I think we (ladies) can all agree that being a girl has both upsides and downsides. I absolutely love being a woman, I could sit and talk for hours about how wonderful it is. Honestly, I have gone on endless rants about being a girl and the good that it brings. And across all the conversations that I’ve had, there’s one specific feature about being a woman that I adamantly believe is the crowning jewel: sisterhood. The backbone, the foundation, the essence of being a woman lies in the unspoken bond we have with each other.

I’m sure almost everyone is familiar with girl code, the unspoken rules that we somehow know and abide by. I don’t absolutely love this term. I feel like the foundation of “girl code” and what it has become with time is all twisted. In recent years it has almost turned into a way to punish or restrict each other. I’m suspicious where these “rules” even came from and what they really represent. I recently heard someone explain that girl code feels like a defensive measure that developed during a time when men had serious authority over women. Like when women couldn’t vote and couldn’t own property or couldn’t build any wealth of their own. During that time, the moment when women had the most (still not a lot) influence was during the “courtship” period.

So, during that window women had some leeway in who they gave attention to, who they went on dates with, etc. But that “power” only works when a man is pursuing one woman at a time. I kind of think about it like two competing businesses: customers buy the best deal, and availability affects price while demand increases it. In this analogy, men are the market but also somehow get to decide the price. That leaves only one area where a woman can exert any influence: availability!

This is what made it so important for ladies to not hook up with each other’s exes, it wasn’t just because of morality or loyalty (though this of course played a huge role), but because it increased availability and decreased price! (I hate having to compare women to products, it's gross, but that was the logic of the world back then.) Whether this interpretation of girl code is perfect or not, I think it has some truth to it.

That’s why I’d much rather say that sisterhood is what ties us together. Girl code was a set of rules created so we could gain a bit more influence over our future, and I don’t think that the values we live by should be shaped by or the result of men.

Okay, so we’ve established that girl code is out. Now let me convince you why sisterhood is in.

Throughout my childhood, I was a Girl Scout. We had weekly meetings, an hour and half of pure girl time. I learned some important skills during those years, but what mattered even more were the friendships I made. I’m talking about girls who will absolutely be my bridesmaids one day (if I ever manage to get over hating men). We ended each meeting standing in a circle, holding hands, and repeating the Girl Scouts Law, which ends with “and be a sister to every girl (scout)!” We’d scream it at the top of our lungs and then immediately fall into a frenzy of hugs and laughter. Can you imagine repeating that mantra every week for your entire childhood?

We were celebrating sisterhood.

I can’t take you back with me into those precious moments, so I’ll try my best to sum up what I mean when I talk about sisterhood: Have unconditional love for the girls around you. Accept each other wholeheartedly. We all know what it’s like to be a woman — the beautiful parts, the exhausting parts, the heavy parts — so we must stand together, support each other, and try our absolute best to understand one another.

And most importantly…

Sisterhood is knowing that no matter what phase of life you’re in, there is a woman out there who gets it. Someone who will hype you up, defend you without being asked, cry with you in a bathroom stall, laugh with you until your stomach hurts, or sit with you in silence when that’s all you can handle. Sisterhood is the feeling of being seen — truly seen — by people who share your battles, your joys, and the tiny, intimate experiences that only other women fully understand. It’s choosing to lift each other up instead of competing. It’s believing in abundance over scarcity. It’s the soft, steady reminder that you are never, ever alone.

Because at the end of the day, being a woman is not just about individual strength — it’s about the collective strength we build together. And there is nothing more powerful, more comforting, or more profoundly beautiful than that.

To approach or to be approached? 

I’m no stranger to unintentional self-sabotaging, but I think one of my most detrimental habits is being a “wallflower.” I specifically put myself in situations to be social, but would feel out of place amidst so much conversation happening without me that I would resort to going on my phone to look busy. Then afterwards I would feel defeated and wonder why no one talked to me. 

There’s a lot of implicit assumptions we make, but one of the ones I made is that people will approach me simply because I’m there. And then when they didn’t, I wondered if it’s because I was having a bad hair day, or my outfit was ugly, or maybe I’m not pretty enough. But who actually makes friends based on appearances? 

I kept expecting that things would happen the way they do at the beginning of college—you jump straight from strangers to friends, skipping the stage of being acquaintances. But as an adult, this becomes increasingly less realistic. You need acquaintances to make friends. You need to talk to people so they remember who you are. 

It quickly became second-nature for me to sit in the background, silently judging everyone. I thought that I wouldn’t fit in with them, so it was an unconscious defense mechanism to rule them out before giving them a chance—to feel dejected on my own terms. I started having thoughts like “this person looks so cool, they would never wanna be my friend,” even without realizing I was assuming the other person was as shallow as I was proving myself to be. 

