Our Uber pulls up in front of our apartment, and we’re still giggling about whatever we were talking about. I pull my jean skirt down as I start scooting across the seat to get out behind Emma. Before she can open the door, our driver stops us.

“I can tell you guys really enjoy each other’s company. It’s clear you have a lot of fun together.”

I thank him, and he doubles down. “No, really. It’s very sweet.”

We’re still undecided if this was a backhanded compliment or a genuine comment on our friendship. Either way, my heart swells.

When we get inside, we make sure Sommer is awake and ready to party. We play music on all four of our Alexas, spread across the apartment, so we have what we like to call a “smart home.” I open a cider, sit on the floor, and paint a quick coat of pink on my toes because my roommate said she did that the other day and it worked well.

That night, we bounce from chatty bar to dance-y bar to chatty bar to dance-y bar until we end up at the bodega near our apartment in the early hours of the morning, searching for everyone’s favorite snacks.

In the morning, Emma wakes me up because I’m oversleeping and we have brunch. Sommer is already getting ready downstairs, pulling me into her room as soon as I put a pod in our Keurig. She asks my opinion on her outfit, and I lean against her doorframe with my coffee as she tries on different options. I help her put the little star barrettes, the ones we got for the half marathon we ran in college, in her hair.

Jessie and Liz beat us to brunch. They always do, even though they live further away. We order one of everything. Emma and I go halvsies on our entrees. Although we live under the same roof, Sommer and I talk to each other with the excitement of friends who haven’t seen each other in months.

With a few minutes of bottomless left, I order three more pitchers for the five of us.

It quite literally bites me in the ass later.

When we go to the birthday party after brunch, I hug lots of people. I hug the birthday girl. I hug the reason we know the birthday girl. I hug a friend of theirs that I just met.

When Sommer goes home to take a nap, she notices our ceiling is leaking all over our apartment. It’s been raining all morning and my hair is frizzy but no one else’s hair is frizzy. At least not to me.

For some reason, there are two birthday girls at the party. Emma dares me to wish the one that doesn’t know us a happy birthday. I buy her a shot to simplify our introduction. She’s not that excited about it, actually. Emma and I giggle at my awkward interaction, cheers our tiny cups, and take our matching shots.

Avery sends me a video of a live band she’s watching. They’re playing “Sittin’ on the dock of the bay,” which is famously our song. I couldn’t even tell you why. I think just because if I were to sit on the dock of the bay, I’d want to be next to her.

While I’m in the bathroom, I FaceTime her, Lilly, and Jess. No one answers, so I send a quick text to let them know that I love them. I’d hate for them not to know how often they cross my mind.

Emma and I cross the street from the bar we’re dancing in. Our old apartment building, somehow two apartments ago, stands exactly as it always has. Emma presses every button on the wall while we wait for someone to buzz us in. We walk all seven flights up to the roof.

It’s smaller than I remember.

“Awww Emma,” I say in a singsong voice, “remember when we lived here?”

“Yes, dear,” she replies.

I only lived there for a month.

I trip on the first step back down the stairs and bruise my entire butt. Like, actually… my entire butt.

When we get back to the bar, Haritha is lighting a bunch of candles on a birthday cake. I tell her later that I remember cupping my hand around them to keep the flame from going out.

She tells me that was Emma, not me. I remember it as if it were me.

I send Cass a picture of a dachshund on the sidewalk because we want the same tiny dog. We want to name them Frog and Toad.

My mom face times me on our walk home and I answer with wide eyes and a gasp.

“Mommy!”

“How are you?” she asks with a smile.

“I’m great!”

Her next question has been the same since I went off to college and found the loves of my life. The friends I adore, both the new ones and the old ones. They’re all new at some point, right? I know they’ll all be old at some point, too.

“How are the girls?”

“They’re great!”

I pan the camera to Emma, whose arm is linked with mine for stability.

Later, when we’re lying on the couch, Sommer runs her fingers through my long hair. As she plays with it, she detangles it, and I tell her I feel guilty because my mom used to always beg to play with my hair, and I never let her because I didn’t like it.

I guess there are just some things you don’t realize you like until you grow up.

I’m great because the girls are great.

Maybe that’s what my mom has really been asking all these years.

Love always,

The Newest Yorker

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Don’t lose the star.

“11, 12, 13, 14, you got it you got it!”

My torso tips as my feet spin in slow circles.

“22, 23, 24, 25, 26,”

Hands tap me around and around and around.

“29, 30!” I collapse abruptly into the sand with my arms falling loosely over my head. We all cackle, and Lilly lands beside me in a fit of giggles.

I reach my hand up and Tommy pulls me up and now it’s his turn. We spin him around and around and he tries not to lose the star. Ellie shines the flashlight right into his eyes, he tips straight over like a domino, and we all fall to the ground.

“My turn, my turn!” Eva cries.

We twirl her around and around until she falls. Then we twirl Lilly, then Emma, then Ellie, and as always, it’s a team effort to keep our friend from falling at the wrong time.

After my second turn, I lay flat on the sand laughing for an extra minute. My stomach shakes with deep giggles I would never have let myself emit if I was not utterly happy and truly comfortable. One of those places that used to be a lot more rare than it is now.

I pop up to my feet as Ellie realizes her earrings are missing, surely torn out in the chaos of the star game.

It’s nearing midnight and against all odds, the next statement comes from me, the girl who refuses to swim after 5:00 on the dot because that’s when the sharks come out.

“Let’s go swimming!”

We throw our clothes into a pile on the sand, a couple cans resting lightly beside them, and we dash into the water because I imagine we will be less likely to be stung by a stingray if we’re running.

It’s so quiet and yet, it’s so loud. We’re swishing water in front of us to try to see the bioluminescent algae glow.

“You can kind of see it if you look closely,” Tommy says.

“I see it!” Ellie yells.

“I’m getting out of here.” Emma says next.

“I see it too!” I say, staring down at nothing but dark water.

“How do you make it appear?” Lilly asks.

“You just kind of move your hand around like this.”

When we played games earlier in the day, Joe and I were on a team because the goal was for the teams to be fairly even. And many of the skills Joe has, I lack.

After a few different games, it’s actually clear that I lack all athletic abilities ever created. Joe quickly declares that we are Team Smile.

We are close to winning a few spikeball games, we are far from winning every volleyball game. Emma and Ellie laugh from the sidelines every time I mess up, and I can’t even be irritated because they’re making me laugh too.

“Stop!” I say as I continuously run around to collect the volleyball rolling across the beach because Joe has done enough just by being on my team.

“I’m laughing with you!” Emma giggles.

When we dip in the ocean to cool off, we talk about the potential of law school and when it’s actually worth dating someone.

I try to convince Ellie to swim out to sea with me so we don’t have to play another game and she agrees. We say we’ll ignore the yelling from shore for us to come back in, but when Emma comes out to get us and says it’s my turn, I paddle in with a dopey smile on my face and a willingness to embarrass myself once again.

I ask my dear friend Emma’s parents if they think I have a brain tumor because of how uncoordinated I am. They say no.

My only advantage at any of these games is when Emma or Ellie and I are paired on the same side for cornhole, I occasionally make them laugh so hard that they throw poorly. An unintentional learning, and surely not one that works well enough to make us win, but god is it more fun this way.

Ellie shoves me and shrieks “stop!”

Emma shushes me laughing and says “hey, shut it!”

Team Blonde, a ruthless pairing created upon the pretense that Ellie was injured, eventually wins it all.

When we play die, Joe throws his die off the table and I sigh, “unlucky, Joe! Unlucky!” It’s my new favorite phrase. Cass and Emma start cracking up immediately and Tommy is hitting the ground, trying to breathe from the ref’s chair.

“No Grace! That was our point!” Joe throws his hands up for double high fives.

Eva and Lilly are essentially great at every game. They’re essentially good at everything, they’re perfect and sunshiney and they make me laugh with their comments although I’m losing in an almost impossible way.

Cass and Emma are incredible at beerball. It’s a new concept for me so everyone is patient as I learn how to play. Once I learn, I am still pretty bad. Bad at knocking over cans that signal my teammate can chug. Good at chugging when my teammate knocks over cans. Bad at flipping my empty cup. Good at jumping up and down and cheering for Joe to chug. Emma makes faces behind the cans to distract me and it’s working.

Eva begs me from the bench to beat Team Blonde because for some reason, Joe and I are at the bat in the last game to keep them from winning it all. I sincerely promise her I am trying my best.

Ping pong balls soar across the yard and we scamper around like kids to get them back on the table, ripping all the grass out in the process.

“God damn it. Damn it. God fucking damn it.” It’s insane I never learned to simply catch a ball.

Ellie laughs and spits her beer everywhere and we’re lucky the refs don’t see it or we’d have to add time to the clock or whatever it is the penalty is.

Joe and I get 0’s across the board, and we joke about getting matching 0 tattoos to commemorate the occasion.

Cass tells Ellie that she’s excited that her husband is going to be a really good dad because of how patient he is with me when we play games. As silly as the statement is, it’s surely true. Joe and Cass are going to be the epitome of good parents one day. Until then, I hope we can all keep playing beer ball and spinning around and around in the sand while someone reminds us not to lose the star.

In the morning, Cass runs up the stairs to check on me when she thinks my flight may have been cancelled. My flight is fine, but I love that she’s out of breath because of how fast she came looking for me.

Ellie and I decide to spend every fourth of July together for the rest of our lives.

