, yet we both speak about how we constantly feel the internal pressure to “be cooler,” or to conform our tastes so that we appear more interesting to the average eye. We both agree that it’s an exhausting ordeal, and both try to exorcize ourselves from these notions.

I did not fully flesh out this idea until recently, when in one of my classes we read a piece by Pierre Bourdieu titled “A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste.” In this writing, coming from his larger work Distinction, Bourdieu touches on the ideas of cultural and educational capital, as well as the existence of what he calls “legitimate taste.” He stipulates that those with the most “educational capital” are usually privy to distinguish what this “legitimate taste” is. Much like on social media now, the most educated, or the most objectively cool or “well-read” people, determine what is legitimate taste to the masses. Though Bourdieu’s descriptions of this err more on the side of critiquing capital in relation to production and consumer culture, his musings still ring true. The only difference now is that this “educational” or “cultural” capital comes from those who are viewed as conventionally attractive or traditionally “aesthetically pleasing” to the eye. Modern people obviously still care about capitalism and consumer culture, but less so than they care to admit, at least online. They take their advice on taste from the good-looking, well-dressed people they see on the internet. This further proves my point that it matters less now about your actual wealth of knowledge, but more so your general appearance and social status. 

Likewise, social media has and always will exacerbate this problem. On watching one of my (admittedly) favorite movies of all time, The Social Network (2010), Jesse Eisenberg, posing as budding Mark Zuckerberg who is in the infancy of discovering what would become Facebook, laments to a freezing Eduardo Saverin (Andrew Garfield) that Facebook will be cool because “people want to see what their friends are doing, who they hang out with, and that they are getting laid.” A crude statement, sure, but this eventually becomes the driving force of what creates Facebook. Even at the very inception of our modern version of social media, this idea of inherent performance was present. These very ideas laid the foundations for this performance-based posting, i.e. posing with The Communist Manifesto because it will win you brownie points. 

That is not to say that I and many people I know are a victim of this. A lot of my tastes are not as honest as they could be. Sure, I really like bands like The Smiths, movies like The Godfather, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and writers like Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë. However, I also am impartial to “nerdy” things like Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter. I can enjoy objectively stupid movies like Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle, or read the YA books of Cassandra Clare or Rick Riordan. I can watch what people consider a “basic” show like Love is Blind without inherent shame and enjoy all of these things because they are a facet of me, not a facet of a premeditated design. We as media consumers toe a strange line between allowing women to be themselves, and being someone who tells them what they should be. Individuality is entirely at stake when we feel forced into this box of inherent performance. Women have never been able to like what they like fully and unashamedly. Everything we do as women is fiercely evaluated through an external gaze: through the patriarchal criticism of men or the pressured performance of social media. It is impossible to break free from this evaluation. Specifically, as young women, it is especially difficult to make this distinction between our actual selves and what we want others to perceive us as. 

I don’t think there is a concrete answer to this, much less do I think that there will ever actually be one. As long as social media is a major presence in our lives, this query will unfortunately continue to exist. I do not mean to present this as a hate piece on social media or TikTok. In many ways, these types of platforms can inspire and even bolster creativity and individuality. However, as women especially, I think that we must be increasingly aware of the negative effects it has not only on our self-esteem but our sense of self in general. 

I think that all humanity has every reason to express themselves freely without shame. The feminine personality is so commonly demeaned, rebuked, and forced into a binary that is constrictive and suffocating. Separating ourselves from this watchful eye and living freely, free of performance, is how we nurture our souls. Many people say that “to be a woman is to perform,” and our current social strata perpetuates this idea. In a number of ways, I feel myself so deeply intertwined with this awareness of self and of others that I have forgotten what I actually enjoy. Thus, I try to reintroduce myself to what I know, for a fact, I once loved. I encourage every young woman to return to your metaphorical “roots,” and regain the sense of self that you may have lost. The truth is, life is about re-remembering yourself. You change and morph into new versions of yourself so often that it is impossible to always and completely know who you are. Do not let social media force you into some version of what it thinks a woman should be or what a “cool woman” is; the coolest you can be is your true, genuine self. Be honest with who you are and people will admire you for it. 

