Love, transforming

When I was five years old, my mother told me that her father visited her in rainbows. 

He fought cancer for three years, his once-strong body weakened by bad cells and chemotherapy. The air was cold when we buried him, and the rain didn’t help. I sniffled so much that my scratchy coat sleeve rubbed my nose raw.

I don’t remember his voice, and only know his face through pictures, but I smile when I see a rainbow. I like to think he visits me, too. So you’re up there looking out for me, Paw Paw.

Rainbows come to me when I need them most. I can spot them with ease, no matter how faded the colors are on the murky gray backdrop of clouds. I snap a picture, say “hi, there,” and go on with my day with a lightness in my chest. 

“That’s where I love you,” I think. “You’re not alone there, in the sky.”

My father’s mother died when I was fourteen. She was made a grandmother at a young age, her face not yet wrinkled by time and sun exposure. She didn’t think she was old enough to be called any traditional grandparent name. I called her Mim.

“It’s what the British call their grandmothers,” she said.  

She had an affinity for British culture. My mom painted her a table with a union jack on it, and she worshiped reality TV so long as they had English accents. Eccentric was probably the best word to describe her. I think having an eccentric Mim is crucial to developing a good personality. She would agree.

Mim died of a heart attack one early December morning. It was two weeks until Christmas. The gifts she bought my sisters and I were neatly wrapped in her bedroom. I still haven’t opened mine for fear of losing what I have left of her. When we cleaned out her apartment, I took her copy of My Life at Grey Gardens and an encyclopedia of British rulers.

She comes to me now as a cardinal, bright red and stark against the Mississippi flora. I don’t see her much, but I turn on a Fleetwood Mac song when I do. She deserves good music, even as a bird. 

Sometimes the grief catches up to me at strange times. My grief isn’t reserved for the dead, either. I grieve seeing my mother every day, and the feeling of optimism in my heart. I grieve my nephew’s infancy, and my relationship with my younger sister. I grieve myself. 

When it finds me, whether I’m typing away at work or turning in bed, it suffocates the air around me. I cannot listen to Gratitude by Brandon Lake or Lava Lamp by Cuco. I hate the smell of Glossier You. I can’t stomach Mike’s Hard Lemonade. 

Sometimes it finds me on a quiet, unremarkable day. Then again, so do rainbows and cardinals. The two used to be one in the same, a reminder that the person I missed is no longer there. Grief and love are two sides of the same coin. You cannot love something without eventually grieving it. That love has changed both you and itself, no matter how hard you kick and scream and oppose it. 

Love is little red birds and refractions of light. Love is fleeing an auditorium because a certain song starts playing. Love is hiding tears at your desk because you remembered them. Love is grief.

Love is transforming.

You might not like her, but I do

I’ve known God my entire life. He wasn’t a looming threat or some fearful boogeyman. I spoke to Him nightly, confided my fears in Him. The idea of His presence was reassuring, like an old friend or mentor.

I was born and bred in the heart of the Bible Belt. I attended church twice weekly and measured my years in passion plays. With pigtails and ivory dresses, I was the picture of childhood purity and faith. I played an angel in a Christmas pageant, the foil halo catching onto my hair as I sang “O Come All Ye Faithful.”

I got baptized at eight years old. The lukewarm water covering my face felt like a rebirth, and I wore my damp hair to Pizza Hut with pride. Look how good I am, I thought. I’m doing this right. Be proud of me.

My marble pillar of righteousness started to crumble when I developed a crush on my childhood best friend Taylor. I was 11 years old. I knew gay people existed, especially since there was legislation going around legalizing gay marriage, but I never considered the possibility in myself.

I think I’d like to kiss her, I thought to myself as I watched Taylor grabbing construction paper for a project. She was boy crazy, always talking about what guy she had a crush on or thought she would marry one day. I hadn’t had that happen to me yet. I hadn’t ever gotten blushy because a cute boy was sitting next to me. Never even thought of kissing. I thought that maybe I lacked that aspect of maturity. Until I felt that urge with Taylor.