“Let’s shake on it,” she says, “I’ll even spit in my palm if you want.”

“No, no, that’s okay,” we shake on it and jump up and down with glee. I picture myself older and surrounded by friends that I hope look familiar.

My heart breaks when she drops me at the airport later that day and we tearfully say goodbye. Living without Ellie feels like a sitcom without the laugh track.

I hope we can all play games again soon. I don’t even like games.

But honest to god what even is being this old and being this young if it’s not this? If not keeping your friends from falling at the wrong time while they spin around and around and around? If not letting them fall beside you on sand that looks soft but sometimes feels hard? If not cheering for the person who is inarguably doing the worst?

Maybe that’s all we’re supposed to be doing. Getting dizzy but never falling alone. Losing almost every game but somehow still feeling like you won.

Love always,

The Newest Yorker

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“That sounds hard,” she yells back.

I look down at the book I’m holding but not reading. It’s a little sticky from the champagne I just spilled on it.

“Do these jeans look cool or weird?”

I look up to help her pick an outfit for the date she’s getting ready for.

“Try them on with a belt.”

“Alexa play ‘Stumblin’ In’” it’s our favorite song right now. We can’t listen to anything else except sometimes we also listen to “Islands in the Stream”, because we’ve decided it’s the same vibe as “Stumblin’ In”.

My head aches a little from watching the ice skating on our TV. The champagne is warm but it’s delicious because it was a gift.

“Alexa play ‘Stumblin’ In’ again.”

“I like those jeans better.”

“Should I wear Sommer’s top — you know, the one that goes like this?” She gestures across her collarbone to jog our memories.

“Ellie, what?” Emma’s home now.

“Yeah, wear that one.”

Emma offers me her spicy Indian food, even though she knows I will decline, and says “I don’t doubt that you’re smart enough to get a PhD, it just sounds awful.”

Ellie texts us twice from the bathroom in the bar she’s at.

I fall asleep on the couch and Emma sends a picture in our group chat. Ellie replies “she’s so baby” and Cass agrees.

I wake up, and argue back: “I’m a peer!” I’m a tiny bit younger, just enough that makes me feel comfortable being naive around them.

I’ll never be this young ever again. Neither will you. And I have no idea what’s going to happen. But I have no idea what’s going to happen! The not-knowing feels suffocating some days. Other days, it feels like freedom.

My boss tells me she’s glad I have such supportive friends at home. It seems to her that they’ll back me in any endeavor. She’s glad I get a dose of realism at work and a dose of fantasy at home.

I tell her I’m glad too, that I do believe I can do anything when I’m at home, and that it’s nice to have grown-ups tell me what to do when I clock in each day.

“Perhaps I’ll learn to be a doula.”

Sammy instantly drops her head into her hands, shaking it back and forth as she laughs.

“What?” She throws her hands up the same way she always does when something is funny or surprising or exciting.

We like to talk about being more whimsical in our day-to-day lives. She told a friend about my various ambitions, to which her friend replied “it sounds like she’s already whimsical.”

Ellie comes home and her champagne glass is half-full where she left it and Emma’s laptop is still open, but her earbuds aren’t in anymore. I’ve only read three pages since Ellie left, but my journal is caught up.

Maybe I’ll get a PhD or maybe I’ll just wait for my friends to come home from their first dates.

I plan to be pretty happy either way.

Love always,

The Newest Yorker

It was so endearing and always made me giggle a little at the predictability of hearing her explain something. I also liked that any coincidence, fact, or situation had the opportunity to be funny. So, I start my blog with this:

What’s funny is that I am constantly forming words into little stories in my head. And what’s funnier is that I haven’t been able to think of anything to write about recently.

I’ll be in the shower, walking down the street, brushing my hair, falling asleep, making coffee, sweating mid workout class, at a bar, and I’ll want to write something down.

I took an adult ballet class this week for the first time. I had fuzzy socks on even though a lot of the other beginner dancers had on ballet flats. The leggings I was wearing made me feel frumpy, and the glass of wine I’d drank before class made me feel grateful.

The instructor reached for her toes and grazed them easily, without the slightest bend in her knees. I softly crouched to place my hands near the floor the way she had asked us to. I thought about how it was a little silly to take ballet classes for no reason. I thought about how exciting it was to learn to dance without the expectation of having to perform.

I’ve always preferred white wine, typically at least once a week. Maybe I should drink less, though maybe I don’t drink enough.

I’ve been reintroduced to red wine recently and I’m adjusting to the taste in the same way you adjust to accepting flaws in someone you love. I don’t actually like it, I prefer a different glass, but it’s fun to dislike something and do it anyways. I’d say it’s my frontal lobe developing but we still have a long way to go on that one. After all, in cases like these I have to act my age because, well, someone has to be 23.

Here, Grace. Have a glass.

Oh no, thank you though.

Try it, you’re not paying for it don’t worry.

What’s funny is that it tastes better when there’s no risk of waste. I even have a few sips of beer. Emma and I talk about our bet that on the Fourth of July this year, I’ll finally like beer. I still doubt it, she still has hope.

On Wednesdays, I like getting texts from Jessie and Liz asking us to go to happy hour. I know that if I go straight from work, Liz and I can chat for a little bit while I finish the power hour of admin I force myself to do at the end of every day. I know that once Emma and Ellie get there, Jessie will be there soon and she’ll say “you’re ruining the vibe,” and I’ll happily put my laptop away because it’s someone else’s decision. I know Sommer will show up in a really cute headband and a genuine smile. I could write a book in these moments.

I want so many things that I don’t have and at the same time, I don’t want one single thing to change. It’s all so fun and it’s all so unnerving. What if, what if, what if?

What’s funny is that I spend so much time waiting to have a pen in my hand and a notebook in front of me that I don’t even write. I want proof that I was here and I can’t decide if being too busy living is worth the price of letting it all be forgotten.

It’s all just a little scary. It’s difficult to get out of bed and open a notebook when I’m falling asleep. It’s impractical to get out of the shower and open a notebook when my hands are soapy. It’s irresponsible to stop in the middle of the road and open a notebook when I’m walking down the street. It’s neglectful to stop brushing my hair and open a notebook.

Doing it scared is just as brave. Doing it tired is just as intentional. Doing it when it doesn’t make sense is just as ambitious. Doing it when it’s irresponsible is just as honest. Doing it when it’s neglectful is just as valid.

It might not even be about writing at all, and that’s okay too.

Love always,

The Newest Yorker

“Claire?” Jess calls out as she trots up the stairs to find the birthday girl. “What are you wearing?”

“I don’t know yet,” she responds as we reach the top of the steps. All six of us quietly trail behind Jess toward the bathroom, where Claire is touching up her hair.

“I don’t know what to wear,” I say as we turn the corner into her view. She immediately closes her eyes and covers her mouth with laughter.

“Oh my god,” she gawks at our identical t-shirts that read I ❤️ Claire. We all cackle at her surprise.

Being 23 has been different from all the other ages. It’s not like 22, when your life feels completely up in the air. It’s not like 19, when life moves along like a checklist.

On Friday morning, I’d woken up before 6:00 a.m. to bring the dog we’re fostering outside for a walk. She peed on the floor as soon as we returned.

I finished getting ready before 7:00 and sat on the floor across from Ellie’s room while she got ready. I sipped my coffee, scratched Chachi’s head, and confirmed that her outfit was perfect.

It wasn’t until I got on the train to go to D.C. that I realized I hadn’t packed any socks or underwear (chonies, as we began to call them).

I text my friends to let them know, quickly following up that I hope I can find some D.C. themed ones.

Avery: Oop. That really is the sign of a bad week.

It surely hadn’t been a good one. She knows.

Eleven minutes later, Lilly and Jess sent a video of themselves sitting on a train.

Lilly begins, “so we are on the train,” and Jess chimes in as they announce together: “the wrong one.” They’re in tears from laughter.

LOLLLLL

GUYS

Oh my god

LMAO

STOP THE TRAIN

This is all particularly humorous, and a little unreal, for a group who’d successfully traveled every weekend of their semester abroad, but I digress.

Lily (not to be confused with Lilly) announced that her car had gotten towed and she’d be taking the train in the next morning.

Being 23 is not like being 14. When you’re 14 and you want to take a weekend trip, you normally don’t. When you’re 23, you book the trip and sit on a train, locked into your computer because it is a workday, after all.

While we’re all being vulnerable, someone admits they farted during sex that morning and asks if that ever happens to anyone else.

When I get to Emma’s house, she flings open her front door, crouches dramatically so her hair falls over her face, and shrieks.

“GRACEEEEEE!”

I shriek back as I run to meet her. We shriek together.

“Sorry!” she yells over my shoulder to the people walking down the populated sidewalk in front of her townhouse. She shrieks again.

I take two meetings in Emma’s room, I finish one last-minute task before 5:30, I turn off my computer, and I try to turn off my brain.

When Avery and Claire arrive, we all go to Betsy’s, which is Emma’s favorite bar here. We order our first round gleefully, drink a second round on the house, I lose a game of cards, we explain our jobs again, and we smile for photos.

Claire and I lock arms as we skip out of the bar in matching white fluffy earmuffs. That girl gets me.

I tell Emma that I loved it at Betsy’s, and Avery agrees and looks at me to say “this is just like what Ray’s is for you.” She’s right. I’m suddenly overjoyed that everyone has their own favorite little bar.

