Our first huddle happened at the tail end of a Monday night filled with happy hour apps, a beer (Modelo)/shot (tequila) combo, and a melted 2-pack of Reese’s pumpkins. I froze at first glance, trying to gauge a normal response.

The bug was on its back, feet wriggling with fruitless effort. The insect’s one weakness had been exploited and, in turn, fate would have it that its last day would be on the third-floor staircase of a pre-war Park Slope walk-up.

What a great neighborhood, so many families!

I bet the creature wasn’t worried about the number of young families in the neighborhood as it saw me tiptoe around the ill-fated staircase landing. I ran up the rest of the flight to my door, unlocking it and quickly shutting the door behind me. I turned on the light, checked the floor for what would now be a familiar brown spot, and let out a deep breath once I saw only clean tiles. The roach ended its life on a dimly lit marble altar while I kicked off my shoes, lay in front of my air conditioner, and texted my boyfriend, asking him to tell me when he first knew he loved me. We were both in agony.

The second meeting happened just this morning as I went to throw my garbage down the trash chute. Upon opening the door, just a few inches from the brightly colored “Hello, Sunshine!” doormat from my roommate’s mom, a cockroach lay on its back, completely still. I froze at first glance, again. My first instinct was to kick it away, but I had developed a soft spot for the thing. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

Poor baby.

I once again tiptoed around the mat, ensuring my feet never touched the same marble floors occupied by the carcass. I was back behind a locked door before my garbage bag even hit the dumpster floor.

This way I’m safe, I reasoned, from the creature who suffered and succumbed at my doorstep.

Still affected by the sight, I quickly sat down and opened my laptop to begin an introductory session with my new therapist. I didn’t shed a tear.

In my past, I grew a reputation for my story posts on Instagram (talk about inconsequential). On my private account, whose following I meticulously tended to as a most selective garden, I would probably spend hours every day thinking about what to post. I can say I was doing it for myself, but I don’t have enough energy to lie.

The realization that your Instagram account is the most interesting thing about me was a sordid one.

In any given room, I could be surrounded by painters, musicians, and audio engineers, or, at the very least, vain people with an impeccable sense of style who have enough money or drive to replicate aesthetics they see online. Standing among them, I start to punish myself for not being as outwardly established as I perceive the others to be. These people are artists (and not in a depressing, facetious way). He wears thick-rimmed glasses that stay on while he headlines the show. They drink IPAs because no one would be caught dead with vodka crans. She’s wearing low-rise jeans and it looks cool as fuck when her hip spills over. All different, all better.

I’m not an artist. My urge and talent to write has flown the nest. I don’t need glasses, not that they suit me anyway. I always order a vodka cran. It definitely doesn’t look cute when my hips spill over in low-rise jeans. I can’t even write a good Create Mode story anymore— the bar is in hell, I know.

Writing this doesn’t feel good. It’s not a cathartic release that should be praised. It is better suited for a confessional booth in a stale church or, perhaps, a padded white room.

Maybe it's the two months of Prozac. Maybe it’s the lingering winter whose tight, circulation-denying grip feels more familiar than fearsome. Maybe it’s the limbo between homes and jobs, between now and then.

Today is May 26th. Once I find the perfect outfit for this weekend, I’ll feel better. Right?

I always enter the winter months convinced that my memories from the year before were nothing more than an exaggerated, misremembered series of unfortunate events. An uncharacteristic optimism takes over.

Those weren’t winter’s hands around your neck, I tell myself, they were your own. It went poorly because you didn’t prepare, you had the wrong mindset, you couldn’t try hard enough.

January is usually pleasant enough, peppered with the leftover charge of a new year. There are still some Christmas trees up to be seen through bay windows on my drive home, and getting the year wrong carries a quiet charm. The bitter northeast cold ascends, though, and tests my resilience. The days are short, the air is bitter, and the salt gets everywhere.

February is haunted by my past, often filled with failed attempts to distract me from the passage of time. On February 7th, 2011, my dad died and— rather selfishly— made sure I would never again enjoy the month. I always spend the first week finding excuses to cry by way of photos, music, or memories. The days that follow are hollow and weak.

March tests my endurance with weather and a lack of bank holidays. It is the painful last mile that I run with a cramp in my calf, doubting I’ll make it out alive— but the days get longer, there is a holiday dedicated to getting wasted, and the world starts to come alive again.

Last year, in anticipation of this annual marathon, I went to great lengths to prepare. I booked a trip to England that covered both my dark day and Valentine’s day, two points of continued contention. It was great, but the reality I returned to felt darker than before.

What followed were months devoid of routine and purpose, feelings I doubt as accurate even as I write this. As March concluded, I got a job, winter disappeared, and life picked up again. Now, it is January 24th, and I wonder how I’ll survive it.

The truth is, I moved through Summer and Fall as a new version of myself. I did my best to control what I could and let go of everything else. I made plans for myself and spent more time on fostering friendships. I resolved to avoid ever calling a day bad unless it truly, completely earned the designation. I acknowledged my comfort zone and then blew past it, time and time again. I met and immediately fell in love with a boy whom I can’t help but want a future with. All new things, all good things.

“I noticed this change in you months ago,” my therapist told me last week. “You decided you would enjoy yourself, and you have been.” I prided myself on her characterization, but I doubt her memory as much as I doubt my own. Did I really change, or am I just fooling her? Does my good mood come off as a healed heart?

At the beginning of a cold, I second-guess every sniffle and chill. Am I really congested, or did I just spend too long outside yesterday? Is my body aching, or did I just not get enough sleep last night? Constant doubt and doubled suffering. I believe this disbelief is what plagues my winters and twists strings of cold weather into dead ends. I cry wolf as the dragon stands before me.

This winter, I resolve to maintain my summer and fall self. I will control what I can— how I spend my time and energy— and let the rest pass. I will continue to never have a bad day, although I’m prepared for several bad moments. I will make myself uncomfortable and push until I grow.

Some old habits may stick around, though, as I enter this next month. I have plans for the 7th and the 14th, and I find myself looking forward to it. Fifteen years later, against all odds, I might be able to enjoy February again.

I will embrace the spirit of winter by allowing myself to shed the bad so that spring will bring with it all new things, and hopefully all good things.

I will survive this winter.

In college, one of my exes told me it surprised him how much time I spent in bed.

At that point in my life, I would find every excuse to dodge my obligations in favor of a twin bed covered with a 3-inch memory foam mattress pad. His comment struck me as an insult, although my naivete refashioned it into a sweet observation at the time.

For a while, my obsession with lying down remained steadfast throughout changes in life, location, relationships, and routines. The only constant in my life was my desire to lie down, often sacrificing time with friends and family to do so.

I truly believed it was a conscious choice of mine to do nothing. It’s how I recharge, I’d muse. I would tell my therapist how often I canceled plans in favor of time in bed, reflecting on the obvious but never mobilizing to make a change. For me, this lifestyle was comfortable and therefore desirable.

In March of this year, I finally got a job after months of unemployment. It required 5 days in the office, reachable only by a 25-mile trek southbound on I-95. This quickly turned every workday into a 12-hour marathon, beginning and ending around 6:30. For the first few weeks, I took every opportunity to lie down, nap, and do nothing. That first weekend, I got mad at my ex for wanting to spend time with me. He asked when he was supposed to see me, if not on my weekends. I said I didn’t know. We broke up a month later.

Once summer began, I was possessed with the desire to make plans. I even wrote about my journeys, driven by immense pride in the plans I made and followed through with. I feared that summer’s exit would influence a decline in my newfound social initiative, but it remained steadfast. Even now, as the year draws to a close, I constantly find myself reaching for someone to see and something to do.

In the past few months, I’ve become extremely passionate about putting my time and energy into maintaining my friendships. To say this was never a priority of mine would be a misrepresentation, but it used to be a largely passive desire. Instead of musing over how “we need to hang out!”, I began taking responsibility to make the plan.

I’ve seen my college friends more times than I can count. I’ve made numerous treks into the city, despite climbing ticket prices and an untreated tendency to overpack. I’ve flown, driven, Ubered, and shamelessly begged for rides. My parents see less of me, and my cat has made her developing allegiance to them clear, even though I fund her lavish lifestyle.

There will still be days when I wake up and immediately set my sights on my return home and, therefore, to my bed. There will still be trips where I find myself wishing I were home. There will still be Fridays intentionally left empty in favor of watching a movie on my laptop.

2025 taught me it is my responsibility to build and nourish my village. I was reminded that friendships don’t have to be entirely circumstantial, and I don’t have to be a prisoner of my situation. I took care to believe bad days can be refashioned into bad moments.

Going into this next year, I will remember how I got here. I will do the work to remain. And I promise, I will only choose my bed first if completely, totally necessary.

These cries haven’t been guttural or desperate the way my cries so often can be. I have more than enough feelings of anger and frustration pent up inside me to share— believe me— although their appearances have increasingly been confined to 6:30-7:30 every other Monday when I meet with my therapist.

Instead, I find myself tearing up on my drives to work. The causes have been random and unpredictable, with different characters playing the role of culprit each day.

On some days, before 8 am hits, I glance at the face of an old man walking with his hands behind his back and cry. I cry because I look at him and see his family, who call him pop pop. I imagine his children begging him to let them care for him. I admire the old Yankees jacket he wears and can visualize its dedicated space in the mudroom coat closet. I look at him and I smile, tears in my eyes, and he’s gone.

Sometimes, I pass a house whose lawn is always populated by children. Their activities differ; sometimes it’s water balloons, sometimes it’s Razor scooters, sometimes it’s basketball. I cry for their experiences which haven’t yet aged into memory. I imagine that their parents once harped on their outside time, challenging them to find a way to spend their time that didn’t include Wifi or Bluetooth. I imagine the days when these challenges turned to habit, mourning these days as the Fall approaches. I look at them and I smile, tears in my eyes, and they’re gone.

Since I moved home, most of my morning commutes have been decorated with an appearance by the walking man. He’s always out and about with his sunglasses, shorts— pants, on the days where anything else would be absurd— and pace that I admire. I imagine his morning routine, which almost always carves out time for a walk. I wonder which house he originates from, what landmark signifies halfway, and how he continues his day. I think of the days when he can’t execute his routine and how it might affect his mood. I look at him and I smile, tears in my eyes, and he’s gone.

The school year brought with it a battalion of crossing guards. They stand in their neon vests, bearing their hand-held stop signs. I cry at their selflessness and wonder, through tears, what they did before becoming the guardians of school children everywhere. I envy their position as a landmark on the way to school and cry harder when I watch the guard on Chapel Street working hard to make a pair of middle schoolers laugh. I resolve to carry the gauntlet when I reach a similar point in my life. I look at them and I smile, tears in my eyes, and they’re gone. Unless the stop sign is held up, in which case, I wait.