Somewhere along the way, I forgot what kind of person I want to be. I know that I love talking, and making friends, and giving compliments. So how did I become this? What’s stopping me from being the person that I look up to? It sounds silly to say that I’m shy, because that feels like something that only kids are allowed to be—something you’re supposed to grow out of. 

If you’ve ever been considered a ‘quiet person’ before, you’ve probably also had people assume that you’re mean. I don’t know who came up with this, but it’s not like I can be mad because my assumptions about others weren’t much better. When you don’t know someone, it’s easy to use the information that you have to fill in the blanks. So what if you only see them across a classroom or on social media? I’m sure you still think something about them. We can’t help it. 

Sometimes judgments are automatic, and we don’t even realize. We just have this gut feeling when we see them, some call it intuition, and maybe sometimes we’re right. But also what if we’re wrong? 

We can’t stop ourselves from forming heuristics, but we can stop ourselves from letting them influence our behavior. In my case, I shouldn’t let my assumptions about people deter me from approaching them.

A couple weeks ago, I went to a club meeting after going back and forth about whether I had the energy to leave my apartment. When I got there, everyone was talking amongst themselves and the girl sitting next to me also wasn’t talking to anyone, so I turned to her and, without even taking one deciding glance at her first, said, “Everyone else is talking and I feel awkward,” and that’s all it took. It was that easy. She laughed like I was making a joke (I wasn’t) and then we talked the rest of the meeting. 

When you don’t feel the greatest about yourself, and you’re living in the same world as the rest of us, it’s easy to think the worst of others. But what if you gave everyone the benefit of the doubt? 

It felt weirdly self-deprecating to view myself as a shy person, like I don’t have the confidence or courage to hold my own in a conversation, so I decided to stop seeing myself that way. When I see myself as an equal with the people I admire, it makes me admire myself. 

Sure, I can’t magically change my entire personality and become an extrovert, and there will be days when I’m tired and my social battery has run out and I feel like keeping to myself, but reframing my mindset has opened so many doors for me.

Your go-to shoe says more about you than your zodiac sign. And before all of you astrological fanatics come after me, please hear me out. Shoes offer a glimpse into your personality, whether you’re the type who prefers comfort over aesthetic or even classic styles over trends. Unlike zodiac signs that stay the same your whole life, your go-to shoe can change from year to year, not tying you down to one trait or quirk. Eventually, you have to retire shoes as they wear down or as your feet grow. And while you can buy the same pair, you have the opportunity to mix things up, and I don’t think you can say the same about your sign.

I recently switched up my go-to shoe. Last winter, I would die for my New Balance 327s that I bought while visiting my friends studying abroad in London. They saved me from blisters and sore soles that would’ve ruined my trip. (For whatever reason, I only packed boots for London, and I’m as equally confused as you are.) I’ve always loved wearing New Balance shoes because of the “N” on the side. When I was younger, my dad told me the “N” stood for Nina, my name, and from there, they became my go-to shoe.

But this winter, I looked at my New Balances at the bottom of my closet and thought to myself, these don’t fit my personality anymore. I wanted a shoe that was still me, but a little mysterious. A shoe that suggests I could be passionate like a fire sign or grounded like an earth sign. A shoe that represents a girl who has a never-ending TBR, a soft spot for craft nights, or even a collection of refrigerator magnets. I desired a pair that could match both my feminine and masculine sides.

After endless scrolling on Pinterest and TikTok, I decided the 1461 Bex Smooth Leather Oxford Shoes by Dr. Martens were the perfect fit. I’ve been wearing them to work, to class, on nights out, and to the library. They match every nook and cranny of my personality–at least, for my current personality.

Throughout your life, you’ll have many different friends.

I have been fortunate enough to call a group of 7 girls my best friends since I was 11 years old. Tess, Sabrina, Grace, Katherine, Olivia J., Shoshi, and I make up “The Cheezit Squad.” The Cheezit Squad is exactly what you would imagine. The cringe middle school girl group of your dreams (or worst nightmare), that branched out in high school, and now as sophomores in college are finding our way back home. 

Each of these girls and I have a different story. A different relationship. A different invisible string that brought us together. I’ve learned a different lesson from each girl that has shaped me into the person I am today. My mom has always said that the bond we share is different than other friends, and for the longest time I shrugged it off. It wasn’t until I moved into college, moved back home, and went away again that I realized how truly special this bond is. Do not get me wrong, I have amazing friends here at school, but there’s something calming about being with people who watched you grow up, they’ve slept in your childhood bedroom, met your parents, and been picked up by older siblings in your pre-driving days. You don’t have to explain yourself to them because they just get it. While I can always rely on my amazing friends here at Pitt, these are the girls whose advice I never forget because they have watched me grow. When I’m having the worst Sunday scaries, I call them, and they remind me who I am. 