Being 23 is not like being 20. At 20, I’d have cried at the thought of having a separate favorite bar than these girls. At 23, I’m just grateful to order drinks at them all.

It turns out it’s not as simple as getting off the wrong train and hopping on one in the opposite direction. Lilly and Jess arrive around 8:00 when we’re all still tipsy from dinner. They’ve been on a bus for eight hours.

I dramatically but sincerely say that I’d just like to stay in tonight and go to bed. I’m exhausted and stressed. Avery, Jess, and Lilly lay beside me while I talk and sweetly but firmly reject my wish to stay in.

So I get dressed in Emma’s top that she pulled out for me hours ago because “it will just look so good on you.”

I wake up on the pull-out couch with Avery the next morning. It’s the type of pull-out couch where you’re kind of continuously sliding toward the center. I ask Avery if I snored. She says I did. I ask if she slept well. She says she did.

Nine hours later, when all our feet are tired and all our heads are heavy, Emma says we can split up and choose to stay home and rest or go over to the Christmas boat parade. Some want to rest, some want to go. We all go.

The live music is a group of guys I imagine practice together in a garage after their 9-5s. They speak most of the words rather than singing them, but the crowd harmonizes in a way that makes the lead singer repeatedly shout “beautiful!” Their songs, by the way, range from Lose Yourself by Eminem to Fat Bottomed Girls by Queen.

Being 23 is not like being 17. I don’t fear singing loudly. I don’t fear dancing funny.

After we’ve danced enough to make up for months apart and seen a solid portion of the boat parade, we get back on the metro. Claire, Avery, and Lily pick the lint off my jacket while I complain about how annoying this scarf is.

Claire asks if we can go straight to dinner or if we have to stop at home.

“I have to change,” six voices chime.

My aunt told me this week that your early twenties are nothing but the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. Maybe being 23 is a little like being 3.

When I fall asleep that night, I think about how happy I am to be there. I think about how much I love and appreciate them.

I also think about how excited I am to get back to New York the next day. I think about the funny moments I can’t wait to tell my roommates about.

I think about how I cried because I was overwhelmed this week. I think about how many times I was brought to tears from laughter this week. I think about how grateful I am.

I’m pretty certain that being 23 is just about going to visit your friends, seeing their favorite bar in their new city, and feeling like saying I love you before leaving is a painful understatement.

We are so lucky to have each other. I am so lucky.

Love always,

The Newest Yorker

The day before, my friend Ellie had texted us that her Facebook account was being hacked. “What do I do?”

I write down my best guess and press send. She thumbs up the message. “Good idea.”

I changed the subject to more important matters.

“Are we going to happy hour?” Work was working.

“I’ll be done by six” Emma says.

“I’m leaving in ten” Sommer says.

“I’ll drop my bag at home and meet you there” Ellie says.

I miss my train and stand for 15 minutes waiting for the next one. I have my arms awkwardly wrapped around two oversized dog beds that I’m taking from my office to my apartment (don’t ask). I notice a few people staring, particularly at the fluffy rainbow donut bed, but I am reassured that this isn’t the strangest thing they’ve seen on the subway this week.

When I’m home, I’m starving. Ellie offers to run ahead to grab both of our drinks before happy hour ends while I eat a snack and meet them there. It’s brilliant, really. I couldn’t have thought of it myself.

We go to Jadis, where the lights are low and the tables are small, always filling up quickly with empty glasses.

“What do I get?”

“Here. Try my wine.”

“Try mine too, it’s better than I remembered.”

It’s the same girl serving us as last time, and the time before that. I wonder if she remembers us, too. Because I’m last to arrive she lets me order two happy-hour drinks at once, an absolute angel.

More friends show up. The New York bar results dropped today and the almost-lawyers are now actual-lawyers. We celebrate.

When we get to Ray’s, there’s only one tiny table for all seven of us. My brave friend asks the two guys at the big booth if they’ll trade with us and take the smaller table. They don’t even hesitate to get up.

“Should we buy them drinks?”

“Yes, great idea!”

My pink student credit card buys them each a drink for their selflessness. We pull our jackets off and squeeze into the booth. We drink the Lana Del Ray cocktails (the ones right below the Addison Rae cocktails on the menu), because we’re celebrating. The music is good, we all have one leg on the booth and the other on whoever’s beside us.

“Should I go out with this guy next week?”

“Yea, why not?”

“What about this guy?”

“No, probably not.”

The bar is loud, that’s why we like it. It’s good for dancing, it’s bad for hearing the people across from you.

Someone’s spilling secrets. Emma whispers that she’ll fill me in later. I bring out pictures of the dog we fostered for three weeks. Ellie and I talk about how we want to go to Ireland and not book a single thing before we get there. Sommer invites everyone back to our house.

We make a pit stop at Casa 13urger for urgers. They have the best burgers in the city and they happen to be on the way home from the best bar in the city. The smell of grilled onions hits our noses before we even cross the street to go inside.

“What should we get?” our friends ask us, staring up at the menu.

“BOGO urgers,” we advise.

Any night that ends with a pile of urgers on our kitchen table is a night well done. Fries are spilled everywhere, urgers are being tossed across the room, and we’ve grabbed the necessary condiments from the fridge.

“Just spend the night” we tell them. “Wake up and go to work in the morning, it’s no biggie.”

Fridays are my favorite because Emma and I are colleagues. We spend most of the day on the couch but don’t be fooled, we’re working hard.

I didn’t even realize people had slept on that couch until someone told me the following afternoon. Everyone made it to work on time.

My SoulCycle instructor doesn’t let us think long before revealing the answer:

“Everyone in this room has no idea what they’re doing. We’re all just choosing to f*ck around and find out.”

Then, he turns the music back up and we all keep riding. It turns out the room is full of people pretending to know where we’re going. Full of people just trusting the person next to us to help figure it out.

Because after all, guessing feels a lot less scary when you’re guessing together.

Love always,

The Newest Yorker

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I’m sprawled out on the couch watching How I Met Your Mother, our current background show of choice. To say I was paying attention would be an overstatement. Emma went to bed a few minutes ago, her Benadryl kicking in and enforcing an early night.

I’m fighting sleep. See, the thing about Tuesday nights is everyone works on Wednesday morning. I love my job, but let’s prolong that a little bit.

My eyes are starting to close when Ellie yelps from the bathroom. Obviously, I come to her rescue.

“Oh my god, that’s the biggest cockroach I have ever seen!” she shrieks as I scurry into the doorframe of our very narrow 2x5(?) bathroom.

Logistically, picture our bathroom as… skinny. Atop all the tiny black and white tiles speckling the floor is a thin bathmat stretching the length of our shower. It was $50 from Urban Outfitters but it was the thinnest option we could find - and it’s really cute. The sides are folded under awkwardly because it’s still too wide for this supermodel bathroom.

“I don’t see it.” I’m peeking around the corner trying to find the bug.

“It’s right there. We need a boot.”

By the time she’s back with not a boot but her gym shoe, I’ve spotted it under one of the folds of the rug. She goes straight for the kill. It dodges her and runs further under the rug.

I grab the rug and toss it toward the back wall, hoping the cockroach will shake right out. It does. We scream.

“GET IN THE TUB!”

“OK!”

From my safe haven in the tub, I grab the rug again and shake it again, hoping the cockroach will fall off onto the floor so Ellie can hit it with her shoe. It doesn’t.

“Where is it?” I whisper.

“I don’t see it.”

I shake it again and the cockroach flies into the shower. We scream.

“GET OUT OF THE TUB!”

“OK!”

The thing about Tuesday nights is I’m really glad I don’t live alone.

I pull the rug back with me and Ellie finally smashes the bug. We scream.

I don’t know why. I’m not even particularly afraid of bugs, but in that moment, I’m stomping in place, eyes shut, facing the wall like I’m being exorcised. Every time she slams her shoe, I jump.

“Oh my god I’m going to throw up,” she literally gags.

“Don’t look! Just don’t look, I’ll get a paper towel.” I’m running down our hallway to the kitchen.

Emma runs out of her room yelling. Obviously, she comes to our rescue.

“WHAT? WHAT HAPPENED?”

“ELLIE SAW THE BIGGEST COCKROACH SHE’S EVER SEEN!”

“I thought someone died.”

Someone did.

Two minutes earlier, she had texted us:

what’s that yelling

tf

y’all hear that?

Evidently, yes. We’d heard it.

Ellie’s still gagging when I get back with the paper towel and Emma joins us to inspect the murder scene. I spray bleach all over the tub and clean it before I can start gagging, too.

“That’s not even that big of a—HEY. That’s my shoe!” It’s important to Emma that I share that her shoes are the furthest away on the shoe rack out of all of ours.

“Sorry!” Ellie bolts.

“The drama.”

The thing about Tuesday nights in New York? There’s probably a cockroach in your shower. But at least it wasn’t your shoe. And you didn’t face it alone.

Love Always,

The Newest Yorker

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It’s February in Raleigh, North Carolina. I’m sitting at the airport bar (my first time there) and I’m sipping—no, savoring—a light pink cosmopolitan. My laptop is open and I’m staring at a sleepy purple Canva deck. There’s nothing on it yet except a title (which would be changed several times throughout the night) and a logo of a PR firm in New York City.