On the occasion that the beast of I-95 is at rest and my commute is estimated to be under 50 minutes, I choose to detour along the coast of the Long Island Sound. I add about ten minutes to my drive in favor of geese, dogs, and a blinding reflection of sun on water. I finish the remainder of my NPR podcast on the drive and cry at the serenity. My window is down, the volume is low, and I wave to every passerby. I look at my surroundings and smile, tears in my eyes, and it’s gone.

In recent days, I’ve been inching closer to my habitual listening of Christmas music. The more I listen, the more it comes up, and suddenly I’m spending my mornings with Andy Williams and Nat King Cole. The music is nostalgic for obvious reasons and, for that reason, it brings tears to my eyes. I cry for the months to come, the traditions that will continue, and the melancholy that always finds me.

The past few months have been full of frustration for me. I found myself constantly complaining, negating any positive spins offered on my situation. I spent therapy sessions avoiding solutions in favor of suffering. I classified most days as a negative one, despite the happiness that I know wedged its way in. At some point, I realized that hating these days would become hating myself.

My drives have become my beacon. I see humanity in its purest from my driver’s seat. I see faces full of wrinkles and smiles. I see lives built by others, rituals perpetuated by some, memories made by many. I choose to find happiness and, instead of having bad days, I opt for bad moments.

I will carry this with me for as long as my heart can bear it.

It’s not usually a matter of aging or my fear of the future, as it is that reality seldom lives up to my expectations. My mind, without prompting, will run off and brake check every possible outcome of every scenario in every day. My birthday is no exception. I think about the estranged exes who could text, the various surprises my friends could throw for me, and the gifts I could receive— all in vain.

Last year, I spent the day with one of my closest friends. She begged me to do something, anything, to celebrate— Movie! Picnic! Walk! Buy a vape!— but I declined, feeling utterly unable. We ended up getting pancakes at my favorite diner, which satisfied me. I didn’t do my hair, so I didn’t feel like myself, but I entered another year regardless.

In spite of it all, 22 has been remarkable.

In October, I planned a trip to Chicago after seeing tickets on sale. I finally visited the city I always knew I’d love! We stayed in Oak Park, the home of Frank Lloyd Wright, and saw a stand-up show at Zanie’s. We strolled the river walk and spent too long in the Art Institute. We drove to Milwaukee, got lost in antique malls, made ourselves sick on cheese curds, and learned first-hand just how bad the O’Hare traffic is.

In February, I convinced my friend to travel across the pond with me. We split our time between London and Bath, spending most days building blisters and every night comfy in bed. I watched my friend fall in love with the cobbled streets of Bath the same way I did, and I begrudgingly watched her purchase several Union Jack-decorated items.

I said yes a lot, which was new for me. It still feels unnatural most days. I was an eager plus one to: old coworker parties, friend-group-adjacent open bars, and countless nights out.

I became a walker. In the thick of my unemployment, I’d hoist myself out of bed to go for a walk around the Sound. I met geese and introduced myself to neighbors, learning their names (and their dog’s!), only to immediately forget.

I became a citizen of culture. I bought tickets to see Twink and a Redhead, which landed me a signed cowboy hat. I saw Djo (twice!). I saw Black Country, New Road, even though I left halfway through the show in order to get home at a reasonable hour. I saw a limited-engagement Broadway show and met Fred Armisen. I even accidentally created a viral moment on SNL Twitter.

I retraced my steps. In December, I returned to my alma mater to keep an old friend company. Inevitably, I ran into an ex, but I survived! And I even got to wear a hot dog suit. I went to old places with new people, introducing everyone I could to what I think is the best ramen in New York.

I got a job! I got a car! I bought a ton of clothes and gave away even more. I had an amazing summer, which I’ve already retold. I did more than I could write about, because for once, I traded sleep for sentience.

22 surprised me, perhaps in all the ways I expected. My 23rd year will begin with more of a bang, mostly due to my pure power of will (and some Ticketmaster luck).

On September 23rd, I’ll turn 23 and see Chappell Roan. I usher this next year in excitedly, knowing I’ve changed, and knowing it’s all been for the better.

Life always seems more optimistic while I muse about it through a keyboard, but for once, I hope that my mind’s anticipation will meet its match.

This habit of mine— this nagging, relentless habit— came to a sudden stop when I got a job. My schedule of getting up at 6:30 am and home by 7:30 pm returned my bed to its utilitarian ancestry. Weeks passed; March turned to May, my bed served its purpose— nothing more—and suddenly it was summer.

Now, let me preface that I’m not known for having a full social roster. Outings are more often employed as a precautionary measure than a willing excursion. Somehow, though, my outlook changed.

The new season began with death. On Memorial Day weekend, a breakup freed me from commitment. Since then, I’ve rarely spent a weekend at home. While my days consist of a fraction of the rest I used to maximize, I’m proud of myself for putting effort into doing things just for the sake of it. Here are my recaps.

June 29 - July 6

4 days PTO lent themselves to a return I’d been dreaming of since the day I left. My friend and I embarked on a week in Northern California, where I made very clear my only desire was to be outside.

These days were full of sun and J-pop, opening up my suitcase only to find the closest clean bathing suit. On the first day, we went to Scotts Flat Lake in Nevada County and found a view that took our breath away. Despite the entrance road with an incline that challenged our friend’s car— and nearly won— it was a dream.

The day after, we headed for Lake Tahoe. We drove around the entirety of the lake to end up at Zephyr Cove in Nevada, where we braved the cold water and enjoyed cold-cut sandwiches. I’d been here in the early spring, but seeing her in all her summer beauty wasn’t something I could’ve prepared for.

The altitude change (+/- 4000 ft, twice in one day!) got to us the next day, so we spent some time in downtown Grass Valley.

We were itching for some more glacial runoff the next day when we headed to the Yuba River. Despite some hiccups (a diabetic pump malfunction, AAA call, and emergency ride from a park ranger to the nearest town), it might’ve been my favorite day of the trip.

In search of some rest and recovery, we lay low for the 4th of July. No fireworks were seen, but the pine trees more than made up for it.

To close off our trip, we took our time driving through the beautiful, tree-canopied streets of Sacramento and stuffed ourselves on the best scallion pancakes I’ve ever had.

I watched Ladybird on the flight home. I cried like a baby. It was a perfect ending

July 12 - 14

After very bravely returning to work the next week, I made the trip to Brooklyn to see Still Woozy perform. Despite knowing only one song and an unfavorable port-a-potty experience, I had an amazing time. I even ran into two old friends from Bucknell, much to my initial fear and eventual delight.

July 18 - 21

The next weekend, I departed work and headed straight for the hills for my college roommate Ryan’s wedding. The drive was easy, the views made me cry, and I ate a meal alone in a McDonald’s. It was a beautiful return to Pennsylvania.

At the wedding, after being impressed by our unique dresses and clear out-of-town demeanors, my friends and I were humbled. The emcee called for the single ladies to come on stage, and we hopped happily over, only to quickly realize we were the only four single ones out of the entire 100+ crowd. The bouquet toss was between four twenty-somethings and one three-year-old, which we graciously let her win.

July 25 - 28

The next week, I took off on Friday in the opposite direction towards Cape Cod. This year marked 9 summers spent in Harwich between my two friends and me, a fact we would share happily in bars and at dinners to whoever would listen.

Some bedtime was recouped here as we penciled nap time into every day’s schedule. Between bars and beaches, time flew. On our last night, I had mussels— delicious— and salmon— not so delicious— before somehow ending up at a comedy show and meeting a Nantucket firefighter.

August 1 - 3

The next week, I made a point to take Friday to myself. The next day began with a train ride to Grand Central, followed by a train ride to Penn Station, followed by a train ride to 30th St Station in Philadelphia. I made a point of dragging my friends through the Reading Terminal Market, where I overindulged in pretzels, chocolate-covered strawberries, and Philly charm.

The night was spent at the Filmore in Fishtown, where we saw The Fray. Thanks to our incredibly talented friend and her Cricket machine, our group was a fan favorite.

We each got a full 9 hours of sleep and were thankful to return to Connecticut in the morning.

August 8 - 10

This past weekend, I concluded my summer tour with a trip to Ocean City, New Jersey. My confidence in my westward drive was quickly dissolved when Maps took me through the George Washington Bridge by way of the Bronx, but I persisted. A 9:30 arrival, Wawa trip, and boardwalk stroll— not to mention a bottle of wine— were the perfect start to the trip.

Our Saturday was spent lying on the beach, being thrown around by ocean waves, and getting sand in our shoes at beach bars.

My drive home on Sunday was a true test of my spirit, to which I put up a fight but ultimately lost with a long nap upon my return home.

The Rest of My Life

What’s next, you ask? Nothing. At least not for the next four days.

At least, that’s what I always told myself.

My hair is chestnut like my father’s and I inherited his nose, not to mention his immunocompromised genetic code. I grew up being told I looked, acted, and talked like my dad. It wasn’t until I came into possession of my mom’s 1979 school portrait that I began to challenge that belief.

My mom is a good person. She broke off an engagement to date my dad, but she’s a good person. She’s been on bad dates and made bad calls, but she’s a good person. She reminds me that good people don’t have to be perfect people.

My mom exemplifies selflessness every day of her life. She gave up much of her young life to devote a shoulder for my dad to rely on. Her parents didn’t support her relationships with my dad at first— they questioned her choice to commit to a man whose body was failing— yet she remained steadfast. Her love led her then. It leads her now. She reminds me that it’s okay to ignore all better judgement and instead listen to your heart.

My mom has instilled in me a commitment to positivity, although you might not know by listening to our conversations. The pessimism she shares is never deeper than a momentary complaint. Believe me, she loves to complain— I inherited that trait, as well— but she still sees every day that ends in a comfy bed as a good one. She reminds me not to let momentary setbacks cloud my judgement.

My mom likes to make the best of things. As a kid, I loved when there were hurricanes because it meant my mom would buy us Gushers and let us pick CDs to watch in her bed. Some look back and remember Hurricane Sandy and Hurricane Irene as devastating testaments to mother nature’s ruthlessness. Others— like my brother and I— remember them as the weeks we built pillow forts and watched Holiday Inn. She reminds me there is always a silver lining.

My mom is strong. Everyone loves to tell her this; at funerals, after foreclosures, in the grocery store. She is strong but, as she says, she wish she didn’t have to be. Life has been unkind, yet she faces each day with an unwavering positive attitude that I hope finds me one day. She reminds me how we spend our days is how we spend our lives.

My mom loves her routines, cherishes her family, and is never afraid to spend money on a pair of new shoes. Every day, I find a new tick, habit, and thought pattern to thank her for. We fight and we bicker the way only two truly united souls can.

My mom is my hero. She is a reminder to take nothing for granted and that the best things never come easy. My mom is strong because and kind despite. She loves cosmos, reality TV, and audio books. She finally wakes up every day a quarter mile away from the ocean. She has loved— my god, has she loved— and she has lost. She is the woman I wish to emulate. And today, she is 57.

Happy birthday, Mommy.