I would get jealous if she made a new friend, or talked too much about a boy. I would roll my eyes as we sat on the floor of her bedroom and she fantasized about what middle school would have in store for us romantically. I technically had a boyfriend at the time, but we were really just glorified best friends. 

I stopped being friends with Taylor in middle school, and broke up with the guy I was dating.

When I was 13 or so I Googled “am I gay?”

According to the Buzzfeed-esque quiz I took, I was. When I told a friend about it, she said “Just don’t tell my dad. He won’t let me be friends with you.” My face flushed and I suppressed my results and my feelings. 

I sat on the pews every Sunday and felt like an imposter. Like God would strike me down for stepping into His holy house while full of sin, or like the preacher could sense I was wrong somehow. I stopped going.

In freshman year of college, I went on a date with a girl. If I don’t like it, then I’ve been wrong, I thought as we watched a cheesy Halloween movie. I’ll be normal.

We ended up making out in her dorm. The feeling of her fingers disheveling my hair wasn’t something I hated. As I took the elevator down to my car, adorned with hickeys from a girl, I had the horrible realization that I was not normal.

I spent the next few days in a panic, like the fading purple marks on my skin were a branding that I was impure, unclean. I sobbed in my bed, begging God to fix me, begging for a different feeling. I wanted to be different. I wanted to be worthy of His love.

Even worse, I couldn’t imagine telling my parents. Would they disown me? Would they try to change me, make me normal? Would they hate me? I only thought of the worst.

I couldn’t get the words out to my mom when I tried to tell her. I brought up a childhood acquaintance who was gay, whose mom she used to be friends with.

“How do you think his mom felt when he came out?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she responded. “She seems fine with it now.”

“How would you feel if one of us came out?” I said, my voice low and wavering.

She looked confused, then softened when she saw my demeanor. “I’d still love you just the same.”

When I sputtered out the words, “I’m bisexual,” she wrapped me in a hug. I was a puddle of tears by then, of course, but we talked for a good while about it. She listened, and still accepted me. Nothing about our relationship changed.

The first question a few people had for me was, “But you’re a Christian, right?”

It took me aback every time. It reminded me of those repressed nights I spent crying into my pillow and begging for God to change the way I loved. Usually, I’d feign a smile and say I still am, but it didn’t stop the feeling of shame every time I walked into a church or spoke with my childhood pastor. I feared that God would strike me down for my impiety if I went into church, so I stopped going.

A year or so passed, the girl that I went on a date with became an ex-girlfriend, and I was dating a guy. I felt secure in my bisexual identity, even in a straight-presenting relationship. It only bugged me a little bit when people would ask if I’m still bisexual.

My best friend invited me to go to her church with her. Her fiance (at the time) was delivering a sermon, and it meant a lot to them if I tagged along.

The church was just a house, and the ministers were two cool middle-aged parents who gave us food and talked about the gigs their son played. I held the old mug they let me use with my palms, feeling that same shame I always felt in religious settings. I stared out the large windows of the historic home, watching cars pass by, turning on their headlights to combat the growing dark of evening. I wished my brain had headlights in that moment, illuminating the dark of spiraling thoughts that I was quickly succumbing to.

The sermon started, and it felt simultaneously more casual and more intimate than any religious service I had ever attended. We sat in jeans and socks, singing worship songs and praying. Chad, cool minister number one, led the prayers. He first gave a general prayer, then prayed over a specific member of the congregation who needed it.

I didn’t realize I was crying. I felt embarrassed for my tears, looking away from my friend as Chad prayed for forgiveness from people who the church has wronged. I had never heard a pastor ask for such, and the small gesture made me cry.

I spoke with Chad after, and told him that it meant a lot to me that he acknowledged that the church can, in fact, do wrong. That was why he started their home church, he said. He disliked the way churches turned away sinners (or those they deemed sinners), rather than embracing them with God’s love.