As part of the interview process for a fellowship that I’d both lovingly and hopelessly referred to as my “ultra-reach dream job” for months, I had been assigned a creative task for a fake client. Naturally, my deck and PR moment had ended up rescue-dog themed. I was flying to Florida for my grandpa’s funeral. I bought Wi-Fi on the plane to continue working on my presentation. I listened to the same take-off and landing songs I’ve had since Lilly and I went abroad two years ago.

When I land, I hug my mom for a long time. Then I tell her I’m excited about my presentation deck but that she has to see it for herself. When we get back to the house, I show my almost finished slides to my parents and my Aunt Lucy — my biggest fans. They love it.

“There’s no way you’re not getting that job,” my mom says.

“Well… you never know! It’ll be ok if you don’t",” my dad says.

“I f*cking love it, they’re going to f*cking love you,” Lucy says, filling up my glass.

They are my biggest fans, after all.

That’s the last time I flew to Florida.

It’s the last day of March in LaGuardia airport. I’m perched at a little restaurant near my gate, downing my wine. I have a huge pit in my stomach. It’s heavy and makes me feel kind of nauseated—but it also resembles... butterflies? I’m smiling at my phone, texting some of my new friends I made this weekend in New York. My first time in the city as an adult.

I’m deeply sick to my stomach. What if I don’t move here? What if I can’t have another weekend like this one in the city? Sooo many pieces need to fall into place for this to work out the way I want it to. I feel physical sadness leaving that night. How is this their real life?

“GRACE PLEASE MOVE HERE” I didn’t expect yelling.

“Don’t goooooooooo!!!” Ellie says.

“I had so much fun let’s do this full time pls” Emma says.

“Why was that the best weekend ever?” Sommer texts me later.

They have become little pieces of my heart, after all.

That’s the last time I flew out of LaGuardia.

Today I sit here with the same suitcase and (I think) the same sweatshirt on. Probably the same leggings too, if I’m being honest. So many things are the same. I’ll definitely listen to the same take-off and landing songs.

Today, I woke up in the home I share with Sommer, Ellie, and Emma. I made coffee with my French press—I miss Avery’s espresso machine almost as much as I miss her. I brushed my teeth standing on our little black and white tiled floor, with the sink that barely works. I actually don’t even miss having my own bathroom. It’s fun to share shampoo with Ellie. I finished packing my little blue suitcase. I put on my blue floral skirt I bought with Lilly in London.

I walk to the subway. I take the train to the Financial District. I work on Broadway Street. I swipe my card to get into the building and chat in the elevator with the angelic girl from UNC I networked with before I got this job. We get off on the 26th floor. I walk to my desk and there’s that logo for the PR firm in New York.

My heart and soul in the form of a coworker is Betty—she’s out sick today. It’s likely for the best that I have no one to yap with all morning because I’m slammed with tasks. Tasks I didn’t even know existed. For a job I’d been hoping for since this time last year. In a city I never expected to love this much. A city that’s suddenly home, with a home that’s suddenly filled with family.

I text Jess on the train to the airport. The guy she was casually seeing last time I flew out of LaGuardia? Now her boyfriend of several months.

Things change, but boyyy do they stay the same.

I miss my friends. My very best girls from UNC, I miss them most while I’m talking to them. Because it feels the same, our friendships haven’t changed. My friends here in New York, the ones I’ve gotten used to seeing daily. Things are just a little duller anytime I’m without them now.

To Florida I go. No projects to work on tonight, I’m going to sleep on the plane. From LaGuardia I go. I’m so happy to be back next week, we’ll have one of those weekends that leave me asking: how is this our real life?

Cheers to whatever phase you’re in, from me in whatever phase I’m in, still with my sauvignon blanc in the airport. I promise it’ll all work out.

Love always,

The Newest Yorker

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On Thursday, we divided and conquered. Work, home, drink. I worked from the kitchen table while Sommer yelled at the TV over last night’s Love Island episode. I’m clocked out, Sommer’s maturely declining wine, I begged Emma to hurry home so I can pour someone else a glass. I’m sad Ellie won’t be back before the night begins. She’s going on a second date, I’m going on a first, and Sommer and Emma have a 7:00 happy hour.

Then Ellie does make it home in time! So I pour her a glass too.

The happy hour girls leave. Sommer’s in her new Havaianas—we’re all obsessed. Except Emma. Emma is anti-flip flops.

I’m tracking how many minutes it takes to walk to Seaport and Ellie is putting a quick coat of pink on her toes so she can wear sandals tonight. We’re listening to one of Emma’s playlists, Spacey Jane is blaring, and we talk about how we can’t wait to see them live. Once my glass of wine is just a glass, I tell Ellie good luck and head out.

He was nice. My cocktail was sweet. We went on a rooftop. I think he lied to me about his age. Let’s skip to the good part.

I’m tipsy but I come home to drunk. I don’t even unlock the door before I’m pulled inside and peppered with questions about my night but I’m also curious about their night, too. Happy hour was clearly successful. A black sequin dress has already been pulled out for me to put on.

Drinks are still being poured and some of us are standing easier than others and we have to hurry because we have to get in line by 11:00. Also, once we get there we have to be super calm so that they let us in. Apparently they’re picky at The Box. We get in—eventually—though not before the bouncer is so rude to Emma it makes even me feel confrontational. But remember: we have to be super calm.

We spend $70 on two drinks and hover near the railing, waiting for the show we think starts at midnight. It actually starts at 1:30. Ellie texts that she’s home from her date. We beg her to come. Emma lies and says the line is short (we can’t see it). I say we have to debrief our dates (I care more about hers than mine) and Sommer promises Taco Bell. (That’s happening either way). Ellie says she’s not coming and we say boooo.

There’s standing room and there’s a seated area but you have to buy a table to have a chair. This makes sense. They’d go broke if they had to survive on profit from the $35 vodka sodas.

We’re standing against the railing, sleepily chatting to keep our energy up, when we spot Ellie coming toward us. We scream like it’s been a year: “I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU’RE HERE.”

The show is good. The Taco Bell is better.

Emma and I meet in the kitchen at 8 a.m. and grab our headache hats from the freezer. I make her wake up Ellie—who is already awake, by the way. “Grace made me,” Emma laughs. In my defense, I thought the stakes were very high if she overslept. The headache hats help, but it’s the Grillo’s x Pop Up Bagels collab that gets us through the morning.

Fridays are work-from-home, I like to say we are co-workers. After work, we prioritized rewatching the last season of Love Island. It’s just so good. We go to Domino Park and sprawl out with friends on a giant picnic blanket. I try to point out the building where I work but I can’t do it accurately.

We go to OddFellows, only to be told they’re closing in five minutes. “You’re closing at 9:23?” The lights shut off at 9:24. We giggle our way out the door. It was time to go anyways—I’m exhausted and we have a new episode of Love Island to watch.

It rains all day on Saturday. I couldn’t remember what we did all day, so I checked my camera roll. All I see is a picture of Ellie and I curled up on the couch with cheeseburgers from Fat Boys around 6 p.m. “We needed this so bad.”

We’d gone to Solidcore earlier in the day, “we’re so brave.” (I couldn’t afford the FORTY DOLLAR cancellation fee). After that, I assumed my horizontal position on the couch. The three week fatigue hit all at once. “Are you going to be okay?” We’ve taken turns asking each other that all day. Wake me when the cheeseburgers get here.

Sunday’s errand is finding boxes and tape. I heroically go to Solidcore with Emma because she says I have to. “I can’t wait to watch Love Island tonight.” “This song reminds me of Pitch Perfect.” “Let’s watch that soon.”

I loved this weekend and I loved everything we did. I think I loved all the little things that happened in-between just as much. Maybe even more. Cheers to the in-betweens.

Love always,

The Newest Yorker

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Our first pitcher of sangria sits innocently on the table next to a basket of bread. The bread is mouthwatering but I’m not allowed to try it until the chimichurri sauce gets here. Once it arrives, I understand why this rule is enforced. Unbelievably, our empanadas arrive at the same time. Believably, the chimichurri sauce is incredible with those too.

Sommer and I split pesto raviolis and somehow it almost beats the chimichurri sauce. Almost.

We’re talking about the apartment we decided we didn’t want a couple weeks ago. It’s simply fine. Once the second pitcher arrives on our table (a generous gift from our waiter), we’re all sold on the apartment. It’s our very best option. Once the third pitcher arrives on our table (an unnecessary gift from our waiter), we’re obsessed. It’s absolutely the perfect place for us. We decline our fourth pitcher and scurry home a few blocks and up a few stairs. I’ve already taken my kitten heels off by the time we’re halfway up. The view from the roof is gorgeous.

Barefoot and dancing and laughing and looking out at all the little lights dotting the skyline, each boasting their own unique stories.

On Sunday we go see the apartment again and we ask for an application. Ellie talks to the broker, she can negotiate. Sommer and I have to be quiet while we measure every wall in the apartment, we can’t negotiate. I bite my tongue every time I want to compliment our new home.

The bar across the street from our current apartment (thank you to my friends for sharing) is having a pop-up concert. We’re tucked like little sardines in Sommer’s bed when Ellie finds out it’s Royel Otis who’s playing there tonight. Eating-wise, the day has gotten away from us. We’re about to have a snack when we notice the line growing outside our window so we drop everything and hurry across the street.

It’s 4:00 and the band goes on at 5:00. We’re maybe 30 people back - thank god we made it in time to get in.