What happens next depends on the dream. Sometimes I die. Sometimes the passenger in my car dies. Occasionally, we both survive, left to deal with the aftermath of the crash and its consequent injuries. If I’m lucky, I wake up before impact.

The psychological implications of this sequence, I believe, are obvious. I feel out of control, unable to steer myself in the direction I’m aiming for. When I turn left, the car goes right. When I pump the brake, I continue to inch forward. I have no control.

In the last few weeks, I’ve noticed an increase in visits from this dream. Last week, I embarked on a weekend trip to Pittsburgh, which is 500-ish miles from my home in Connecticut. I broke up the drive, first, with a 200-mile drive to my college town where I stayed overnight. The next day, my friend drove the next 200. The remainder was traveled by Uber over 12 hours. I’m no Ulysses, but for me, it was an odyssey.

Leading up to this trip, I couldn’t help but think obsessively about the drive. I knew the routes: the bridges I’d cross, the paths I could take, the landmarks I longed for. I thought about how badly I wanted to avoid the George Washington Bridge, and how worried I was that Waze would take me that way. I convinced myself that since every other drive had gone surprisingly well— a fact that compels me to knock on wood— this one would end in disaster. I braced for impact, trying to imagine how the state troopers would break the news to my mother. The night before I embarked, I was visited by my recurring dream. The details are hazy to me now, but a car and a crash were involved.

Yesterday, I took a nap. A week had passed since the trip, and no long trips were in my immediate future, but I had the dream again. This time, the dream was more violent than usual. I had a passenger, although I can’t remember who. The crash was courtesy of a faulty brake line, a car that refused to stop pushing forward. The impact catapulted us both through the windshield, landing us with serious, but not life-threatening, injuries. In the dream, I remember thinking, “That was just as scary as I imagined it in my dreams.”

This morning, I woke up with a familiar feeling. The night before I had been in a crash— in my dreams, of course. The details of the incident are lost on me now.

While driving home today, I got stuck in a lane of traffic. When I realized the next lane was moving, I merged and moved forward. Soon after, I passed a gray sedan that was perpendicular to both directions of oncoming traffic. Its front was unrecognizable, spurting thick gray smoke out of some pipe or electric wiring. Two men were standing there, one kneeling on the driver’s seat, presumably reaching for some important paperwork. There were no other impacted cars to be found. I kept driving.

I’m scared to go to sleep tonight. I worry that I’ll be greeted by my old friend, a violent reminder of my lack of control. Maybe it’s worth it to remind myself that the temporary nature of a dream is preferable to the permanent nature of reality. Maybe I should assess the difference between the two. Maybe there is no difference.

Maybe I should stop driving.

I am my father’s daughter. I need insulin to survive and I tend to make choices at my own expense. I live to make an impression on others, ensuring the memories that eventually outlive me can bring smiles and laughter rather than pain and sadness. I take photos of things that probably would be better off notsolidified in cellulose. I wear colorful shoes and I love my pets, I save my old notebooks and find it impossible not to draw when holding a pen. I love Billy Joel and Bruce Springsteen and Hall & Oates and Kenny Loggins. I was born to shine as brightly as he did and be sure the world did not have to miss his light for too long.

When I think of typical dream jobs for children, I think astronaut, president, doctor, musician, and athlete— careers with little to no demand that require an insane level of expertise and opportunity. In my case, I would’ve told you I wanted to be a chef.

In this video, however, I was taken aback by the responses these students had to what they wanted to be. Chemical engineer. Professional surfer. Veterinarian. Lawyer. Astronomer. Marine biologist. FBI agent. Football player. Teacher. Astronaut.

Strange— I don’t think I’ve ever heard a child say they dreamed of being a chemical engineer. What was more offputting than these “dream” jobs, however, was what they cited as their real jobs.

Pediatrician. Investment Banking. Executive search. The “financial space”. Chemical engineer. Opthamologist. Surgeon. Wealth management. Chemical engineer. Asset management.

Not a single job that requires soul or creativity in sight. As a recent graduate who studied the humanities, I watched this video and felt a pang in my chest. Aside from the fact that there is not a single student included to represent the humanities— English, art history, linguistics, history— there is no ethos that resonates with me. I didn’t watch that video and feel pride in my University that turns aspiring football players into wealth managers, whatever that means. I didn’t feel compelled to look into a university that does that, either.

I shared the video with my Close Friends, where many friends agreed with my shock and sadness.

“How come nobody is chasing their dreams anymore?”

As I’ve mentioned quite a few times, my post-graduate job hunt has been nothing short of frustrating. As an English student looking to follow my passion of entertainment and writing in whatever capacity possible, I’ve had a hard time being picky in my search. I’ve already— reluctantly— expanded my search to include marketing, digital communication, and social media management. I spend every day looking for an open door, window, skylight, loose floorboard, etc. through which I can break into my dream industry. I chase and chase and chase, and although it tires me out, I can’t, in good faith, abandon the career I’ve always dreamed of.

Why don’t these students share my diligence? I wouldn’t advise anyone to experience the rejection and frustration I’ve been suffering through, but I also wouldn’t suggest a soulless career in wealth management or “executive search”— whatever that is— as an alternative.

There are no dreamers left in this world, maybe because dreams aren’t a quantifiable supply that can be marketed, sold, and made scarce. Dreams can’t be bought or sought after, because they’re subjective at their soul. Your dream isn’t my dream. You probably don’t seek Fluevog shoes as badly as I do.

What is most valuable to me might be meaningless to you. In my mind, that’s what makes dreams so damn exciting. In the mind of the many, that’s what makes dreams so useless. Dreams can’t be used to incite jealousy. Dreams can’t inspire fast fashion recreations. Dreams are entirely self-contained, deriving their purpose only from he who dreamed them in the first place.

Maybe this is why my University’s recent reel hit me in the head and swiped me off my feet. The only thing anyone thirsts for is success that others can be jealous of. There are exceptions, of course, but that’s not what I’m interested in. The masses are pedalling success as “dream”, which I know to be obsolete since success can be replicated.

Dreams are meant to be non-replicable. There is no finite source, no cluster of dreams in an African country that the West has taken advantage of and depleted. For as long as there are humans, there are dreams. At least, there should be. When the last dream dies, so does the last of humanity.

As a child, there was no shortage of phones in my house. In addition to the typical landline phones of the early aughts, my older home was equipped with a rotary phone that hung between the doorway and window of our kitchen. The phone was fully functioning and got a decent amount of use. I used it as a plaything, fiddling with the dial and wondering how in the world the letters corresponded to the numbers. A remnant of a time passed, useful only in my fantasies.

I think about this phone often. As I watched the pilot episode of Twin Peaks the other day, I was drawn to the wasabi green rotary phone she sobbed into. “I miss holding a phone like that,” I thought.

I couldn’t care less about the actress’ performance and the displayed grief over a dead daughter, much to my boyfriend’s frustration. He, a lifelong Twin Peaks fan and more recent Lynch-mourner, implored me to pay attention to the “important” “establishing” scenes, but I kept going on about the phone. I want it! Where can I buy it?

This special interest of mine couldn’t have come at a more opportune moment. As I write about my love of texting and how well I command Instagram, I think it’s important to admit that my reliance on a smartphone is still objectively bad. My screentime is high, the doomscrolling is unstoppable, and genuine moments of enjoyment are few and far between. It is at this moment I am making a promise to myself to change.

As the weather gets warmer, I am going to find ways to enjoy myself that don’t include holding a screen inches from my face. Similarly to any other change I’ve made in my life, I am pushing off the start date for a month or two. I think time outdoors is most helpful for me to feel grounded in reality, therefore it is hard for me to get started in the dead of a Connecticut winter.

In anticipation of the defrosting, I’d like to make a list of real, honest-to-god resolutions.

1. Walk without headphones. I often find myself looking forward to the musical aspect of taking walks, but I think it may be preventing me from truly feeling present. I’d like to be at peace without putting myself at an elevated risk for hearing loss.

2. Visit the beach more often. I am lucky enough to live mere minutes away from the shores of the Long Island Sound. While it isn’t the cleanest or most idyllic body of water, the beaches are stunning. I often choose to tan on my back porch, but I think taking the 30-minute walk to the closest residential beach can help me feel accomplished and calm. Maybe it can also help me improve my pace.

3. Call more. I mentioned before my recent Substack where I bragged about my iMessage activity. While I maintain that staying in touch is a virtue, I think I could benefit from more talking and less typing. I want to make more of an effort to call my loved ones instead of only checking in over text.

4. Do not disturb. Always. I find that in bouts of heightened anxiety, notifications of any kind make me feel worse. I think keeping my phone on DND will help me prioritize what’s actually in front of me rather than encouraging my addiction to checking and rechecking my notifications. The feasibility of this resolution is dependent on whether or not I am employed by then.

5. Buy a film camera and learn it all. In scrolling through posts of someone’s dad’s old film photos, I felt a pang of desire. I’ve loved my Canon Powershot ELPH 180 ever since I googled “point and shoot digital camera” in 2019 and picked it out for a Christmas gift. I’ve also convinced myself that I wouldn’t be good at shooting on film, but now I’m calling my own bluff. I want to begin researching now so I can find a camera (maybe a Super 8?) and spend the summer mastering it.

6. Stop online shopping. It’s easy for me to convince myself Depop scrolling is less harmful than fast fashion, but the truth is it’s all the same overconsumption. While I haven’t had Depop on my phone in a while and I refrain from perusing Etsy, Ebay, Poshmark, and Mercari, I can stand to cut back more. I would like to restrict my buying— specifically for clothing— to in-person endeavors and, of course, buy secondhand whenever possible.

7. Use my laptop more. This trusty MacBook Pro has been with me since my high school graduation and, while I use it regularly, I think I should do more of my typing here. Oh, and sit at a desk when I type. Doing it from my bed isn’t helping anyone.

I could keep going, but seven is a friendly number to end with. These resolutions will hopefully help me to minimize the time and energy spent on purely online, isolating activities. Maybe if I can learn to find peace from the sound of tires on pavement, or if I can find a way to focus mostly on what’s in front of me, then I can find inner peace.

This will be an ongoing effort of mine. I’ll keep you posted.

My constant activity responsible for these interactions is something I am sometimes embarrassed by. Most of the articles I read here revolve around How to Detox from Social Media, How to Let Go of Your Social Media Obsession, and How to Heal Social Media Addiction. It’s poised as something inherently evil, a creeping shadow in the corner influencing your every move and controlling your mind. I understand the validity in these statements for many, although I can’t help but feel like I’m somehow above that infection or that I’ve outsmarted it completely.

My use of social media has never been anything short of incredibly intentional. In my junior year of high school, I opted to deactivate my Instagram account— which, at that point, I had since 2013, or sixth grade— in favor of a new, more private account. I was intentionally stingy with the requests I accepted and, although I didn’t close myself off from the high school crowd, I knew I didn’t want to accept just anyone.