I still didn’t consistently attend any churches after that, feeling too much like the prodigal son when returning. I attended a few sermons at my childhood church, as my sister was a part of their praise band. I still hung on the words, but found my voice quiet during worship and my hands fumbling when trying to find Bible pages. 

When deep in a depressive episode, I became desperate and prayed. I didn’t even remember how to do it. I started the prayer with, “I know we don’t talk much, and I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry I only pray when I want something.” 

I felt like the little girl dangling her feet off of the pews, longing for approval and acknowledgement. Did He hear my prayers and think, “Oh great, her again”? Did He even bother to hear them?

I think He does hear them. To me, in my all-knowing, twenty-something year old wisdom, God is not someone who rolls His eyes at those returning to Him. Faith is not some straight line that no one stumbles upon when they walk it. Without doubt or hesitance, is the belief truly there? 

I have eventually come to believe that God made me the way that I am with intention. Who am I to regret that intention? I may not understand the path that He has laid out for me, but I want to live my life as truthfully as possible. My faith has faltered, and I still seem to be finding my place in the church (if I even have a place there). I have my own relationship with God. I pray. I ask forgiveness. I’m flawed.

I have grown to love who I have become. You might not like her, but I do.

Top 10 albums that got me through 2024

10. The Good Witch - Maisie Peters

Release date: June 23, 2023

Genre: pop

Length: 47 minutes

I found this album on TikTok (I know, a cardinal sin), and she’s become a little more well known since I first started listening to her in January or so of this year. This album is VERY poppy. Like if Taylor Swift, Gracie Abrams and Ed Sheeran (weirdly enough) had a little British baby. Maisie is a lyricist first and foremost, with bridges that are reminiscent of a Taylor Swift song and a production that gives a little bit of 2010s nostalgia. There are a few standouts, and a few that can go without a listen. She is an acquired taste, with unique usage of time signature and beats. If you do like pop, have been through a recent breakup and know some culture references, give her a listen.

Favorite song: “There It Goes”

9. The Tortured Poets Department - Taylor Swift

Release date: April 19, 2024

Genre: pop

Length: 2 hours 2 minutes

I am also surprised this is low on the list! I am a lifelong Swiftie (seriously, I was repping her in 2006 at the ripe age of 3), and I look forward to her drops like they’re the second coming of Christ. This is an album that has to marinate and grow on you, though. It’s not a one and done listen. Taylor hops between depressing ballads and synth-pop tunes quicker than you can say “Travis Kelce”. It was a bit jarring on first listen, and the sound is new to her. She was experimental! I like that she is sort of trying new things and really leaning into the vibe of TTPD. That being said, I was hoping for a different sound for this one. Was that my own fault? Yes. In Taylor we trust.

Favorite song: “thanK you aIMee”

8. The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess - Chappell Roan

Release date: September 22, 2023

Genre: pop

Length: 49 minutes

I first fell in love with Chappell Roan’s music in 2021 or so, when she released “Pink Pony Club”. Her music is fun and the way she performs is so captivating. She goes all in on the character. I followed all of her single drops, and was stoked when she released TRAFOAMP. It’s an amazing album. With 80s synth pop and a carefree attitude, this album is perfect for summer listening. Her skyrocket to fame was unexpected, but I’m here for it. She deserves all the flowers.

Favorite song: “Casual”

7. The Secret of Us - Gracie Abrams

Release date: June 21, 2024

Genre: pop

Length: 47 minutes

Controversial opinion: I love Gracie Abrams’ music. I’ve loved her since she released the “minor” EP. Her lyrics are, like Maisie, reminiscent of Taylor Swift. I know the whisper-pop thing isn’t for everyone, but please give her a chance. Her music is catchy and her lyricism is amazing. I also just love anything that is produced by Aaron Dessner. Her first album was great, this album is great. Listen to Gracie’s music.