We’re in line behind a couple who came in from New Jersey. When the guy leaves to be interviewed by a random camera crew, his fiancé, cringing and hiding her face, fills us in that he’s always getting into something like this. “He’ll literally disappear and come out on stage with the performers.” We learn that they’re engaged, that she thinks everyone is stupid for making wedding planning seem so hard, that real flowers are way too expensive so they’re going to do fake ones. We support that choice. She cares more about their honeymoon anyway so she’s ready for the wedding to be over with. Her collarbone tattoo reads: optimism.

Ellie subtly texts me:

Look at the girl in the blue sweater.

I think that’s Maude Apatow.

Me:

Who?

I google her and oh my god! It’s Maude Apatow! I totally know who that is.

Roughly 15 minutes before we’re let in, we’re told we actually aren’t going to be let in. It’s completely full inside and although none of us were aware, it has been that way for hours. Ms. Optimism is pissed. Luckily, Mr. Spontaneous is back and tells her, “it’s ok, it’s just an adventure!”

The line goes past us all the way down another block and a half. No one gets out of line. The delusion and hope coursing through this crowd borders insanity.

Ellie and I are close to the front by the time Royel Otis goes on stage. We can see through the windows but we can’t see past the crowd of people smushed against them. Everyone in line is on their tiptoes trying to snag a view of the band. The blinds keep closing when the people on the inside lean against them, Ms. Optimism is pissed. “They did that on purpose!” They’re already turned around and opening them back up for us. “Thank you!”

Me, Ellie, our two new friends, and a crowd of determined fans have finally moved around the bend and we’re facing the door. The security guard props it open for us and we all sing along.

As soon as the set ends, the bar clears out.

“Well, we might as well.”

“Yea, since we’re here.”

Then, the bar is filled with everyone who was just in line. The vibes are high. Lack of food pairs nicely with our drinks and we’re talking about how lucky we are, how grateful we are that things have worked out so well and how happy we are that we’re here.

I get such deja vu in this situation. My sophomore year, I got to move in with three girls I spent the next three years growing up with. They are my very best friends in the whole world. I would cross oceans for them and I know I will until the day I die. I feel so lucky to have good people surrounding me here, too.

We go find Emma, giggling and telling her all our tipsy talking points to catch her up. We go to trader joes, I love trader joes.

On Monday, I start work at the job I’ve wanted for longer than I even knew I wanted it. But that’s a whole different story.

Love always,

The Newest Yorker

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“What’s it like not being a twin?”

I’ve only ever known what it’s like to come in a set of two.

Iris tripped, fell, and started crying. Ada, toddler belly poking out, tiny feet thumping rapidly across the floor, eyes as wide as they go, legs as fast as they move, gasped and whipped around the corner into the living room to get to her sister. I wish I had a video of it, I can’t describe how perfect and sweet and genuine it was.

This was many months ago, and I think of it often. It warms my heart and cracks me up and makes me want to cry. The little girls I nanny, less than two years old, prepared to defend their twin against the world. Babies cry so often, yet they’ll always run with all their might to get to their sister… at one and a half!

We’re only 5 or 6 and we’re out of town for Easter. We write notes to the Easter bunny to ensure he finds us without trouble:

Easter Bunny,

I don’t want anything but 3 pieces of candy and easter eggs. Please please please do not give Grace anything involved with peanuts. Thank you!

From, Jackson

That year, I had written asking the Easter Bunny to write me a letter every once in a while (how… friendly??) and he had asked that I recieved nothing that would put me in danger.

We grew up at the end of the hall, my pink room facing his blue room.

On this day, I had dramatically been telling my mom about my “bad day.” I was maybe 7… not sure what had made it so rough. All I remember is Jackie walking in bobbing his head singing Cause you had a bad day, you’re taking one down, you sing a sad song just to turn it around. I can’t recall if I laughed or told him to get out but it makes me smile to remember it now.

We grew up in different classes, on the same team.

We’re in kindergarten and I am deeply unexcited about the situation. Every so often, my displeasure for being in this new and scary place would build up and I would begin to cry. The teacher’s assistant would try to console me, eventually giving up and walking to the classroom next door to get my brother. With a sigh to be missing coloring time, Jackie would walk over and hug me and tell me that we were okay.

When I got into UNC, I wasn’t sure it was the right place for me. When he got into UNC, he immediately accepted. So then I accepted too. Not because I wanted to go with him, but because there was no way he was going to the UNC-Chapel Hill and I wasn’t!

We grew up at UNC, meeting for weekly dinners and weekly drinks.

He’s going through frat pledging and I’m adjusting to a new friend dynamic. We’re having a spread at Bonchon. I moved into a new dorm and he’s dealing with the drama of a lifetime. We’re having drinks at Four Corners. He’s telling me about the craziness he got up to with his friends this week and I’m showing him pictures of the babies I nanny before I go out into the craziness myself this weekend. We have our Tru order down to perfection.

We grew up together, side by side.

I shout hello when I see my brother coming onto the field for graduation. I’d been there for an hour, he’s finding seats with his friends. He comes back to hug me right before graduation starts. We marvel at the situation in front of us. He chokes out “We’re so old” and starts crying. “And you’re moving so far awayyyyy” he wails, laughing as his tears fall.

During the ceremony, the commencement speakers are doing a great job and my attention span is trying its hardest. I’m spun around in my chair trying to figure out where he’s sitting with his friends so I can wave hi. I’m curious if he is still crying.

My friends and I throw our caps in the air and take pictures with the fireworks. My brother comes to find me again and he’s pulled it together. Then we hug again and he’s crying again. “I’m fine until I see you!”

We’re walking out of Kenan Stadium as alumni. We’re laughing with our friends, in awe that we’re really here. He keeps yelling “don’t look at me!” while his tears fall, emotional little fella. He’s turned around telling me something as we’re going up the stairs and I see his foot get caught on some stray caution tape. “Ok, turn around and don’t trip,” I tell him.

That’s the closest I’d gotten to crying the entire day. Who’s going to make sure he doesn’t trip when we aren’t in the same place anymore? I hope someone’s always there to look out for him.

I don’t cry on graduation night but I do cry the night I say goodbye to the babies I take care of. Mostly because I will miss them significantly. But also because I’m so jealous that they get 16 more years under one roof with their twin and their family.

I was watching a tv show recently when a girl spoke of her twin brother like this: I’ve never been lonely because I’ve always had you.

It’s heartbreaking and exciting and strange all at once. I know no matter how much distance is between us, we aren’t really alone.

What is it like not being a twin? I’m lucky I’ll never know.

“Closed for a private event,” Emma reads definitively. The sign hangs off the door unapologetically.

The rest of us gasp. I take the dramatic role of shrieking NO, but this loss actually means nothing to me and we’re already rerouting to the next best place. Dopey smile plastered on my face, I happily trot along on the heels of my new friends.

Finally tucked inside somewhere open to the public, starving, we’re told it will be a 45 minute wait. When the host sees our countenances, he offers outdoor seating as an immediate fix.

We’re shivering, the temperature dropped ten degrees within the last hour. Although the spritzes we just downed at happy hour are a nice layer, they’re really no match for the drizzling rain that has started blowing in on us. Everything is funny and we need everything on this menu.

Once we’ve placed our orders, begging for the appetizers to come out as soon as they’re ready, Ellie and I are already planning dessert. We’ll have it delivered to the apartment, cheesecakes or maybe brownies. Or ice cream could be good since we’ll be watching the basketball game curled up on the couch. I want Duke to win since they’re the only ACC team left and Sommer wants me to shut up.

When chips and dip arrive on our table, we’ve never tasted anything better. I mean really, that was the best cheese I’ve ever had.

“I’m coming back here tomorrow,” I declare with my mouth full. Tomorrow will be my last full day in New York, I must waste no time eating anything lesser than this.

I remember it like it was only last month. Perhaps because it was only last month.

I had woken up on a mattress topper on the floor that morning, wrapped in a fuzzy carolina blue blanket next to a friend I’d made the night before. Before you get any crazy ideas, I’ll reveal that it really was just a friend I’d made the night before. My new friend, also named Grace, and I, sleeping up in the loft, on a soft piece of foam, listening to rain sounds. We’d fallen asleep talking about the children’s books I would write and she would illustrate — I mean really, I’d met this girl hours ago.

I had crawled down from the loft to find Sommer brushing her teeth. “That was the best sleep of my life,” I told her honestly.

We had walked down the street and up the stairs and into an apartment and in that apartment, there was a couch. From a friend of my friend’s friend, this couch was coming home with us… in two hours. We were told to come back at noon.

So we moved our bottomless brunch reservation to 2:00 and went to get coffee. With treats. Four of us got the same coffee and three of us got the same treats. We wander. It’s the most beautiful day in the whole world outside. Big, fluffy clouds. Warm blue sky with a golden orb hung over the skyline.

It’s 11:00 when our couch pick-up turns into 2:00. We cancel our brunch and walk into the first place we see that offers cocktails. It was definitely more strategic than that, but as a tourist with three tour guides, it feels like the most magical places pop up just for us.

Emma has a drink that tastes like candy. Ellie has a bloody mary that is actually pretty good. Sommer has a piping hot cup of tea ready to spill. I sip my mimosa while they fill me in on the drama. We order fries for the table.

I’m dizzy with joy in the bathroom before we leave. My pupils are huge, I tell them this must mean that I love this place. Everyone knows your pupils dilate when you’re looking at something you love.

Next we’re at the dog park. We need a dog. Who’s we? I don’t even live here. I’ll move here. Then we need a dog.