In the thick of the shutdown, which also happened to be the spring semester of my senior year, I found the motivation one night to go through my followers and purge them. My criteria for those that could remain was simple; they had to be cool, funny, or hot. In the years since this moment, I’ve remedied this criteria. Instead of being so explicitly facetious, I tell myself that I can only be followed by people I’d say “hi” to if I were to pass them on the street… in addition to those that are cool, funny, and hot.

I believe that choosing to be picky with my followers has completely transformed the way I view social media and its purpose for me. Instead of posting to impress people and give off a specific view of myself, I work to highlight the good and the bad, the funny and the occasionally concerning. I post pictures from photoshoots with the same thought and care that I post screenshots from Twitter and pins from Pinterest. I truly believe that my Instagram is a passion project.

Don’t get me wrong— although my account is an intimate space, full of good friends and family members, I’m not above accepting a request from a Tinder match or a friend-of-a-friend that I am obsessed with. The difference, however, is that most of these people are blocked from viewing my story, the place where I post most freely. I consider their likes on my posts to be trophies, the stamp of approval from a distant crowd that doesn’t like me because they have to. That is where the traditional validation-seeking, evil side of social media usage seeps through for me.

I am embarrassed to admit that many of my relationships have been influenced by my Instagram, as well. I was lying in bed with an ex-boyfriend— we had just been making out, for the second time ever— when we paused for air. I remember asking, as any insecure 20-year-old would, if he had always liked me.

“Why else do you think I’m always liking your Instagram stories?” he said. I laughed. I had always taken notice of his activity.

My current boyfriend and I have known each other for years, thanks to our high school’s marching band. Since he was two years ahead of me, we didn’t actually interact much. It was only after he had requested me on Instagram the summer after my freshman year of college that we truly began to get to know each other. We talked on and off for years through conversations begun by chatting stories and sending reels until we finally started seeing each other for real. A real modern marvel. All those years later, we still chat stories and send reels.

Social media has never felt like a chore to me. When I read articles about its inherent negativity or its soul-sucking nature, I can’t help but feel confused. How have I managed to cultivate such a special corner for myself on an app that so many loathe? I’m not sure that I’m doing it “right” — I wouldn’t advise anyone to spend three hours daily on Instagram the way I do— but I do know that it only ever brings me happiness and community.

My advice to anyone reading this would be to approach your activity with intentionality and purge your following. I may never become an influencer with my standards, but I know I can find support and understanding.

Tennis is a sport misunderstood by many and underestimated by most. Growing up in a tennis family, I can confirm that the sport itself is straightforward; all you need to do is hit the ball with a racquet. The hard part of tennis is understanding the beauty of the game and, therefore, perfecting it. The same is true of Luca Guadagnino’s tennis flick Challengers.

The story, which takes place between 2006 and 2019, follows junior tennis players Tashi Duncan (Zendaya), Art Donaldson (Mike Faist), and Patrick Zwieg (Josh O’Connor). Zendaya plays a fiery and confident 18-year-old tennis star who catches the attention of junior doubles partners played by Faist and O’Connor. The three immediately enter into a love triangle of sorts, with the one uniting love being tennis. Told through a nonlinear narrative and beginning with the final scene in 2019, Guadagnino is sure to arm the audience with apprehension for the over two hours' worth of love, lust, and sport that is to come.

Relying on timestamps and location titles, the film both begins and ends with a tennis match between Faist and O’Connor set in New Rochelle in 2019. I found myself weary when I realized the film would be moving back and forth in time, however, Guadagnino does an expert job of peeling back the layers of the “final” scene like a messy onion. Each move back to the challenger tournament is informed by an exploration of the relationships between Zendaya, Faist, and O’Connor, keeping the audience on the edge of their seats up until the last five minutes. The film is a challenge that rewards the viewer.

This means that there is very rarely a comfortable moment where the audience feels secure in their feelings; this, I take it, is a strength of Guadagnino’s. He consistently makes the audience question their understanding of the narrative: Why did Tashi show up to their hotel room? Is she a good person? Does she really love Art? Did she ever love Patrick? There is little energy– if any– spent on leading the audience towards answers to these questions, which I appreciate. At the end of the day, their answers do not truly matter. The fun part isn’t the verdict; it's the evidence.

Since the film exists within a world where tennis is the sun, moon, and stars, there is a certain level of understanding on the audience’s part required for the narrative to work. Justin Kuritzkes, the screenwriter, takes care to explain the intricacies of the game in a way that educates the audience without overwhelming them with information. Through exposition provided mostly within dialogue, the gravity of the final scene can be understood– whoever wins will qualify to play the U.S. Open, therefore validating their struggles as pro tennis players– and the niche of the experience in itself can be emphasized. While the general audience member might not know what the Open is or how a career in the sport works, the film is a treat for those already familiar with the sport. Hearing characters gush over strong backhands and unique serves is an indulgence not often permitted to general audiences– much less to a silver screen– therefore, Challengers becomes an ode to tennis while also being a quality movie with an otherworldly soundtrack.

Sound acts as the fourth character in the story and is perhaps the most pervasive element of all. The game of tennis is a loud one; full of grunts, balls hitting clay courts, rubber soles of sneakers, and, at times, broken bones. While this takes precedence over the soundscape of Challengers, the expertise of composers Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross cannot be understated. Where the film is devoid of the moans from tennis playing, the score enters with a driving beat akin to music you would hear at a club in Berlin. The soundtrack is composed of 16 tracks, each with the same contagious sound that drew me to tap my foot along in the theatre. When listening to an isolated film score, the disconnect between narrative and sound can be especially profound. Challenger’s score mends this gap by melding diegetic sound with nondiegetic. The first song of the score– appropriately named “Challengers”– ends with the default iPhone alarm clock sound. While the sound itself can be jarring to anyone whose sleep has been rudely interrupted by the sound, its inclusion in the track helps to establish the narrative place to which it corresponds: the moment when Faist wakes in his hotel bed before his challenger match. Many songs are also interspersed with the sounds of balls being hit by racquets, reminding the audience of the real reason for the music: tennis. By combining the diegetic sound with the non-diegetic, the importance of the sound cannot be underscored. Acting as a heartbeat for both the narrative and the characters, the score becomes audible during tense moments the same way one becomes hyper-aware of their own breathing in anxious moments. Weaving in and out of the narrative, it backs away when characters engage in conversation allowing their dialogue to shine, and re-enters when they’re alone, once again taking the place of a heartbeat.

The film itself is, in a word, tense. The screenplay operates with the assumption that the characters deliver the emotional depth that their narrative arcs require, which Zendaya, Faist, and O’Connor fulfill effortlessly. Acting skills aside, the chemistry between the three stars is the engine that drives the film. The passion they display– not only for tennis but for each other– is a thrill to watch. One of the first “wow!” moments for me when watching was the hotel ménage à trois. It is the first moment we see how badly these characters want each other. The air in the theatre was static waiting to see what would be Zendaya’s next move as she was sat between two junior doubles partners on a large hotel bed. We see every possible pairing then: Zendaya-Faist, Zendaya-O’Connor, and, perhaps the most energetic of all, Faist-O’Connor. It is revealed here not only how badly the boys want the girl, but also how badly they want each other. The film drips with desire, decorating every scene with lust and passion. This idea is toyed with many times; whether in the middle of a charged sauna session or a steamy make-out, a character pauses: “Wait, are we talking about tennis?” to which the other replies, “We’re always talking about tennis’.” Challengers isn’t a romance, or a comedy, or a thriller; it's a film about tennis.

In an earlier scene, Zendaya explains to her new friends that the purpose of tennis is the relationship between the players. She doesn’t care about winners or losers, despite what she may tell the boys. Instead, she wants to see two people on a court in love, “going somewhere beautiful together.” The same can be said for the film itself. Regardless of how much the viewer knows– or cares– about tennis, they can go somewhere beautiful by surrendering themselves to the characters that consider tennis to be their lives. It is a window into their soul, with every match, fight, and hookup being a chance for two people to be in a relationship with one another. By the end, this much becomes clear.

Endings are a touchy part of film. That may seem like a cliche and incredibly expansive claim, but it's true: it is hard to end a completely subjective story in a way that feels satisfying to an entire audience. A film’s ending tests a filmmaker’s understanding of and love for their narrative. Do they end it in a way that feels respectful to their characters? Do they discount development for the sake of shock?

Challengers passes this test with flying colors. Every flashback, flash-forward, make-out, fight, and homoerotic churro moment leads up to the ending, which is the strongest five minutes of a film I’ve seen in a very, very long time. It should not be discounted that the end is where the story starts. We know Faist and O’Connor are in a challenger match together and we know Zendaya is watching, but that’s it. The entire movie is spent proving to the audience that everything is at risk in this moment, a burden that the stars portray incredibly well. The first scene at the match is disorienting and confusing for the audience, void of explanation as to who those characters are and why they’re playing against each other; by the end, every inch of the screen had immense meaning. Full of screaming, sweat, and some great tennis, the ending is a celebration of every scene that came before. It honors the incredible performances of Zendaya, Faist, and O’Connor. It salutes the choice of nonlinear storytelling by culminating with a scene whose true meaning can only be felt after learning how the characters came to be in the positions they find themselves in. For Guadagnino, the ending is an opportunity to play with the physicality of the game itself, placing the audience in the position of the tennis ball. For these reasons, it becomes obvious what purpose the film serves. It not only aims to grant the audience a satisfying experience– which, believe me, it does– but it wants to tease. In the end, we fully understand the characters. I found a unique satisfaction in leaving the movie theatre not having wished that the film did anything differently.

Through its nonlinear storytelling and emphasis on complex characters in complex relationships, Challengers dares its viewers to give in and promises them a satisfying reward for doing so. The characters are far from perfect but are intensely entertaining to get to know. The stars give the film its heart, with Zendaya delivering a best-yet performance full of anger, athleticism, and ardor. Mike Fasit and Josh O’Connor shine with palpable chemistry and a commitment to their characters, immediately solidifying their performance as an iconic one. The soundtrack itself is memorable through its ability not only to reiterate the energy of the story through its beat but also through the fact that it makes the viewing experience feel like a physical activity. I sat in my seat for minutes after the credits finished rolling and left the theatre with tears in my eyes. Challengers, much like tennis, is a film that may be underestimated and discounted due to its apparent simplicity, but choosing to learn the craft and engage in the game rewards the audience with, if nothing else, the thrill of a chase and the satisfaction of an incredibly thoughtful and energized ending. It might not be clear who won the match, but if there’s anything that Challengers wants the audience to take away, it's that the most important part of the game is the rally.

I have never had a problem with being alone. As a teenager, I would always choose to lie in my bed over social interaction. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a question of forced isolation, per se: I had plenty of friends who were eager to hang out at local strip malls and share mint-flavored Juul pods. It could’ve been a case of classic teenage rebellion, as I knew that my eternally concerned mother would worry when I was cooped up for too long. The affinity could also be attributed to the fact that I inherited a memory foam mattress from my parents, but perhaps more realistically, it was a symptom of the depression and anxiety I struggled with that is inherent to being an interesting person.