Favorite song: “I Knew It, I Know You”

6. Guts - Olivia Rodrigo

Release date: September 8, 2023

Genre: pop

Length: 39 minutes

Oh, Olivia. Your music always wows me. She didn’t just skip the sophomore slump… she obliterated it. This album, in my humble opinion, surpasses her first one. With teenage angst galore and the fear of imminently getting older, Olivia perfectly encapsulates what it’s like to be a 20-something year old girl. I could listen to this album on loop forever.

Favorite song: “making the bed”

5. the record - boygenius

Release date: March 31, 2023

Genre: alternative indie

Length: 42 minutes

When you combine Julien Baker, Lucy Dacus and Phoebe Bridgers, you get a very happy bisexual music lover. The album is both heart-wrenching and smash-your-guitar invoking. Like, I want to simultaneously punch someone and sob in my mother’s arms. How can someone make music that good?

Favorite song: “Letter to an Old Poet”

4. Stick Season (Forever) - Noah Kahan

Release date: February 9, 2024

Genre: indie folk

Length: 2 hours

I will go ahead and say that every album from this point onward is a 10 out of 10 in my eyes. the record was a 9, and would have been a 10 if they put “Voyager” on the original tracklist. Noah Kahan is an amazing performer, singer, songwriter, guitar player, braids-haver, you name it. He makes the best music for depressed people. It’s like anti-Zoloft and I love it. His ability to make me feel like I am in a small New England town is amazing. Great day to have seasonal depression.

Favorite song: “Growing Sideways”

3. Preacher’s Daughter - Ethel Cain

Release date: May 12, 2022

Genre: indie rock

Length: 1 hour 15 minutes

Do you want to have the most traumatizing and cathartic 1 hour and 15 minutes of your life? Give Preacher’s Daughter a listen. I have never heard someone so masterfully craft a story and narrative in a concept album before. With a mix of heavy guitars, haunting vocals and eerie melodies, Hayden Anhedonia has created an absolute masterpiece. I cannot wait to see what else she makes.

Favorite song: “Strangers”

2. Unreal Unearth - Hozier

Release date: August 18, 2023

Genre: alternative indie

Length: 1 hour 2 minutes

If you have ever wanted to travel through the seven circles of hell, now’s your chance! Unreal Unearth is based on Dante’s Inferno, with Hozier telling the stories of those condemned (not counting the interlude “Son of Nyx”). The songwriting will blow you away, and his voice is like pure silk. He is one of my all-time favorite artists, and this is probably one of my all-time favorite albums.

Favorite song: “Abstract (Psychopomp)” or “Unknown/Nth”

1. songs - Adrianne Lenker

Release date: October 23, 2020

Genre: indie folk

Length: 39 minutes

Adrianne Lenker writes pure gold. Her music is poetry, and the simple guitar that accompanies them is just enough to make them some of the best things I’ve ever heard. It’s simple, but mindblowing. I’m a lyrics over production girlie, and this satisfies that need in every single way. Just sit down, turn on this album and be prepared to feel a lot of big feelings.

Favorite song: “anything”

To those I used to know

I had a best friend all throughout high school. I won’t say her real name, so we will call her Holly. Holly and I were joined at the hip. At school events, we would huddle together on the bleachers, making fun of whatever happened or laughing at videos on our phones. We played the Sims and pretended like we knew how to do makeup. Lana Del Rey’s “Born To Die” album was the soundtrack of our teen years.

We met for ice cream last month. I wore an outfit I never would have dared to in high school. I drove my own car there and listened to Lana Del Rey for nostalgia. I hadn’t seen her in three years, not since our high school graduation. 

I remembered it. I had been an online student for my entire senior year because my mom is immunocompromised and I am an introvert. I also had no friends to spend the senior year with. So why would I bother? Everyone thought I had just homeschooled instead and was surprised to see me at graduation. I got a picture with a few of the people I remained acquaintances with and we talked about Dungeons & Dragons. 