“Let’s call him Cooper.” Later we realized that the character Emma was thinking of naming our dog after was actually named Copper, but Ellie likes Cooper better anyways.

“A basset hound would be so fun!” My TikTok feed is consumed by basset hound videos three weeks later.

“We’ll take him here and he’ll have a bunch of friends.” We’re leaning on the gate of the dog park.

“We’ll take him here and we’ll make a bunch of friends!” We’re leaning on the gate of a dog park IN MANHATTAN.

I may be tipsy in this moment but nothing appeals to me more than moving to New York City and getting a basset hound named Cooper with these people.

Our 2:00 pick-up turns into 4:00 and it’s still warm outside. When we finally go to pick the couch up, it’s time to take it apart, carry the pieces downstairs, debate whether they should be allowed to touch the sidewalk, call two Uber XLs, pile into the cars, and ride a few minutes home. Not my home of course, but you get the picture.

Carry the couch up to the sixth floor, drop the pieces, drop our sweaty clothes, shower like our lives depend on it (because they do — we have to make it out before happy hour ends). I put on my new linen top I got at a boutique down the street, paid for by my Delta rewards card from the flight I got off of the day before.

Then we’re sipping Aperol spritzes. Then we’re yapping down the road. Then we’re sat outside eating the best food I’ve ever eaten in my life. Then we’re ordering dessert back to the apartment. Then I’m having a hard time picturing anywhere else I’d like to live post-grad.

It’s the perfect couch. It took all day to get, we had fun the entire time.

It’s the perfect couch. It was difficult to put together, but only because we were laughing so hard.

It’s the perfect couch. It fits everyone so cozily, not every couch can do that.

It’s the perfect couch. I’m having a hard time picturing anywhere else I’d like to sit.

Love always,

The Newest Yorker

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Sit up. Breathe. It’s important to stay relaxed at the start of a race. If you tense up, the whole boat feels it. If the crew gets tense, we’ll panic under the pressure. Look forward. Your head stays in the boat the entire race. Focus on your moves, it doesn’t matter what’s happening around you. It shouldn’t affect how you’re racing. The way you’re pushing. It’s completely silent. The flag goes up. It drops and the silence is gone.

Once the start sequence is over, it’s time to settle. The adrenaline runs high, and each boat sits only a meter ahead or behind. It can be anyone’s race. Who will take it? Feel the swing. Find the rhythm. It doesn’t matter where you came from, or how long you’ve done this. All that matters is how much you want it. Sit up. Breathe. In the first 500 meters, no one is tired. This part of the game is completely mental. You must stay calm, but be fierce. This lesson is one I will always remember, working hard when it's not mandatory is essential to future success. You remind yourself that it can be you.

Approaching halfway, you start to feel tired. You aren’t exhausted, but the lactic acid quickly forms. The voice of your coxswain booms around you. Catch, send. She aims to pull you through. You let her. The crew works as one. No one wins on their own. Stay calm. Stay together. It’s not about you. Your lungs burn, but so do theirs. You're already trained to never underestimate that power which stems from collective effort. And you’re halfway there.

The third 500 in a 2000 meter race is infamous for being the most difficult. By now everything hurts, and no one is letting up. You wish another boat would slow down. They won’t, though, because they want it as bad as you do. Your crew takes a few bad strokes. It would be so easy to give it all up, painless. But you can’t. You can’t because now you remember the long practices, the early mornings. You remember the work, the setbacks. You remember why you do this. It’s never been about hitting a goal that is easy to achieve. It’s about earning a win. Not because you deserve it, but because you’ve shown up every day to pursue it. So you recover. And you don’t let the race go. Not yet.

Everyone handles the last 500 differently. Some feel the end approaching, falling into a trance and spending every ounce of energy they have. Some flail under the pressure. But now you can hear it. You hear your teammates. They want you to win because they’ve watched you sweat. You hear your coaches. You are a representation of all their efforts. You want it for them. You sit even with the boat two lanes over. It will be you or them. Breathe. Feel your crew behind you. It wouldn’t be fair to them for you to bail now. So you sit up. It’s time to go.

Everything you work for comes down to 8 minutes. You could do everything right, but miss one step on race day and it’s over. You’re too tired to sit up. You can’t breathe. You crave the end. But you won’t waste this time or this opportunity. Your bow ball crosses the finish line first. Now, there is no silence to be found. Your coxswain yells. She pulled you through and she’s so proud. Your teammates can’t breathe, yet they find air to cheer. It’s exhilarating. Not because you’ve reached the end, but because your goals can grow. You see, this was only step one. All you needed was to remember that one little thing. Bring that one necessity. All you have to do is believe in yourself. Do that, and everything is yours.

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Similarly to the character Glen Powell played in Anyone but You, I had a serenity song: Lean on Me by Bill Withers.

Naturally a nervous girl, a dance recital was a really big deal. On a stage (more of a platform), in front of a crowd (family of the dancers from one singular dance studio), all alone (with 10 other girls). Vividly, over the voice of Bill Withers, I can remember my mom telling me to be brave, that she was proud of me, that I would do great, and that she would take me to Chuck E. Cheese if I got on stage. I did not get on stage.

Today, I have no problem singing every word of this song. As someone lyrically challenged, this is no small feat. Suddenly I’m belting the words to a song I’ve always loved, a song that my parents have always played for me. Suddenly, I’m crying.

I wouldn’t say I’m a crier. Sentimental, sure, but not especially emotional. Today, I’m surprised when I can’t stop the tears.

If there is a load you have to bear, that you can’t carry, I’m right up the road, I’ll share your load if you just call me.

Outside of my semester abroad where I was never without a friend from home for more than two weeks, I’ve never really been alone. I’ve never lived outside of North Carolina. What will I do when there’s no one right up the road?

I pull into a parking spot for my lab, on a different side of the lot than usual, and reach for anything in my car to dry my tears. No napkins, no tissues, just a purple scrunchie on my parking brake. It does the trick. I blow air up towards my eyes, trying to remedy the glassy look that’s taken them over. I stretch a little taller to look in the rear view mirror of my car, wiping the final signs of sadness showing in the form of misplaced mascara. I get out of the car and walk into the building.

“Hey, excuse me!” It’s a girl stepping out from the car next to me, I didn’t even realize there was anyone in there. “Are you ok?”

I laugh it off, “oh my god, yes!” as she says “I thought maybe you could use a hug.”

I tell her I was just listening to a song and got choked up because I’m graduating soon. I sheepishly ask if she wants a hug and she throws her arms open for me.

She tells me she cries in her car before class, too. “I know how it is.” She works in a lab at UNC, she’s doing cancer research. She has a few requirements she’s finishing up here. I’m taking biology at Durham Tech, I’m going into public relations. I just have a few requirements I need to finish up. She tells me I’m doing great. I tell her she is doing great.

Sometimes in our lives, we all have pain, we all have sorrow. But, if we are wise, we know that there’s always tomorrow.

I went inside, took my exam, wrote her a note in pink pen telling her thank you, that she made my day, stuck it in her car door, and drove away.

I just might have a problem that you’ll understand. We all need somebody to lean on.

I’m not 5 anymore, I’m not a dancer and there is no stage. I’m an optimist, I know everything is going to work out and truthfully, I’m not even that worried. But I am sad to move far away, I am sad that my mom and I won’t be able to drink wine together any night we need it, I am sad my dad won’t be able to drive an hour to meet me for a game, I am sad that my brother and I may never live within walking distance of each other again (I don’t know, that one might be more of a need than a want), I am sad that my best friends, my shoulders to lean on, may be further away than I’d like next year.

But after today, I am hopeful. We all need somebody to lean on. It turns out, hugging a stranger is just as good. We’re never really alone.

And if you need someone to lean on, my ringer is always on.

Love,

Grace

P.S. Thank you Mom and Dad. You have done many incredible things for me, but this year I am realizing how powerful it is that you have raised me to believe in myself.

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“But what if it makes you feel better this time?” We snap a photo for our parents. I order the appetizers, I choose wisely. The mac bites, he’ll love those and I already know I love them. Chicken tenders, my brother claims he’s not very hungry but I order extra of the dipping sauce he likes. We sit out on the porch, sun blinding my eyes but warming my skin so wonderfully that I won’t move out of its view.

A few drinks, a few hours, and a few stories later, I’m on my way home after declining an invitation to bluesday for my brother’s brother’s birthday. I won’t crash that party until later. I read another 50 pages of that new hunger games book (yes, I’m still working on it) before convincing Avery to go out with me. I trip on a rock on our way there, she catches my arm just in time. “If you fall, I fall.” Our eternal promise that if I look stupid, she will too. If she’s in trouble, I’m right there with her. My brother sees a girl (almost) fall from across the parking lot and immediately recognizes me.

We meet Claire and her boyfriend, whom we lovingly refer to as her fiance, after getting their blue cups for them while they wait patiently behind us in line. The line stretches out from the bar all the way down each direction of the treacherous metal stairs. The ones you have to fall down at least once as a right of passage.

I see Lexi, she’s extra giggly tonight. I see Joseph, he’s extra funny tonight. I see Michael, he’s going home and won’t let me convince him to stay. I see Sasha, she’s waiting to hear back about a very exciting opportunity. I see Ann, she’s just heard back about a very exciting opportunity. I see Mattie and Hasti and Troy and Janie and I tell Matthew happy birthday before getting an extra drink when Troy sends me to the bar with his card. Blue cup on him today, coffee on me tomorrow. We’ll sip our blue cups and laugh about the world (the bachelor party he’s planning). Tomorrow we’ll sip our coffees and worry about the world (the bachelor party he’s planning).