I don’t know who I would be without these girls. True friends are the ones who have seen you grow, and don’t define you by who you were in past phases of your life. They see you where you are now, and remember who you used to be. I’ve always been someone begging to leave my hometown, and I did. I am so glad that I got out. But, I always find myself coming back to the people I call home. Going back to the people who have never let me down. Who has been there for every experimental play I did, waiting with flowers. Who has asked every guy I’ve ever dated what his shoe size is. Who were there when I went through my first breakup, my first college rejection. When you’ve seen someone with braces and a side part, you can’t help but cry when you watch them walk across the stage at graduation. You can’t help but marvel at how far they’ve come when you know everything that they’ve fought to be there. Maybe we’re so close because we’ve known each other for so long, but I’d argue that these are good friends. These are good people. This is what home is to me. 

Hurry, grab an ice cube and put it in your toilet. Don’t flush. Grab a silver spoon and place it under your pillow. Finally, wear your pajamas inside out and backwards. My 9-year-old sister told me that this will guarantee you a snow day, the type of snow day you'd have as a kid where the rest of the world stops.

Snow days meant 24 hours where nothing else mattered but the snow.

The automated call would come around 6:30 A.M. on our landline: “Hello, this is your superintendent of Hampton Township School District calling to let you know that our school district will be closed due to severe weather. Thank you, have a nice day.” One phone call changed everything.

I would run to our storage closet, dig around for my snow gear, and put it on over my pajamas. We’d sprint out the door and down the porch stairs to our garage, where we kept our plastic, red toboggan sled.

The trek to our neighborhood hill felt like miles in the blistering cold, but absolutely nothing could stop us. We’d take turns pushing each other down the hill until we were tired or someone's glove fell off, and they started crying that they were frostbitten.

We’d run inside to the hot chocolate waiting for us, probably made by one of our poor babysitters who didn’t get a snow day because adults don’t get snow days.

Adults still have to go to work. Adults still have assignments due. Adults have to worry if there is enough food in the house in case we get snowed in. Adults have to worry if the power is going to go out. Adults have to worry about keeping extra jugs of water in case the pipes freeze. Adults don’t get snow days. For adults, the world doesn’t stop.

What happened to snow days?!

What happened to the days of care-free fun we had as kids? When we didn’t have to get up for 8 A.M.s and walk through 2-degree weather to a class that even the professor doesn’t want to be at. When we didn’t have to carefully walk on the pavement with the fear of slipping into city slush. We didn't have to worry about making it through the weekend, because we thought it would all work out.

So with all this being said, if we do get snow, I urge you to take a snow day. Let the world around you stop. Hang with your best friends, make hot chocolate (and maybe spike it), have a snowball fight, go sledding in Schenley Park, and enjoy a day our younger selves once dreamed of.

There is an immense source of joy that radiates throughout our everyday lives that humans tend to overlook: the sun. It is scientifically proven to be a source of healing for humans, as the ultraviolet B rays are shown to interact with a protein in our bodies (7-DHC) which in turn transforms into Vitamin D3, promoting immunity, strengthening bones, and even acting as a hormone. The light of the sun seeping into our skin ignites a biochemical reaction within us that physically alters our health and becomes a remedy for healing. 

The sun has always been something that I have valued, as my grandmother has always told me during every inconvenience in my life (no matter how big or small), that the sun will come out again. When I was younger, it didn’t quite register with me. But after living through more experiences, I now value the simplicity in her words, because no matter what we endure, the sun will always shine again, which is at least one thing to be grateful for.

Over time, I have noticed that the concept of the Sun was prevalent in things I was consuming in my day to day life. A song that my friends and I loved to listen to was titled “When the Sun Hits”, where the Sun represents passion throughout the cycle of life as the Sun rises and falls. There is also a quote that is written on a loved one’s gravestone that I visit frequently, - “time flies, sun rises, shadows fall, let time go by - love is forever over all.” Another reminder that even through tragedy, the shining of the Sun is a constant, something you can count on.