Written by Gianna Longo

Edited by Bella Emmanouilides and Julia Brummell

“It is history’s only duty…ensuring daughters are brighter than their mothers.” -Maddie Mortimer

My grandma always bragged about her daughter; my mom. She beamed while my mother looked away humbly. I took in the glances; the unsaid.

My mother was the perfect daughter. She was kind, respectful, decent; better than her conservative Southern Baptist upbringing. She got all A’s in high school, a fact that lingered between us when we lay in bed at night, her singing me lullabies. The weight of it seeped into my skin, paralyzing me. She never said I had to be like her. Never said I had to be a varsity cheerleader and get a full ride. Never said I had to be perfect. But the comments told me otherwise.

People told me “you look just like your mother.” I accepted that comparison gratefully. They said “you are your mother’s daughter” and I believed it. I was smart, capable, compassionate. I loved art like she did. Did well in school. But it’s an eldest daughter's duty only to live up to her own high expectations. 

I was never perfect. Wasn’t valedictorian. Didn’t get a full ride. Didn’t get all A’s. There were other things I did that I was proud of—things my mom didn’t do—like get a 5 on my AP Art portfolio and choreograph my Spring Musical. Still, I struggled to be my mother’s clone instead of being myself. 

Recently, I decided that even if I wasn’t perfect, I was good enough. I smirk slyly everytime my grandma tells one of her friends about me. “She’s graduating college a year early,” she says. 

In high school, I would get home late and see my mom asleep on the couch. She wouldn't go to bed until she knew I was home and safe—another perfect thing. After waking her up, I would ask about her day and try to listen intently. I was less than honest with her about mine. She accepted me anyway.

Children are often set up for failure. We take on the weight of everything that’s come before us. We deal with turmoil never before understood, and we do it all while trying to be perfect. I’d like to believe that, by letting the weight go, we’re smarter than our parents ever could’ve been.

Written by Leighton Curless

Edited by Lauren Deaton and Elisabeth Kay

I went through my first breakup when I was 15 years old. It was the result of months upon months of tension and arguments that one day came to a head. She was angrily texting me for the millionth time about what an awful person I was, and finally told me that she was done. “Have a great rest of your summer and I’ll see you at school in the fall.” 

“Okay, I’m sorry,” was all I said. 

She cut me off over text. If you’re thinking, “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe she would do that to you,” or, “What a coward for not doing it in person,” all I have to say is I couldn’t agree more! But would you still feel that way if I told you she wasn’t my girlfriend—not even a fling, or someone I was “talking to”—but my best friend? 

For the rest of the summer, I felt depressed. The entire previous year was spent as a duo: making memories, having sleepovers and drinking for the first time, giving each other boy advice, sharing lunches, going on beach trips, and skipping class to wander around the empty halls. Now I only had one other friend at school. Anxiety filled my chest when I thought about the start of fall, dreadfully counting down the days until we would see each other. Would she turn everyone against me? Would she even acknowledge me at all? I had no idea.  

Somehow, despite my fears and worries, I missed my best friend. She made me feel awful, but I still missed her. It was like a part of me was gone, a part of my childhood, a part of my personality. 

That summer was the worst one I’d had in a long time. Guys would do me wrong throughout high school, but it didn’t hurt in the same way. I knew boys would come and go, but friends…they were supposed to stay. Nothing could have prepared me for the pain of a female friendship ending. 

In the coming years, I was dropped by friends without warning, betrayed by girls who used to hold me while I cried over boys, and blocked by friends who once told me they’d be my future bridesmaids. Friends that I used to see every single day ghosted me out of nowhere. I equated these girls with my sisters. I’d think about them and say to myself, “Yeah, they’re my soulmates.” 