Someone (my dear friend Troy) has the nerve to ask how I know Mattie. The girl I moved into a shoebox with my first day of college? The friend I shared all my thoughts and every up and down of freshman year with? “How do YOU know Mattie?”

I pull my phone out and open my voice memo app. The circular red button bounces under my thumb when I press it. Christine talks into my phone. She’s giving me her full make-up routine, which has looked perfect (always does, of course) at both the events I’ve been to with her recently. What’s the secret, Christine? She whispers them to my voice memo app.

We plan to go to Tru tomorrow because Mattie leaves on Thursday but we also plan to do something on Friday because Janie can’t come to Tru tomorrow.

“I have work tomorrow morning, I have to gooo”

“Don’t go! We can go to karaoke right now!”

I’m smiling on my way home. I don’t have to look up from my phone because my body knows exactly how many steps I have to take down Pritchard before turning onto Carr. I do look up, though. The whole 3 minutes home. I take it all in.

The person interrupting my shower concert is Sommer. It’s incredible that she works nights because if I’m awake in the middle of the night, chances are high that she is too. I just informed her that I’m in love with this guy (I am not) who I don’t even know (I really don’t) and can’t move to New York anymore (I am still going to). She finds this funny, she knows I’m lying but plays into the bit anyways. She’s one of my only friends that consistently calls me “Gracie” and I love it.

gracie goodbye, she texts, have a little crush and then get on the plane. Words of wisdom from my wise new yorker friend (she’s 24—surely that age makes you wise).

I’m going to have a little crush and then get on a plane, I respond. She puts a little heart on the message. I began to wonder how we’re all going to get on the plane. All of us who are about to graduate, that is. Don’t we all have some kind of a crush at this point? Something we’re just so into. That one little thing that almost makes us want to yell for the pilot to turn around. That one little thing that we would slow-motion run to next to baggage claim. Maybe it’s a guy you don’t even know. Maybe it’s your friends. Maybe it’s this campus, or maybe it’s bluesday.

I guess I really am in love with this life in Chapel Hill. I’ll get on the plane anyways. When it lands, I’ll be wiser.

I fall asleep listening to my audiobook even though I’ll have to rewind it all the way back in the morning.

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If I were to cry, my tears would fall down onto my chest, past my golden necklace with the G that I bought after I saw Avery wearing hers with the A.

If I were to cry, my tears would fall down onto my white dress, the one with the lacy top and the skirt that’s just a little too short, that was clipped and zipped in my senior year bedroom. In front of the gallery wall filled with postcards from my study abroad travels, set in picture frames I got for free off facebook marketplace because when I went to pick them up there was a note that read, No charge. I saw on your profile you’re a student and I remember every little bit counts in college.

If I were to cry, my tears would drip right onto the lawn of the infamous carolina quad. They would trickle down the grass and into the dirt where I’ve laid out with every friend I’ve made at this school. The dirt remembers when I played capture the flag my first week of freshman year. The dirt remembers when I played hooky to sunbathe with my new roommates sophomore year. The dirt remembers when I would lay under the trees with Lilly playing Would You Rather. The dirt remembers our heel prints, just like it remembers yours.

If I were to cry, my eyesight would become blurry and it would become difficult to see what’s right in front of me. The faces of my forever friends would be foggy, all I can see are the girls who I’ve celebrated, mourned, or just been with for every occasion over the last four years. The faces of my children’s aunts, my bridesmaids, my emergency contacts, they’re all blurry. But I know exactly who they are.

If I were to cry, my tears would fall right into the shoulders of Avery, Claire, Jess, and Lilly.

If I were to cry, it would be as I’m taking photos with my classmate Jess in front of the Hussman school. It would be as we’re smiling down at our photographer, level with the classrooms where we learned what we love, as we hold an empty bottle of champagne in one hand and a dear friend in the other. It would be as I thought I was taking a picture but I was capturing a memory. Right when Jess squeezed my hand and her thought transferred right over to me… we did it. As her thoughts transferred and I saw years of memories flash in my brain of all the anxiety and excitement I experienced inside Carroll hall. That’s when tears would fall.

If I were to cry, it would not be as we popped open five bottles of La Marca. It reminds me of when Lilly, Claire and I had mimosas on the quad with girl scout cookies and a dream to have the best day ever. It reminds me that we are celebrating. Celebrating not just graduation, but the fact that somehow after only four years, there are some days when I look in the mirror and I see them staring back at me.

If I were to cry, it would not be as Lilly and I took our “roommate photo” in front of the bell tower. You know the photo. The one that doubles as the photo with the girl I’ve travelled the world with, worked my favorite jobs with, ordered Smith’s twists with, made a five-year plan with, and had my silliest adventures with. She is everything I ever wanted in a college best friend. She’s carried me through too many difficult times and held my hand through too many incredible experiences for me to be sad about this chapter ending rather than excited about what’s to come.

If I were to cry, it would not be as Avery and I smiled for the picture our elementary school teachers will get in the mail with a note that says “we’re still best friends.” I remember graduating fifth grade and it being the biggest deal ever. I was so worried. We were going to different MIDDLE schools. I would never see her again. I feel no worry in this moment. I know we will take this photo a million more times in our lives. She’s been by my side for too long for me to be sad about this chapter ending rather than excited about what’s to come.

If I were to cry, it would not be as Jess and I smiled at each other on the steps of Carroll hall cheers-ing our champagne bottles with the light blue label. It was only two years ago that we realized ad/pr would be the perfect track for her, too. It was only this year that we started using the phrase “share a brain stem” to explain our enigmatic ability to understand one another. She gets me in a way I don’t even get myself. She’s been meeting me where I’m at for too long for me to be sad about this chapter ending rather than excited about what’s to come.

If I were to cry, it would not be as Claire and I reminisced about our afternoon at the top of the bell tower the day before. “We’ll show our kids this book when we tailgate at football games together.” My ride or die. I would not cry with Claire in that moment because that would imply that I am sad. I feel no sadness when I am with Claire. I know some of our most joyous adventures and funny moments are those which have not yet happened. She’s been a source of happiness for too long for me to be sad about this chapter ending rather than excited about what’s to come.

If I were to cry, it would be because I feel so many different emotions. I will not cry today because I am not upset about this, I am so unbelievably grateful.

My vision may be blurry, but I am looking at our future. Today, I will simply smile for the picture.

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Meanwhile, my nanny page is doing wonders on NYC Care.com right now. The opportunity to live in my hometown with a nice job and a salary lingers in the back of my mind. My friend is going to Europe in May and wants me to come with her.

I might start my job sooner rather than later. I need an apartment by June but maybe by July and potentially by May. I’ll find out in three weeks unless it actually takes four. I might start my job later rather than sooner. That one firm still hasn’t —

Today we climb the sparkly blue Carolina bell tower. Tomorrow we have graduation photos in white dresses and light blue gowns. Friday is bar golf all along the road we grew up on. Saturday is filled with exciting firsts and exciting lasts.

Today we sign our names on a book filled with every Tar Heel who came before us. Tomorrow I hold the hands of the girls who got me through college and smile into the camera. Friday we hit every bar on Franklin St. Saturday we will wake up in our little green house and we will have no where to be but with each other.

Today we look out over the campus that we’ve fallen head over heels in love with in four years. Tomorrow we pop champagne to celebrate the ending of something none of us really want to end. Friday I’ll sneak in the back door of the restaurant where I’ve worked since I was 18 to have one final hurrah with my friends. Saturday I’ll role-play as a sorority girl with my BFFs that have taken me along to their Pi Phi events since we were freshmen.

Today I have work until 3:00 and class until 7:30. Tomorrow I have to meet with my group for my PR class and then present for my psychology class. Friday I’ll be interning and then forcing myself to study biology for my upcoming exam (wish me luck with that one). Saturday I’ll make sure to get that graphic up with enough of a buffer before I post specials the following day which is when I’ll be taking my exam and applying to at least four jobs and I need to —

Slow down.

Today I live two blocks away from my twin brother. Today we can make plans to go get drinks and be sat with those drinks in front of us in 20 minutes. Tomorrow I live under the same roof as my three best friends in the world. We are the last ones we say good night to and the first ones we say good morning to. Friday I get to day drink with no responsibilites other than looking cute and being nice. Saturday I get to be 22 and in college at the best university in the world.

In June I will live states away from my twin brother. In July I will live under a new roof, surely filled with new friends. In August I will work my a** off because that’s one thing I’ll always trust myself to do. In September I’ll be 23 and a graduate of the best university in the world.

Today that one firm still hasn’t gotten back to me. Today is the last day that looks like this.

I need to slow down.

One thing I know for sure is that today I don’t have it all figured out. One thing I know for sure is that once I have it all figured out tomorrow, I’m really going to miss today.

Let’s go play with our friends! Let’s apply to jobs in the morning! We have all the time in the world! And if we don’t then why does it even matter?

I mean look at this view!

“I’m going to be so tough love on you right now, you really really really need to take a breather” is what my best friend Jess said to me last week when I had my first real spiral from the stress of finding a job today. Thank you, Jess. I am in the process of a breather.