Before I left for college, my best friend and I decided we wanted to get a matching tattoo. We went back and forth with some trends we saw online, but nothing really resonated until we decided on a matching sun and a moon. In this case, it represents our friendship and perpetuating bond through all phases, such as when the sun sets and the moon comes out. It’s definitely not a secret that as human beings, we all exist alongside suffering. This life does not exist without challenges, and it is sometimes difficult to find things to be positive about when that is the reality of living. Like anyone else, I am guilty of thinking this way, and I sometimes find myself focusing on the negativity that can also be prevalent in our day to day lives. However, most days all we have to do is look up to the Sun to find something to be thankful about; and even on a cloudy day, you can count on the fact that it won’t be long until those clouds part and the Sun comes back, just as always!

Written by Mira Savas

My home is a hilly upstate New York college town that turns gray in the winters, lush in the summers, and beholds the “gorges” title. There is a lot of whimsy and many eclectic people that make the place so pure and unique. I’d never known such people were rare to come by until I’d moved out of state to a largely populated school. 

My home is also a pretty and characterful house at the top of a steep hill. It is one that holds my high school memories of consistent post party sleepovers, sibling rivalries, and drastically different eras I sought my way through. It smells like a familiar warmth that rushes nostalgia into my body. Even the sounds in that house carry me to comfort. My mother, an artist, hangs her favorite paintings on the walls in the living room; ones she painted throughout my whole childhood. 

My home is specifically (and arguably most importantly) my bedroom. I find significance in putting mementos on the walls and cluttered on my desk; mementos another would call junk. Something about the sign of a human teenage girl living somewhere excites me. There is a sort of beauty in decoration, and a beauty of life. Tangibly, my house and bedroom are my sanctuary. 

But alas, this home is being packed up to be rented for months on end. In this peculiar situation, I was originally distraught and almost angry. To me, this action bizarrely distorts where my home is. 

In high school, my teacher asked the class to write a narrative on what home was to us. I stuck by my “home is where the heart is” statement; that home is wherever you are settled and the people you meet, the ones who change you along the way.

Now, I am a first year in college. Perhaps after moving, and finding out my childhood house was restricted, my concepts slightly expanded. 

Of course there are parts of me that feel at home at school. For example, accidentally staying up late yapping with some of my girls, surrounded by fairy lights and ironic shrines. I’ve found comfort in consistency. I do the same old things every day, but I also feel the anticipation of a relatively large and unfamiliar city staring back at me. 

But again, there is a part of me that enjoys the idea of going home for holidays, seeing my family, and my best friends from grade school. A place I used to find reliable for comfort and enjoyment. Subconsciously, it caused me to label it as a tangible home.

However, this tangible place became uprooted. I never thought I would be so lost because a house is off limits. I suppose it’s because this physical structure of a 1940s wood building became my safe haven. One that is constructed of memories and a nostalgia of a real girl’s childhood.

How could my home be taken from me in a time when I’m supposed to go home for the holidays?

This series of events caused me to rethink that highschooler’s idea of home. Maybe a home can be tangible. Perhaps it is understandable to associate consistency with “home”. However, sometimes you don’t have a choice.

Upon returning back to school, I’m no longer ungrateful for certain things that make it hard to like college. I want to cherish what I have created for myself, and I know that there is so much more to create. Years of time! I like to tell myself.

Being put in a situation that I am completely out of control of has taught me that a tangible place doesn’t have to have a real effect on my emotional concept of home. Maybe 15 year old me had a great point, but I also need to acknowledge that these physical places are still embedded in my memories, thoughts, and simply how I carry myself. 
There are many homes, tangible and not. The importance of its tangibility is relative, but I am a person who can build experiences that shape my real home.

Written by Lola Rinzel

When packing for college, I was completely and utterly lost. What was a normal amount of clothes to bring? Should I bring that jacket I always say I’m going to wear but never do? Do I even own a pair of jeans that I actually like? By the end of the process, I was sure that I hated all of my clothes and that I'd be walking around in sweatpants and an old tee shirt everyday no matter the weather. 

After unpacking my closet in my dorm (with many comments from my father about how absurd the amount of clothes I brought was), I felt somewhat better about the decisions I made. I also realized that I was so stressed about not just the clothes I was bringing, but the way people would view me at school. I knew absolutely no one when coming to Pitt except for my roommate that I had a few conversations with on Instagram before moving in. So, in my mind, the way I looked was my first impression, and I wanted so badly to woo those around me into wanting to be my friend. I thought that maybe they wouldn’t see how nervous I was speaking to them if they were distracted by a pair of sparkly earrings. 

I soon realized how flawed my plan was. I was putting on a facade, a performance even, to try to be seen by my peers. I didn’t want people to only like the polished version I presented to them; I wanted them to just like me. 

Soon enough, I was lucky to have found people that feel like home, even hundreds of miles away. 