As people grow up and shed their childhood skin in favor of maturity, things change.

For me, however, this kinship with my bed remains. Even after losing the joy of antagonizing my mom– she loves that I stay home and watch movies with her now

I’ve been through the wringer, so to say– loss, love, credit card debt– yet I would still choose to remain in my bed over most activities. This is not to say I am the same person as the teenager who hated her mom and loved Abercrombie. The few years between then and now have left me older and not so much wiser. These years of wisdom have helped me to realize that the bed isn’t exactly the thing I’m tied to. No, certainly not when my bed is a twin XL; it’s my room.

There’s a song by The Beach Boys that I stumbled upon thanks to Spotify’s radio feature during the summer of 2022. Clocking in at just over two minutes, the 1963 release titled “In My Room” is an ode to one’s bedroom. Co-writer Brian Wilson was remembered as saying his room was his whole world. He thought of it as his kingdom. This can be best exemplified by the unfortunate “nervous breakdown” Wilson suffered in 1964. It was on board a flight from Los Angeles to Houston that he decided he needed a break from the non-stop nature of rock stardom and so he retreated. He left the limelight in favor of his kingdom; his room. I will (ambitiously) venture to say that Brian Wilson and I are similar in this way, although I haven’t felt the need to go down the same LSD route… yet.

Throughout my time in university, the hours spent within cinder block rooms have been incalculable. Although the rooms are not particularly comforting, or even desirable for that matter, I find it hard to think of a place that brings me more comfort. Filled with posters, pictures, tapestries, and tchotchkes, there is truly no place more “me” than my dorm room.

In retrospect, there seem to be a few factors that have allowed this personification to exist. For starters, my love of antiques is genetic, carried on from my parents’ tendency to hit up flea markets on the weekends and my grandfather’s love for auctions. This appreciation of mine is far from a choice; it was inevitable. My dad collected vintage game machines–PacMan, Pinball, Tabletop space games, etc.– and my mom filled our house with beautiful colors and decor that made my childhood an interesting one. Growing up in a farmhouse established in 1836 instilled in me comfort when it came to vintage and antique, whether it was our inherited dining room table or the old glass milk bottles that would wash up after heavy rain.

The house itself was chosen by my father due to its proximity to our town’s historic district. It was located a few houses down from the district lines and therefore could be renovated without necessitating a council to approve their plans, which turned out to be helpful when my parents had to add an elevator to allow my wheelchair-bound dad to get upstairs. The house was well-loved and came with a multi-hundred-page book filled with historical property records and testimony from previous owners over land disputes (all of our “fences” were classic New England stone walls, which at times made room for neighbors to get angry over eager tree branches), accidents (a previous owner used the barn to house his ceramic kiln, which ultimately burned down– who could’ve guessed wood and fire didn’t mix?), and even ghosts (a fact that haunted me until we moved, although the recorded spirits were kind and never bothered us). The house had love in every corner. Looking back now– as my family no longer lives in the house– I remember the couches with holes chewed by generations of yellow labs and tabby cats, deep sinks that were just big enough to hold a defrosting Thanksgiving turkey, and the mice that my cats presented as gifts. In a word, the house was well-loved (and well-decorated).

My grandparents’ houses were filled with family heirlooms from old Vermont cottages and Italian keepsakes that my great-great grandparents brought with them in wooden chests on the ship ride over. To me, it was a privilege to cook meatballs for Sunday dinners in the same kitchen my dad used growing up. I was honored to be given Barbies and Smurfs from my mom’s childhood, although I vehemently denied any offer of her beloved Cabbage Patch Kids. My childhood was informed by that of my parents, which was informed by theirs, and so on. I grew accustomed to being surrounded by items that had been around for decades longer than I was and fell in love with knowing an object had meaning outside of just my own two hands.

My fascination for objects– independent from the habits of my family– became my own after I lost my father to complications of diabetes when I was eight years old and he was 47. His death was sudden but by no means a surprise; a culmination of 35 years of hospital trips, operations, and reckless college drinking– another genetic similarity. I remember his weekly trips to the dialysis center, an attempt to lengthen his life, and the disgusting scent that followed those treatments. It smelled like he was constantly sitting with shit in his pants, although that is a suspicion that will never be confirmed or denied; I simply have to sit with the thought and applaud his commitment to the bit every time.

Following his death, his old clothes, box sets of old sitcoms, and inappropriate drawings ended up being the only way I could be close to him. My Mom reinforced this proximity by urging me and my twin brother to keep tabs on both our feelings and our father as we got further away from the loss, however, it took on a life of its own. I would wear his old sweaters to school and I kept his Family Guy boxers in a box under my dresser. His paintings from college and beyond adorned most of the walls in our home, helping him to remain a part of our daily routine. His desk drawers remained untouched until we moved out of the house, in which I remember industrial-sized supplies of rubber bands and a single photo of my dad with a topless woman: more unanswerable questions.

Even now, thirteen years later, I relish hearing new stories and uncovering new drawings, notebooks, and similarities in our personalities. I will sometimes come home with a new pair of Reeboks that my mom reminisces about looking “exactly like the pair your dad used to have”. It’s hard to tell if he actually had similar shoes or if she tells me that because she knows I like to hear it… either way, they’re my favorite pair of sneakers. It is through my ownership of these things that I attempt to build a bridge over the river of grief.

In addition to being historically-minded, thanks to my childhood, I have always been partial to the visual. My parents both pursued the arts in college– one in studio art and one in graphic design– which I imagine influenced the orange walls of my living room (Carrot Stick 2016-30, Benjamin Moore) and the surplus of modern art books on every coffee table. This instilled in me an appreciation for the visible. The appreciation has transcended time and space, surviving the I-80 pilgrimage from my home in Southwestern Connecticut all the way to my dorm room in Central Pennsylvania.

My room at Bucknell is an ode to the people, places, and things I love. It is a Museum of Bella’s History, filled with Halls of Bella’s Favorite Movies and Centers for Sticky-Note Art followed by Crude Drawings. It is an archive stuffed to the brim with old birthday cards, stickers, and recovered trash that wasn’t good enough for someone else but was just right for me. It is the physical embodiment of my camera roll of 71,558 photos and videos that take up 17.38 GB of storage space. If I didn’t really, truly love every item on and within its walls I might think it seems a bit like overkill.

The focal point of my room, and perhaps its most used feature, is my bed. I will not pretend that it is luxurious or even ideal; doing so would break the first rule of writing only what is true. Yet, my first thought every morning is how excited I am to return at night. It seems only fair that the bed is consistently dressed to the nines in a beautiful off-white double wedding ring quilt passed down from my Grandma’s cottage in Vermont. This is a life-changing piece of bedding. The circumstances of ownership are rather tragic, coming from an attic cleanout that came as a result of my Grandfather’s sudden death and my Grandma’s even-more-sudden desire to shed the home she had inhabited since the 70s. Her attic held just about everything one could imagine: true vintage Star Wars collectibles, a vacuum cleaner from the 50s, and even– you guessed it– black mold! In addition to the thousands of dollars worth of Pyrex and Catherineholm cookware that my grandma promised to me in her will, I got my quilt. Its green trim and charming scalloped edges garner many compliments from onlookers and remind me of home.

On top of the quilt sits a blanket I stole from my parents’ bedroom; a thick, furry one that is perfect for trapping my excessive body heat in the winters when my uninsulated window permits the frigid air inside. The other accompanying blanket was made of my dad’s t-shirts, a surprise my mom gave me as a birthday present one year. While it is probably clear by now why I loved the thoughtful gift so much, my reception of the gift was more a relief than anything else, as my dad’s favorite Billy Joel shirt had disappeared from my shelves weeks prior and finally resurfaced in the blanket.

Another prized possession that resides on my bed is my Ethel pillow: a Christmas present from a few years ago. When me and my brother were five, a shopping trip turned into an adoption session when we ran into a Trumbull Animal Group pop-up outside of the grocery store. We went in “just to look”, and, upon seeing two brown tabbies with big green eyes, promptly went back outside to call my dad for his blessing. He wasn’t really a cat person, he said– he preferred his yellow lab, Sophie– but would allow us to adopt the cats so long as they were named after sitcom characters. Soon after, Lucy and Ethel were brought home. Ethel was always “mine”. She had goopy eyes and frequented the litter box: my soul mate. She seemed to agree, considering the amount of mice she brought to me as gifts over the years. It was hard to separate me and Ethel when I was visiting for winter or summer breaks. If I was home, I was in bed, and Ethel would be beside me; whether she would be on the pillow next to my head, under the covers next to my legs, or perched comfortably atop of my face. This pillow– a stuffed, life-size photo of Ethel, squinty eyes and all– is a timeless reminder of the 16 years I spent with Ethel by my side. It’s pretty stiff and not all that comfortable but is the perfect size to hold and the perfect shape to prop my head up to see whatever nonsense rom-com I have on the screen.

My affinity for film is another part of my life that has been fabricated into wall decor. I applied to colleges as a Creative Writing major, switched to Film/Media Studies after a semester (no film classes had yet been taken), and subsequently added a Literary Studies double major in my sophomore year. Suffice it to say I love storytelling in all forms, although my favorite narratives are the ones that play on my TV.

I almost always have some movie or show on as background noise, but I choose to memorialize the few very special ones in posters secured from all over the world (Amazon Prime). Sitting in bed, I am surrounded with colorful text and perfectly posed and photoshopped actors. The first movie I commemorated, adorning the wall behind my bed, was Paul Thomas Anderson’s 1997 masterpiece Boogie Nights. This film– an ode to flashy costumes, camera movement, and Mark Wahlberg– is, how I like to describe it, Saturday Night Fever if disco dancing was replaced with the porn industry. I watched it on my own on a laptop screen smaller than my current, very small TV, in 2021. The next year, I was lucky enough to be invited to a screening of the film in my school’s historical theatre, a 1941 art deco masterpiece that earned a place on the National Register of Historic Places; this viewing solidified my love. The poster itself is a green background with bright pink German words in large print, a fact I overlooked since its design was the best of the crop. It is on the smaller side and has marks from previous foldings that allowed me to bring the poster along to each year’s dorm room and, perhaps most excitingly for the poster, my semester in England. I liked that the poster signified my taste; a sign that says “Look! I watched a movie about the switch from film to digital recording in the porn industry which includes a lot of cocaine and also a prosthetic penis and Liked It!”. The movie poster is proof of opinion.

Not all my movie posters are so… international. My most recent acquisition is a set design piece from Emma Seligman’s 2023 hit Bottoms. Since the movie follows two “ugly, untalented gays” that start a fight club to gain proximity to their cheerleader crushes, it felt only natural to celebrate the pinnacle of comedy with a game day poster that encourages onlookers to “Get Horny!” and further persuades them through the inclusion of a naked, oiled up Jeff (the film’s quarterback) with an emphasized bulge. The film itself is a perfect piece of satire. It celebrates the teen movie genre and makes room for queer characters that are wholly unlikeable but still entertaining. The cast exemplifies the intentions of the writers and director and succeeds in creating an entirely unique piece of entertainment. The poster I own exists within the movie as part of the set design, and my ownership of it helps me to involve myself in the film’s creation. It reminds me of my desire to be a comedian and a screenwriter, and perhaps most importantly, it reminds me of the importance of graphic design.