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So here I am. Back at the RDU bar. I think I like it here. I’m not an alcoholic, I promise. Plus, isn’t it a rule that you can’t be an alcoholic while you’re in college? Either way, not an alcoholic. Just a celebratory drinker! And I’ll celebrate anything.

This time we’re having a classy glass of Sauv Blanc. This glass is a little more yellow than I’d like but it’s chilled perfectly. What do I know about wine? Absolutely nothing. All I know is that the yellow SB tastes a little more sour and the clearer ones taste a little thicker. Anyone agree? My aunt Lucy taught me to love New Zealand Sauv Blanc, and we’ve noticed that most airports don’t carry that kind. She has also taught me that life is supposed to be fun. I like that type of living, it’s the kind that has me perched once again, at an airport bar.

In 20 minutes, I’ll accept a seat on the flight four hours later than mine in exchange for a month’s rent. I’ve never made a decision quicker in my life. Lucky girl syndrome! Thank you for overbooking that flight, Delta!

So I’m on my way to New York City. Four hours late, but it’s truly a blessing to be bored these days. Hello? An excuse to devour Suzanne Collins’s new book about HAYMITCH ABERNATHY while sipping a latte paid for by Delta airlines? Today is the best day ever.

I sip my latte and I flip the page in my gorgeous purple hardback I ordered to read with my friend Michael. He’s a faster reader than I am so it’s fantastic that I’m getting some sort of head start right now.

I sip my latte and explore the little shops along the terminal. I find the most perfect birthday card for my sweet and darling friend Sommer. Did you hear I’m going to New York? She lives there and tomorrow she turns OLD.

I sip my latte and write my little thoughts in my little periwinkle journal.

I sip my latte and I wonder about whether I’ll like the city. Spoiler alert: I did.

I sip my latte and smile at a text that informs me bottomless brunch reservations have already been made for Saturday.

I sip my latte and do the things I don’t want to do. I go through my biology homework.

I sip my latte and apply for a few jobs I’ve been eyeing. Yes, they’re all in NYC.

I sip my latte and flip a few more pages in this book that has me in a chokehold, just like its predecessors had on me at age 10.

I sip my latte and connect with one of my mentors in the city. She confirms our coffee date which confirms that networking is one of my favorite hobbies these days. Spoiler alert: she’s the best and so is the La Colombe strawberry mocha draft latte.

I finish my latte and I wander to my gate. I get on my flight and I wander to New York City. I land in the Big Apple and wonder if dreams really are what this place is made of. I wonder how to catch a cab.

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March 6th, 2025

Dear Diary,

Sasha Surkin made me cycle 12 miles on Tuesday. About 9 miles in, I realized it might not be the end of the world if Duke beats UNC on Saturday. Let’s talk about it.

It’s Tuesday evening and this morning I found out I have a phase one ticket to the UNC v. Duke basketball game. This means I’ll be one of the first people into the Dean Smith Center on gameday. I’m a senior, I’ve never even been to this game. Thank you, universe! Thank you, Carolina Athletics!

Last year, I waited outside for 9 hours to get a ticket after I didn’t win the lottery. It’s called the turn-it-back line. Anyone who receives a ticket and can’t go to the game can choose to turn their ticket back into the system. Those tickets are awarded to a line of students who wait outside from 9-5 the day before the game.

I’d become friends with all the hopeful individuals around me. The bell tower rang at 5 p.m. and the person in front of me got the last ticket. The Carolina alma mater played from the bell tower in the background as the rest of us went home and accepted that we wouldn’t be at that game.

I’m grocery shopping when I find out I recieved a ticket this year. Smile plastered on my face, I call my dad first. We love Carolina basketball. Anything can happen, he tells me.

I hope we beat Duke. I hope we crush Duke. I want to rush Franklin St. with my friends one last time. I want to cheer as the buzzer sounds and RJ Davis celebrates his last win on his home court. We need to beat Duke. They have to lose.

Cut to me and my friends at the game…

The third song playing in my UNC v. Duke themed cyclebar class is Swag Surfin’. Sasha (remember Sasha? My new acquaintance-turned-friend and enthusiastic spin instructor?) asks the Duke fans in the room if they play this song in their stadium, too. It turns out they do. I thought that was a UNC thing.

Sasha’s talking about how we are better because of competition, how we drive each other forward. Let’s be grateful for such a rivalry, that forces greatness amongst us all. That’s very mature, Sasha. I think I’d like Duke to lose by 30 and for there to be no greatness in their team at all. Wouldn’t I?

I guess not. I guess I’d rather it be a good game. I guess I’d rather us scrape by and beat them by a few points after both teams proved what a significant win it would be to beat the other.

I don’t want Duke to win. Although I have a few good friends on their side, I’ll probably never be that big of a person. But I’m glad they’re good. I’m glad we push each other forward, as my friend says. I’m glad their fans also get to listen to Swag Surfin’. I’m glad they also get to experience the pure bliss of beating their rival every once in a while (in a blue moon, really). I’m glad I don’t have to sleep in a tent.

I’m pedaling my little heart out in this class. The studio is in Chapel Hill, of course the UNC fans are dominating the room. The girl in front of me wears a Duke shirt. The couple in the front row pumped their fists when Sasha asked who was cheering for the darker blue. They’re all pedaling hard, too.

So I guess it’s okay. We’re just cheering for blue. I’m cheering for Carolina blue, but if Duke happens to go all the way this year, at least they’re still blue. Go Heels, GTH Duke, and thank you for this rivalry.

And I really hope we beat you guys.

Xoxo,

Grace

P.S. you can’t be mad at me for this take… you are reading my diary.

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Just beneath the sunroof is my sunglasses holder. There’s two stickers peeling off of it. One reads I Voted! It’s from the first presidential election I ever got to vote in, the first and only one where I’ve selected the winning candidate. My mom took me, and it reminds me that we always have a choice and we always have power. The other sticker is orange and it shouts I got my COVID-19 vaccine! I was a nanny during the pandemic, so I was grateful to be amongst some of the first individuals to receive the shot that opened our world back up. I’m proud of these stickers.

My rear view mirror has a few trinkets dangling from its stem. A multi-colored elephant that is slightly faded from years of direct sunlight. Kate brought him back for me from Thailand when she went our sophomore year of high school. My brother would throw him in the backseat every time I hung him up during the year we shared this car.

Next is a gold chain holding a purple crystal encased in silver wire. I found the chain on the floor at my part-time job at Cold Stone Creamery in high school. It was so pretty, but not pretty enough to wear. Perfect for holding the sodalite crystal I’d purchased from the shop where Delaney and I got our palms read that year. There’s nothing like the year before going to college. I wanted to know every answer to every question I had about my future. The sodalite was supposed to bring protection and good conversation. It did the trick for many years. The kid I babysit took it one day and eventually he told me he was sorry he lost it. I didn’t have the heart to be upset with him over it. The silver case sat empty for a few months and now it has a purple stone that’s supposed to bring inner peace. I’m not sure I believe in any of that anymore but it’s fun to think about.

There’s a parking pass for Durham Tech hanging off the mirror as well. I need it for my monday night biology class.

On my windshield, there’s a sticker on the bottom left corner that says Uncommon Wilmington. It’s my parking sticker from the summer I spent at the beach. It says 2022-2023 right in the center, so there’s no arguing it’s expired. I can’t seem to pull it off, though. Why does it feel like throwing away one of the best places I’ve lived?

On the top left corner, theres a Meineke service sticker. It reads that I’m slightly overdue for… an oil change? An inspection? For someone who prides herself on being both incredibly independent and solution-oriented, when it comes to servicing my car, I only have five words. Let me call my Dad.

There’s a little shelf above my glove compartment. A blue hair clip and a black hair clip sit on top of it. I bought the black one a while ago and I keep forgetting to bring it inside. The blue one belongs to Lilly, the passenger seat belongs to her. She rides shotgun most often and she’s good at it. All I care about is that the volume has to be on a multiple of 5 and someone else handles the music. She’ll tell me where to go and I trust she’ll always lead us to an adventure.

There’s a Carolina sticker on my back windshield. It’s cute and the font looks sort of retro. Jess has the same one on her car.

The wheel on the back of the CRV says Honda and there’s an incredibly faded, 6-year-old “R” sticker placed in front of it. Now it reads RHonda. My brother and I fought over the name for weeks after our 16th birthday but once the sticker was placed, there was nothing I could do. She was Rhonda.

Below the spare tire, there’s a little red paint and a small dent from the fender-bender that gave me a concussion three years ago. It’s not a big story and it wasn’t that bad of a concussion. But it’s the reason I’m not a student athlete and the reason James Rolf and I love the song Castaway by Zac Brown Band.

That’s Rhonda. She’s 20 years old. I grew up with her. The woman who became a grandma to me drove her first. My nana. Our babysitter from before I could walk.

I was driven to school in that car, I played in the backseat with my brother in that car, I kicked the seat in front of me and hid trinkets in the little pockets all over.

Then I drove to school in that car, I played in the front seat with my brother in that car, I pressed the gas and hid trinkets in the little pockets all over.

Now I drive to work in this car, I play in the front seat with everyone I love, I press the brake and I cherish my trinkets hidden in the little pockets all over.

What a wonderful life it is to drive a 2005 Honda CRV named Rhonda. What a wonderful life it is to love so many people in one vehicle. What a privilege it is to grow up. Here’s to the best car ever. May I always drive a Honda that feels like Rhonda.

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