After settling into my college life, I quickly became my friend group's communal closet. Every weekend I either lend a jacket, tiny top, belt, or some other accessory for one or more of my friends to wear out. I don’t even particularly like most of my closet still, but to them it seems to be gospel. As I walk over to their dorms with a spare pair of boots in hand, I think about how lucky I am. I get to watch some of my favorite people carry a small part of me with them and I feel so grateful that they trust me not only with their outfits, but their friendship too.

Written by Sara Duffy

I spend most of my classes hearing others talk about the current day and age. And without missing a beat, almost always, a political statement is prefaced with ‘not to be political.’ And while in part, this may be because of institutional pressure to continue with a specific narrative, I find myself perplexed by the statement. Not to be political. Well, then you know what you are about to say holds some type of political weight. And yet we all shy away from this idea. And more and more I find myself annoyed with the statement. If you’re going to say something, say it! But then I think a bit deeper, and I understand how the current (and not so current) political climate has made people apprehensive to state facts that have become politicized. But as we venture further into this reality we find ourselves in, I don’t accept the statement not to be political. 

For one, as a woman, my existence has become political. No longer are my reproductive choices, my voice, or my rights solely my own.  But as a white woman, I understand that I am also granted privilege within this world. So, when I hear others say not to be political, it is hard for me to understand as I know I am one of half the world’s population whose humanity has become politicized on the sole reason of my gender, let alone any other reason those within the world find their existence at the core of politics. I don’t want to hear in my writing intensive class on dystopian futures, a political genre at its core, not to be political. Because if this deeper understanding of what is political versus what is propaganda is not dismantled within our education system, we cannot fight through these times. Times in which everything is political, we should not be scared to counter this narrative. Health care should not be debatable. The right to a meal should not be able to be voted away. And a person’s identity should not factor into their right to be humanly treated. Not to be political. 

I’ve always been enamored with the mundane and everyday elements of life. There is something so raw, real, intimate, human about the unintentional marks we leave on our environment. Last year, while living in Squirrel Hill, I would walk by a USPS blue collection box on Beeler Street on the days I couldn’t catch my typical bus line. The reasons varied, but it was never a walk I took by choice or with enthusiasm. Often, I found myself alone, walking down a cracked and weathered sidewalk as the rain drizzled and the leaves muddled with the runoff flowing down the steep slopes of neighbors’ houses. On this route, there stood a lone, rusted, chipped, and absolutely-not-blue, USPS collection box. I was initially drawn to the box on a day similar to one just described. The collection box seemed to blend into its dreary grey environment like it was camouflaged. Despite its age, there were never any stickers or graffiti on the box; its only adornment is the worn orange tag on the side of the box. This observation felt jarring– USPS blue collection boxes are usually rotating displays of new tags, slap-ons, posters, flyers, stickers. It felt abandoned on a street so bustling with energy and life. I never saw anyone use the box either, so I remained wondering. Did anyone interact with this mailbox? As an artist, this lack of community interaction with the box in any format felt intentional. Its weathered appearance raises the question of “was it ever blue?”. It's odd how a once bold stand-out feature of our built environment could devolve to a decaying feature blending into its natural environment. The box always felt like a wallflower, and I was the only one who ever acknowledged its presence. 

I find myself drawn to USPS blue collection boxes because they act as a community hub. While the intended purpose of these boxes is to mail letters or postcards, it is also a place of creative expression of thoughts and imagery. When walking through the neighborhood of Oakland, where I live now, I see bright blue, rather pristine, collection boxes covered in stickers, messages, graffiti, and missing pet posters. No matter where they are located, all of these collection boxes are constantly adapting and changing in relation to the people around them. Every mark is purposeful, every mark is a testament to the human spirit. We crave connection and interaction with our environment. Whether this interaction is mailing your mother on the other side of the state a birthday card, or writing “LOVE THY NEIGHBOR,” on the box in bold letters it all has the same purpose. The contrast in its intended use and the social function it exhibits in its community is fascinating: it allows for communication in the local and the global. These public fixtures are not owned by any one person and as a result, they may be considered a mundane object to the average observer. They exist, but not beyond the realm of that fleeting moment you pass it on the street. It is not a desired object, not something someone wishes to possess individually. I find this to be a rare feature in the modern world, as almost everything is attainable with money. 

USPS blue collection boxes are a community staple. Even if someone were to purchase a retired USPS blue collection box, its allure and social function would be negated. They rely on the people around them to function and the environment to welcome them. The box I am most familiar with has aged drastically, bearing witness to children growing up and new generations being born. It still functions as a mail receptacle, while also wearing the stains of time and the marks of people who once occupied this neighborhood.