The movies that are represented on my wall– “Boogie Nights”, “Bottoms”, “Chef”, “Saturday Night Fever”, and “Everything, Everywhere, All At Once”– are some of my favorites. In these films, I either see myself in the characters or hope to one day recreate the feeling awarded to me by their storytelling. There are others that I would even consider to be mega-favorites– “Before Sunrise” and “Dazed and Confused”– but they don’t join the wall ranks because I’ve yet to find a poster whose beauty matched my appreciation. The visual solidifies my personal opinions, thus I refuse to have it be anything less than perfect. It is because of this vanity that Roller Girl becomes my father, Jon Favreau becomes my son, and John Travolta in a white, barely-buttoned suit becomes my Holy Spirit.

My walls are a graveyard of interest. “Here lies the unfinished advent calendars that Bella refuses to throw out”; “In memory of the time Bella and her brother turned 21 and were gifted custom temporary tattoos by their mother”. These moments, which could easily fall victim to my unreliable memory, are committed to eternal existence through their residence on my walls. The same is true for the slips of paper and business cards collected by my parents. On any given holiday, I look forward to receiving a card from my mom. She writes me a short but sweet message addressed to “Moonpie” (my childhood nickname), designated from “Mothership” (the high school nickname my brother gave to my mom because he was embarrassed to call her “Mommy”). My mom understands my affinity for collecting. It is a hobby we have in common; a desire to collect, a compulsion to buy. Neither of us feels the need to save money when we could instead purchase a beautiful rose-colored crystal tray or an old advertisement for Italian cars.

Although I’ve been told I am my father’s daughter, there is no one I admire more than my mom. It's cliche at this point to say she’s my hero, so instead I’ll say that she is my favorite character. I live for stories of her youth, and even more so for the photos of her with a perm. Between the plastic of my phone case and the glass of my phone sits a small wallet print, no bigger than 2x3 inches, of her school portrait from March of 1979. She is sporting a red plaid print with a red turtleneck and– the icing on top of the 70s cake– a very unflattering shag cut. It perfectly matches my own shag cut, only, as I remind her, mine looks good. Having these reminders in my phone and sentiments on the wall next to my door serves as a reminder of my family every day before I leave my room to face the horrors of reality.

In the aforementioned attic clean-out, I was given boxes that were left by my dad in his mom’s attic. They hadn’t been touched in years, likely since whenever my dad tied them up and left them there. 40 years later, I was rifling through them in my own bedroom, pulling out pieces of paper. One is a ticket to the Uffizi from his semester abroad in Florence; a piece of paper he held in his hands, kept in his pocket, packed in his suitcase, and then, threw into a box that was left in the attic. Another is two polaroids from a college spring break trip to Florida; I can tell which one is my dad because his right leg is adorned with a full-leg cast. My grandma has told me over and over that he broke it on a ski trip the week before, but nothing could stop him from fulfilling his college duties in Daytona. These clippings are stories in themselves, left to sit lonely in boxes with their owner gone.

My dad lives on in this way. The graveyard analogy may be grim, given the fact that my dad is currently in one himself, but it comforts me to be surrounded by his drawings, photographs, and memorabilia. My favorite of these is a wooden plank from his days at Keene State from 1982-1986. He and his friends kept this board– with a heart carved into the middle– to monitor their inside jokes and memorialize the time they spent together. There are drawings of bongs, visualizations of Pink Floyd songs, and salutations from Paula, Allyson, etc. (accompanied by a reminder that “You never forget your first girl”. My favorite of the carvings is a big, fat “9/23” in the dead center. When my dad wrote it, he was probably paying homage to the day the King of Jersey was born, Bruce Springsteen. I find it hard to believe that exactly 20 years later, in 2002, me and my brother would have the same birthday. It is in these moments I feel less alone. I might not get to hear his stories from his perspective, but I can hold the physical memory of them in my hands.

Given the sheer amount of decorations I insist on lugging with me to every room, it may not be a total shock that there are some object casualties every year. There are tears in posters, cracks in frames, and outright broken objects that I can’t bring myself to get rid of. I’ve always had one of my dad’s drawings– his little caricature with a Santa hat and “Happy X-mas” written in red and green– framed, for a reason I don’t ever think I was made privy to. My sophomore year, I had placed the framed drawing on a part of the wall that the velcro command strip did not agree with, and it fell rather frequently. The glass cracked and the frame separated, but every time I came home to find it on the ground I would pick it up and put it right back up. The paper, now subject to harsh weather conditions– the air of Central Pennsylvania– is partly stained and warped, a little beat up, and nowhere near in perfect conditions. These imperfections have become part of what I love about the drawing. If a collector was looking for decor in pristine condition, they would quickly pass over my broken frames and battered posters, but I don’t mind: more for me.

It may come as a shock– or may, at this point, make perfect sense– that I am also a novelty clock collector. It’s an unconscious hobby, the kind you don’t notice until someone sees your room for the first time and asks why you have five clocks in one room if only one of them works. One is a circular clock from the MoMA that I inherited from my mom. It used to hang in her barn-turned-office when I was a kid, but once we moved, I was quick to claim the beautiful color-wheel design. I think at one point it must’ve been functioning– all it requires is two AA batteries– but since the beginning of my reign, it has been purely for display. There is a collector’s desk clock with designs of The Flintstones that I inherited from my dad. I assume it was once used as an alarm clock, given the hammer that can be pressed to stop it from ringing, but it now acts as a holder for my various hair ties and necklaces. I am apparently very big on unconventional functionality. The most recent addition to my clock collection is a cherry red Kit-Cat Klock. The art deco design– a well-dressed cat with a bow tie, swinging tail, and moving eyes– was popular in the 40s and has an unsettling look that I’ve always loved. It was my luck that after wanting one for years and recently being gifted one, it fell off my wall. It seems, again, that the clock was no match for my command strip. Perhaps there’s a lesson there? I decided to fix the break with god’s gift to man: superglue. My intentions were honest but fate’s intentions were, as usual, the opposite. The cat’s tail no longer wags and its eyes no longer move back and forth, but its minute and hour hands are, in fact, fully functioning. They help me to keep time even though I sparsely remember to look at the analog clock instead of my phone.

It is sometimes argued that the kitchen table is a sight of connection and community for American families; I argue that full-length mirrors serve the same purpose for twenty-something girls. I used to think that the five-dollar mirrors from Target were up to par (and was even sometimes enthused by the occasional “skinny mirror” that morphed my body like a funhouse mirror). Everything changed the day I went to IKEA. I don’t remember why I was there– probably as a favor to my mom– but I do remember being on the prowl for a nice chair when fate slapped me in the face: the Nissedal Mirror, in black. At 25 ⅝ inches wide and 59 inches tall, it looked luxurious. I begged my mom to buy it for me (and succeeded by telling her the $79.99 price tag would be a one-time investment) and three years later, that fact rings true. The Nissedal has been with me in every room I’ve lived in since 2021 (with the one exception being my semester abroad, where I lived simply and relied on my selfie camera). My friends often come to my room to use my mirror, saying it is “better than theirs” – of course it's better than theirs, it costs almost a hundred dollars! I am always encouraged to leave my door open when getting ready to go out so that friends can come in and ask: “What about these pants?”, “Do you think I need a jacket?”. Because of this mirror I bought three years ago, my room has become a meeting place. I revel in serving this purpose for my friends and being of use to them.

I have always enjoyed being of service to others. I love to buy dinner for a group, supply a friend with the perfect sweater, or pass on objects that I never use anyway. In the past few years, I’ve become more mindful and have spent time trying to decide why exactly that is. Why do I insist on paying for my friends when I know that Pthe ennsylvania minimum wage is anything but kind to my bank account? There is more to this than benevolence. I’d actually consider myself to be very self-interested and, at times, selfish. I venture to believe it is me scrambling for purpose.

One of those purposes is to fill every wall in my room with whatever I can find. My friends caught on pretty early into our friendships, and have gifted me some of my most prized possessions. As an avid Diet Coke drinker and a lover of vintage, I always revel in the fact that there is no shortage of old Coca-Cola ads and memorabilia. Growing up, it makes perfect sense that my dad collected Coke trays that used to hold glass bottles. There were unopened glass bottles in just about every room of the house, originating in who-knows-what year. This is another trait I inherited; I have a collection of glass bottles that sit on my desk and, regretfully, in a storage bin that I keep in my closet. It came as a pleasant surprise when my roommate gifted me two Valentine’s Day-themed Coke ads adorned with red and pink hearts. This seemingly random gift is not random at all; I also collect heart-shaped objects.

The other thing my friends love to gift to me is more eclectic and definitely more unsettling: Minions. The first minion I remember buying was a Goodwill purchase: it had a clip on its head and a pouch in its back, which led to it hanging on my bathroom door until I moved to college. My first Target trip in my college town awarded me my second minion and from there, the obsession flourished. I own minion cups, minion buckets, minion socks, minion dresses, Easter-themed minions, pilot-themed minions, life-size minions, mini minions, and even a night light. This is not a collection I am proud of. For a small room, the minion-to-square footage ratio is rather disproportionate. It wasn’t until this year that I decided to reel it in a bit and only display the prized minions, as opposed to the entire stockpile: a step closer to maturity. The rest are confined to a plastic jail, left in the designated closet bin with the glass coke bottles and Gilmore Girls season two box set that I thrifted and immediately put into storage.

My closet is my room’s no man’s land. I keep my space tidier than one might think; with the amount of objects populating the walls and floor, it has to be. I’d like to think of my room as one of those “artist’s studio” recreations in museums. It feels like there should be a plexiglass wall in the open door so that visitors can look but not disrupt any of the very specific order I cultivate.

This illusion is shattered, however, if one slides my heavy, metal closet door from its comfortable spot on the right to the left. When the door is on the right, the school-provided dresser obstructs most of the view and is topped with a thrifted tea towel and my various pills and vitamins– my morning station. My sweaters and sweatshirts live on the shelf above; a carefully balanced mountain of cotton and wool that, with any sudden movement, would become an avalanche.

When the door is on the left, any respect that a visitor had built up for my organizational capabilities would dissipate. My collection of clothing takes up much of the right side, in all its color-coded glory. From left to right, the vintage sweaters, t-shirts, tank tops, and sleep shirts cascade from red to purple, from black to white. While much of my collection has been sourced from various Pennsylvania thrift stores and nights scrolling on Depop, there are a few comfort pieces that I keep from my parents and grandparents. My favorite is a sweater I inherited from my mom that was brought back to the U.S. after a trip to Italy. It’s the type of sweater that only tourists would buy, but when I wear it, all I think of is the photos of my mom wearing it with her pixie cut, smiling big next to my dad. It certainly helps that people feel compelled to compliment it when I wear it.