Admittedly, though, I’m not completely innocent, nor was I solely a victim of this cruel tradition. I dropped a few girls over rumors or petty drama, deciding one day to end the friendship without further explanation or the courtesy of a goodbye. I truly am ashamed of my poor judgment during those times. It caused a kind of hurt that I know will stick with me for a long time: guilt.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, my boyfriend has had the same friends since his freshman year of high school. His college friends have stuck around all four years as well, something that I could only dream of for my younger self. He’s had only one to my ten, maybe fifteen, friend breakups. That’s exactly what they should be called: friend breakups. How else can you describe it? The process is the same, as are the feelings afterward. The emptiness you get when thinking about them months, even years after the friendship ends is the same; it all is. If I’m being completely honest, I think friend breakups are worse than romantic ones. A friend’s excuse for cutting you off could be unfair, the result of a misunderstanding, or something vague like you’re just “drifting apart,” and you’re forced to accept that. In my experience, there are times when friends don’t even give an excuse. They just decide to switch up one day, marking the end of an era. At that moment, they are just as bad as those partners who ghost us without explanation. 

I’m so done with the toxicity that can appear in female friendships. The cattiness, the lack of respect, the gossip, and the cutting each other off detract from how amazing these friendships can be. They are one of the most beautiful experiences a person can be blessed with. They make you feel special; like you are part of a girlhood that is all your own, with people who love you for everything you are and are not. They can be intense, but also sublime, exhilarating, and magnificently authentic. Yet they receive this reputation as being superficial because the way they often come to an end can be immature and straight-up brutal. 

I wrote this piece in hopes that I would come to some profound realization on how to solve this problem. I hoped that I would help girls who have experienced friend breakups put an end to the cycle. The more I write, the more I realize that there's no solution. If I’m being honest, girls won’t change. The bad taste in your mouth won’t fade with time, either. I still miss my old friends and wish I could say one final “I love you” or “You were a terrible friend” to them, even though I know it won’t change anything. But there’s a silver lining: we still haven’t met all the people we will be friends with yet. Some people leave, but others enter our lives in the most unexpected ways, bringing more memories, laughs, and unconditional friendship. Soon enough, we will be able to look back on old friendships with less hurt and more appreciation for what they once were. I needed my first best friend to dump me to know what a true best friend is supposed to be like. I needed all those friend breakups to appreciate those who chose to stay.

Written by: Emma Mutis

Edited by: Brooke Baxter and Julia Brummell

Several months ago, 

We bought a small cheesecake in New York 

We debated who got to eat the last berry, 

Of which you playfully stole with your fork 

We both laughed, 

Until our stomachs hurt 

We agreed that the next time we got the cheesecake, 

The dominance over the last berry would be mine to assert 

Months went by, 

Until the next trip to New York was made 

We had gone together, 

But the bakery was too far away from where we had stayed 

“It’s okay” we bargained, 

More opportunities will arise 

We’ll come back soon enough, 

“The last berry” will eventually have its reprise 

In the next trip to New York, 

It was only a friend and me 

But I still made sure that acquiring the cheesecake, 

Would be a guarantee 

As I excitedly brought the cheesecake home, 

I told you that “I got it!” 

I kept it safe the whole train ride back, 

Eyeing which of the few berries I wanted 

But once I had returned, 

You told me you weren’t in the mood to eat it 

I figured that maybe you’d want it another time, 

So I put it in the fridge to save it 

“I don’t want it at all” 

Is what you said to me after several days 

So I started to eat some of the cake by myself, 

Still saving the last berry, 

Just in case 

Just in case you’d want it sometime soon, 

And we would playfully fight over it again 

But that didn’t happen, 

I started to wonder if the meaning behind it was something you had forgotten 

But the last berry that I had saved just for you, 

Eventually started to go bad

So I cried as I had to throw it in the trash, My

heart breaking as I missed what we once had

Written by Mia Stack

Edited by Elisabeth Kay