Above the sweaters and slips sit two pairs of heels, neither of which get much wear. Next to those are two advent calendars, both opened and both unfinished. Although Christmas is very much in the rearview, I haven’t been able to get rid of them yet. One was a gift from my roommate, a minion-themed calendar with very average milk chocolate inside. The other was a gift from my roommate for my boyfriend, adorned with a huge photo of Santa Claus and the same very much-average milk chocolates. One day (hopefully) soon, I’ll find the strength to toss them, but until then, I will continue to prop them up against the wall when they fall, ensuring they sit safely on the shelf.

The shoes and half-finished advent calendars are kept company by my box of diabetes supplies, an annoying physical reminder of my otherwise pretty invisible condition. I have never been on the best terms with my diabetes. On the one hand, it meant I couldn’t freely enjoy ice cream and candy the way my brother could. On the other hand, it is the disease that ultimately claimed my father’s life. I was diagnosed at four years old after I urinated in my father’s lap while on a Polar-Express-themed train ride; a little-known symptom of the disease. I was never the best at taking care of myself, and was a self-identified “bad diabetic”. When I was twelve, my mom forced me to go to therapy to mend this mindset. Instead of fixing my apathy, I left with a diagnosis of depression and anxiety: success! Since then, I have decided I don’t necessarily want to “die like [my] father”, as I had been asked many times by my mom. Despite this new mindset, I still hate the ugly white bin in my closet along with the needles and continuous glucose monitors that lay within.

On the floor, underneath my diabetes and my love for vintage clothing, I have two plastic bins stacked on top of each other. One bin holds the decor that didn’t make it onto the walls of my room or the living room: postcards, handwritten notes, my mom’s old brick of a Macbook, and more. The other bin holds objects that only make sense on my desk, and thus could not possibly all fit on my desk: stapler, minion mugs, the aforementioned Gilmore Girls box set, and more.

Even without the bin full– and I mean full– of objects that didn’t make it onto my desk, the area is cluttered. It’s organized chaos, to be sure, but chaos nonetheless. Most of the space is taken up by books. On the top level, there are mostly memoirs, essays, and young adult fiction. On the bottom level, texts for class and more memoirs that didn’t fit up top. Many of these books lay unfinished and not yet started: similarly to my appreciation for a movie poster’s ability to signify my taste in film, I believe books signify what is important to me. Even though I have not yet read Judd Apatow’s “Sick In the Head: Conversations About Life and Comedy”, the fact that it resides on my shelf reminds me that comedy is important to me. I have read Ned Vizzini’s “It’s Kind of a Funny Story” countless times and loaned it out more than I can remember, and having it on my desk reminds me of its beautiful narrative. My physical library reminds me of the stories I love and the characters that live within.

Not everything on my desk is quite as intellectual. Trips to antique stores and shopping trips in my dad’s boxes populated the shelves with glass ashtrays, handmade ceramic pots, and– this just in!– a therapist-sanctioned “let-go jar” to help with my tendency to overthink. While some items are practical, like my circle mirror and the teacup that holds a year’s worth of my boyfriend’s used contact lenses, most items are not. One of my favorite items is a stand-up poster for Billy Joel’s “River of Dreams” that I stumbled upon in a local antique store. I can’t remember how much it cost, but whatever the price, it was worth it. I have multiple mugs holding various things (minion Pez, perfume bottles, quarters, old film cartridges, etc.), none of which are particularly purposeful. Where desks are sometimes seen as a workplace, my room swallows its surfaces and makes sure that no table space goes unused.

It could be seen as useful that my workplace is littered with random objects given the work that I do there. On the few occasions that I use my desk for its intended purpose, it feels comfortable and familiar. When needing to get on Zoom calls, my background reflects a huge tapestry of a classic Picasso face, my dad’s Wings poster, my Bottoms poster, and my IKEA mirror.

Knowing how distracting my interior design style can be to anyone but me, I often opt to keep my background blurred. Recently, I met with a psychiatrist– wasn’t kidding about the mental illness– on an online platform that does not have a blur option. About halfway through the call, she asked me what degree I was working towards.

“Film and Literature,” I told her.

“I was gonna guess that. Your background is so creative!” Case in point: mental illness leads to interesting people.

Perhaps that isn’t the correct lesson to take away from that situation, but it did serve as a sort of twisted ego boost that even this therapist– a woman who is supposed to assess my well-being and mental sanity– took notice of my room decor above all else. Perhaps it serves as reinforcement that I need to continue with those Zoom calls.

As I write this, I am less than one month away from my college graduation date. I have my dress, my shoes, and a haircut scheduled in anticipation of the big day, however, the only thing I can think about is having to move out.

Over the summer, my roommates and I split a storage unit. In this garage lived multiple mattress toppers, lamps, a stoplight, my XL minion, and bins filled with bedding. To empty out my portion of the unit required one 2014 Chevy Equinox, sans view out of the rearview mirror. To bring my clothes, records, TV, and other belongings from home required another. It should be obvious as to why the thought of moving out serves as a current source of anxiety for me, as I only have one 2014 Chevy Equinox to go around. My mom and I joked that we would need a U-Haul; I am now seriously considering it. There is nothing in my room that I would consider donating or leaving behind. I would rather live in central Pennsylvania for the rest of my life than not be able to transport my retro white egg chair home.

Before actually having to leave, I dread the un-decorating process. I don’t want to peel multiple rolls worth of blue painter’s tape off of posters. I don’t want to refold posters carefully in order to not create new creases. I don’t want to take down my Christmas lights and I definitely don’t want to put my books and mugs back into a plastic bin. To live with packed boxes and empty walls is a fate worse than death.

This process is where I start to doubt my own tendencies. As I pick up my two 15-pound milk crates full of inherited vinyl, I question how many times I actually put a record on and whether it actually benefited my life on the rare occasion I did so. As I try to find a way to consolidate my growing collection of tin flower power cans, I wonder why I decided that I needed to have two. As I try to lift the plastic bin full of desk supplies, I think about how much a cluttered desk really affected my time as a student. The practical answer to these questions would be less than ideal: I would be fine without vinyl because I have Spotify, I would be fine without the tin cans because I have plastic bags that do the same job, and I would be fine without a cluttered desk because none of my vintage enamel pins or memoirs of comedians were helping me write papers about French avant-garde film. The theoretical answer, however, is much more up my alley. While I didn’t need any of these things, per se, they enhanced my day-to-day routine. Garbage is still garbage, whether it lives in a plastic can from Walmart or a vintage tin can from an antique mall, but only one of these options makes me feel happy. These objects are proof of a personality developed over my 21 years of life.

I am what I own. I like movies because I have the posters to prove it. I remember my dad because I sleep in his T-shirts. I matter because people need me for something. Taste is proof of life. People have always told me that my room is “so me”. Who am I? Who is it that frequents thrift and antique stores looking for the old mugs that should’ve been mine all along? Who is it that scrambles for objects to prove existences and feelings that memory alone should preserve well enough?

Life after death is one of my main concerns. If no one remembers me after I die, I might as well not have existed at all. Purpose is a syrup tapped from those you care about. Meaning is made entirely from your own hands. It would be ignorant to attribute these thoughts to anything other than my father’s death. To me, he is his belongings. By having his shirts, drawings, museum tickets, and textbooks, I get to remember him. By giving people my shirts, books, and tchotchkes, they will get to remember me.

Following my graduation, I know what will come. The walls will once again be bare. The bins will once again be full. Somehow, objects will be moved and life will move on.

Perhaps, like Brian Wilson, I will lose the conscious fight against my unconscious mind and resort to copious amounts of psychedelics. Perhaps, like Emma Seligman and Rachel Sennott, I will write a hit satire that touches the heart of insufferable 20-somethings across the world. Perhaps, like Roller Girl, I will opt for a life in the adult movie industry.

I tend to live inside of these hypotheticals, wondering how my theoretical choices would affect theoretical futures. Amidst this worry– the fear of never knowing what will happen until it happens– I find solace in the fact that I will always return to my room, to my bed, to my kingdom.

There is no shortage of advice from others as to what life after graduation should look like. Some will suggest moving out as soon as possible; others will suggest milking the free rent while you can. Some suggest taking the first job offer and slumming it; others tell you not to settle, ever. In my case, most mused over the new life season, boiling over the top with things to be excited about; few told me that it would be torture.

I believe most of my struggle stems from the school I went to and the people I went with. Bucknell is known for its engineering and management schools. Since they are long-standing and nationally ranked, their students benefit from cutting-edge equipment, world-renowned professors, and, perhaps most importantly, attention. The students are showered in opportunities while in school— research, internships, interviews, etc.— and reap the rewards following their graduation. A perfect college experience, albeit one I cannot relate to.

To say the humanities at Bucknell are overshadowed would be an understatement. The class offerings are small, the class sizes are smaller, and yet the faculty is kind, knowledgeable, and selfless. No program feeds graduates jobs at Goldman Sachs, yet I felt like my professors extracted every ounce of wisdom and advice they could muster. While I am eternally grateful for the leadership of an adjunct professor that taught me to create a beat sheet and a tenured professor that took every opportunity to screen porn, I felt unprepared. I still feel unprepared.

LinkedIn is enemy territory, a constant reminder of this. It is chock-full of celebrations, new positions, and news stories, all reminders of how others soar where I fall. Believe me, I understand how bitter and resentful this sounds— I’m working on it in therapy— but I can’t help it. I want what they have: a job, an apartment, a social life, a purpose.

On good days, I acknowledge my time spent in internships and assistantships. I am proud of my efforts to seek these opportunities and take advantage of them. On bad days—today is one of them—I feel it was all in vain. My time spent working is overshadowed by my time spent searching, applying, cold emailing, following up, and being ignored.

Older professionals love to listen to the tales of my job search and offer the age-old proverb: You have the rest of your life to work, enjoy it while you can! While I acknowledge its validity, I can’t help but scoff. Maybe it’s not a job I desire, but instead the validation that someone would want to hire me. That’s what hurts every time I receive the dreaded “thanks, but” email.

In this time of constant rejection and mental instability, I am trying to turn away from what I expected. 8 months ago, I thought I’d be wearing business casual most days. Instead, I shower out of habit rather than need. I broke up with an ex-boyfriend who made me believe the most negative thoughts I had about myself. I rekindled friendships from high school and middle school. I have traveled out of desire instead of obligation. I made money and saved it. I spent every single day this summer commuting to and from work with my mom which was the most time we’d spent together since I was a child.

I am trying to accept that expectations aren’t promises and that reality doesn’t have to be spiteful.

In the meantime, ISO: purpose.

It always comes as a bit of a surprise to me, then, when I book another trip that requires air travel. Why would I keep torturing myself with anxiety of factors completely out of my control? The answer is simple and completely underwhelming: guilt-free self enjoyment.

As soon as I sit down— and the anxiety of getting through security and boarding has ceased— I scroll through the movies offered. The selection almost always surprises me. While freedom of choice is ideal in theory, the overwhelming amount of content on an endless number of streaming services can remove all enjoyment from the act of watching something. Airplane entertainment, then, restores some of that enjoyment. The options are limited— you won’t find a ton of old movies and the non-English language options are usually scarce— but somehow it seems to know exactly what you want to watch.

On my flight to England, I watched Under the Tuscan Sun and part of High School Musical. On my flight back, I watched Hairspray, Booksmart, and Les Miserables. On my flights to and from Chicago, I watched the entire Hunger Games saga. These aren’t movies I think about often— despite how great they all are— but when they’re presented on a tiny screen attached to the seat in front of me, they are perfect.

I appreciate airplanes for their efficient travel across oceans and continents, but I love them for the selection of movies and TV they offer. I look forward to every flight as a chance to watch a guilty pleasure story which I almost never opt for at home.

I’m a very anxious person. I tend to mull over old conversations and come up with possible scenarios. The benefits of these tendencies are slim to none. On a good day, they help me derive insight from my past and inform future actions. Every other day, they send me into self-deprecating spirals where every move I make is wrong.

A lot of my anxiety comes from other people. The smallest things can set me off: a delayed response over text, an “out of character” response, or simply a sense that something is wrong. At the first sight of any of these markers, I set off on a path of overthinking and catastrophizing that usually includes me as the center of attention. What did I do wrong? Do they hate me? What will my life look like without them? Should I sell my ticket to that concert in May since we won’t be going together anymore? To any bystander, the validity of these thoughts— or lack thereof— is obvious. Hell, it’s obvious to me as I write this and even as the thoughts fly around my head. But valid or not, they’re impossible to stop.

It also is obvious that the thoughts are entirely self-centered. While my rational self counters my worries with alternative possibilities— Maybe they’re working… Maybe they’re having an off day… Maybe they don’t want to talk— I can’t shake the reflex to assume it’s my fault.

Once I accepted this thought trap of mine, I tried to challenge myself. What if I did do something wrong? What would be the next step? Conflict. The million-dollar word.

I am not good at conflict. In fact, I am very, very bad at it. My desire to avoid it above all else has left me in sticky situations before. I’ve settled into relationships with people I wasn’t attracted to and settled into relationships with people who I had no business spending time or energy on. I choose, instead, to internalize the problems and claim total responsibility. Relationship with someone I’m not attracted to: It’s bad because I’m so far away— once we’re together, everything will go back to the way it was. Relationship with someone who lost interest in me: Maybe if I don’t ask for anything from him he’ll see my worth again. Instead of confronting the other person’s responsibility as one of the two parties involved, I chose to monopolize the blame so I could control it.

If I were to let go and admit that the problem wasn’t just me, I would then have to accept that I couldn’t fix it on my own. It’s hard for me to relinquish control like this. Borderline impossible, actually (don’t worry, I’m in therapy). If I can’t fix it on my own, then I’d have to rely on others to put in equal effort or, at the very least, have a productive conversation, which is just too big a risk. There is also, of course, the risk that the other person leaves with a negative opinion of me.

The Root

Aside from control, negative reviews are one of my biggest fears. I don’t know when or why it started, but somewhere during my adolescence, I decided nothing was worse than being disliked. I worry that— like most things in my life— it stems from the death of my father.

Think about yourself at and before you were eight years old— what do you remember? Maybe your old elementary school friends or the one Abercrombie shirt your mom bought you that you wore as much as possible.

This inability to remember important details is common and usually doesn’t create that many problems, except in my case. At eight years old, I was focused on toys and snacks— what an ungrateful bitch. I should’ve been soaking up every conversation with my father because 14 years later, I’d have to rely solely on the stories and memories of others to build and maintain an image of him.

If the character of my father was made purely from my memory, it would include my cat Ethel climbing up the back of his electric wheelchair. It would include him sitting on the toilet for hours with a blanket over his head. It would include the right leg of every pair of pants being cut off, and then also the left. It would include him encouraging my brother and me to go outside during a thunderstorm and dance, even though we were worried about the trees around us being hit by lightning. Sweet, but incomplete.

Thanks to the memories of others, I can create a much more holistic caricature. It includes a man who proposed to my mom with a newspaper ad on New Year’s Eve. It includes a man who studied art, film, and the “female form”. It includes a man who loved to smoke weed and get drunk in college, behaviors that ultimately led to his death. It includes a man who cried and cried when his daughter was diagnosed with the same disease he had which killed his father. It includes a man whose biggest fear came true when sacrificing his kidneys, pancreas, legs, and fingers wasn’t enough to keep him on earth.

I grew up begging my family to tell me stories of him. I scoured old notebooks and marveled at letters from friends telling him to “be good” and was thrilled when I uncovered a new tall tale.

Perhaps this is why I feel compelled to leave people with an amiable opinion of me. I want the stories about me to be wholly positive, lighthearted, and fun. I want them to reflect the best parts of me, a version that one might be proud to reflect.

The only way I will ever be aware of similarities between him and me is if others point them out. Otherwise, I might have thought my humor was an anomaly or that my nose had no earthly siblings. It is for these reasons I try to end every interaction with a laugh and why I beg and plead with the universe to make sure people remember me.

Without memories, he would be nothing. Without memories, I might be nothing, too.

It is important to begin this review by saying I’ve made the conscious decision not to watch Bridget Jones: Edge of Reason and Bridget Jones’ Baby. From what I’ve heard, the stories would just make me upset and, as we know, I don’t movies that make me upset. So, the fact that I spent my Valentine’s Day watching the fourth movie, having skipped the second and third, was unexpected, but welcome nonetheless.

Bridget Jones’ character had “grown up” both realistically and tastefully. She was different in the ways you’d expect— children, responsibilities, etc.— and similar in the ways you’d hope— inner monologue, ability to attract beautiful men, etc. Despite her affinity for men like Colin Firth, Hugh Grant, Patrick Dempsey, and now Leo Woodall, I felt this movie would have been better off without the love triangle.

The film follows Bridget Jones (Renée Zellweger) taking care of her children— and herself— in the wake of her husband, Mark Darcy’s (Colin Firth) death. There felt to be an adherence to the original script which, at times, cheapened the very genuine and emotional story that was itching to break through. Much of the marketing relied on this expectable love triangle between Bridget, Roxster (Leo Woodall), and Scott Walaker (Chiwetel Ejiofor), which I took to feel forced and underdeveloped. The “age-gap relationship” between Zellweger and Woodall was surprisingly hot but fell short of carrying any real narrative weight. The relationship with Zellweger and Ejiofor made more narrative sense but was rushed to unfold within the last thirty minutes and, as a result, felt inconsequential.

I was caught completely off-guard by the raw display of grief that permeated this story. I often find myself sensitive to stories of loss, especially when a father is involved, and in this case, there were two such stories. The short display of Bridget losing her own father was short-lived but meaningful. Her relationship with her father was a substantial part of the first movie, so I believe this storyline was particularly special. The other storyline of both Bridget and her children grieving Mark Darcy was incredibly tasteful— almost shockingly so. The display of unsuspecting grief that creeps up around anniversaries— birthdays, deaths, or otherwise— in addition to the constant pressure to continue to provide for her children was so honest and familiar that I believe it could only be written by someone who had experienced it themselves. I felt so seen by this plotline that I was moved to tears multiple times throughout the film. This isn’t necessarily uncommon for me as a moviegoer— I’m easily excited— but I always take notice of the films that make me feel such a way.

I appreciated the writers’ abilities to balance these serious emotions with the classic, lighthearted “fuckwitery” that audiences have come to expect from the Bridget Jones name.

The English-ness of Bridget Jones is undeniable. The actors are of utmost British-ness: Emma Thompson, Gemma Jones, Jim Broadbent, Shirley Henderson… as I list them, it seems like I’m casting a Harry Potter movie. The costuming captures the “frazzled English woman” aesthetic so clearly, that one might actually be convinced people used to dress like that. The dialogue is charming, pessimistic, and polite, in a way only English conversations can be. It is for all these reasons that I was so very excited to watch the new film amidst an English audience. I looked forward to the jokes they revered which I misunderstood, not to mention the sometimes-unsettling pre-film commercials that were so different from the ones in American theatres. The audience enjoyed the film enough to laugh out loud more than once. In some instances I understood and in others, I did not, while sometimes I felt they were just giving easy laughs.

It makes me sad to know that the film went straight to Peacock in the US where it had multiple showings in Bath movie theatres. I believe that this is truly a quality installment of the Bridget Jones saga. Instead of placing Bridget in juvenile situations with outdated conflict, the story seemed to grow with the character. The child actors were charming and very, very talented, while a familiar reindeer Christmas sweater stole the show towards the end of the film.

If you’re in the mood for more Bridget Jones, definitely watch this movie. If your mom loves Bridget Jones and you want something to bond over, definitely watch this movie. It’s not perfect, and it certainly isn’t as good as the original, but it is successful in ushering in the quintessential 90s qualities of Bridget Jones into the iPhone age.

1. The accents.

Self explanatory.

2. The clothes.

There’s something inexplicable about the effortless style every Brit exudes. Perhaps it’s the colorful scarves and unique hats or the European refusal to ever be caught out of sorts, but they truly look great.

3. The tube.

I can’t help but smile when the train pulls up as its red, blue, and white panels exude a classic, timeless feel. It helps that I am a proven primary color enjoyed, but my history of studying “good” graphic design always makes me shake my head at the displayed line maps.

4. How it looks in the rain.

I love a sunny day as much as the next, but it can be unsettling to see completely dry English stone against a backdrop of bright blue skies. I feel at ease when the buildings are covered in rainwater, surrounded by fog, and almost indistinguishable from gray skies.

5. The people.

I am always in awe of the sarcasm and agreeableness that coexist with every English person I talk to. Whether it be a Bath shop owner who despises modern Jane Austen fans (she swears Jane hated Bath and reminds us that women had no agency during that time) or a professor grappling with the Queen’s death amid his disdain for the crown, I can’t help but be envious of their ability to spew such pessimism with crooked smiles and cheery tones.

6. Their media.

Bridget Jones. Fleabag. Monty Python. Need I say more?

7. The holiday season.

Although the lack of Thanksgiving left a shocking hole in my heart, I was revived by the English commitment to Christmas cheer. The lights go up on the first of November and remain that way until the new year. Spending the holidays in England makes it clear why they wish each other a happy Christmas instead of a merry one.

8. How it makes me feel.

I came of age in England. I ended my first relationship there, drank legally for the first time there, traveled frequently, and learned how much I enjoy my own company. I feel most myself on the stone streets of English cities, whether it be Oxford, Stratford, Wells, Bath, or even Hampshire. Although the possibility of any permanent residence is almost entirely out of the question, I find it hard to stay away for long.