I saw Holly there. I wasn’t quite myself yet, so I didn’t talk to her. I was scared that we had ended on bad terms I was not aware of, so I went to see my family instead.

She reached out to me early this year. We had brief exchanges of ‘you look great’s or ‘I love that game’s, but hadn’t had a real conversation in four years.

So we met for ice cream. It was awkward at first. We didn’t know how to talk to each other anymore. I am not 16 years old. I am nearly 21. 

I’m proud of her still. She has grown, just like I have. She is not 16 years old. She is 21. She is doing good things with her life. She has a good support system. She has fun. She has grown without me. And I am proud of it rather than sad.

We are planning on hanging out again soon. I had to re-give her my phone number. Maybe we can get to know each other as adults.

My childhood best friend was a girl named Taylor (not really, but you get the gist). We met when I was the new kid in third grade. I’d just transferred from a tiny public school to a sizable county school. I didn’t know anyone. I sat at lunch with a girl I didn’t know that well and moved seats when she puked on my sneakers.

I don’t remember how me and Taylor started hanging out, but we were fast friends. We basically lived at each other’s houses. Her grandmother was like my own. I tried Starbucks for the first time with her. That’s a big deal for a basic white girl like myself.

We went through a lot together, but we remained the strongest of friends. Most pictures of me between age 9 and age 13 have her in them in some way. We always made sure we were in the same class (her grandmother worked at the school, so we did utilize a bit of nepotism). 

We talked about boys and tried to learn to do makeup and painted each others’ nails. We played stupid long games of truth or dare. We were basically sisters. We couldn’t wait to get older and be able to go out by ourselves. We were girls together.

She has a baby now. I sent her a gift when he was born, but had to text her grandmother to ask for her address. We haven’t seen each other since 8th grade.

I decided it wasn’t cool to hang out with her anymore, since a more popular girl wanted to be my friend. She ate lunch with a mutual friend for about a month before transferring schools.

I didn’t feel guilty about what I did until a similar thing happened to me. It wasn’t a good thing to do. I know that. I was thirteen, but I knew better.

She seems like a wonderful mother. I’ve never met her son, but he is adorable and has the cutest chubby cheeks. I hope he liked the toy I sent him.

I have another friend, let’s call her Melanie. Melanie was my soul sister in ninth grade. We just clicked. We spent the night together and watched Riverdale and went to the mall together (unattended!). We took selfies in school bathrooms and she would help me fix my hair in seventh period. 

Being 14-years-old is hard enough as is, but having Melanie helped me more than she knows. She moved to Indiana the next year. I missed her so much, and we messaged and kept up with each other through Facebook and Snapchat. 

She still texts me “happy birthday” and sends me the Snapchat memories she gets of us. 

“Omg, we were babies!” was my most recent response to a picture of us with a very dated dog filter on. 

My saving grace in 11th grade was a boy I’ll call Devin. Devin was my best friend when I needed it most. I was the most alone I’d ever been. Holly and I weren’t talking anymore and I would either skip lunch in the bathroom or eat with my favorite teacher. We had mutual friends, but he noticed when I disappeared from the lunchroom.
He started eating in the classroom with me. He would bring his Nintendo Switch and he would always beat me in Smash Bros. He tried to teach me how to play Yu-Gi-Oh! and I never caught on. We came up with a Dungeons & Dragons campaign. Devin helped me beat the permeating loneliness of being friendless in high school.

Devin and I don’t talk anymore. I ran into him in the GUC the other day and it was distant.

I still carry pieces of every person I have ever known. I still play the Sims because Holly showed it to me. I eat Tostino’s Pizza Rolls because I tried them for the first time with Taylor and we loved them. I still have the perfume I bought while at the mall with Melanie. I play as the character that I made for Devin’s D&D campaign.

I crack jokes that old friends made first. I massage a popcorn bag before putting it in because a girl I went to elementary school with said that it gets butterier that way. I keep Marco’s ranch in my refrigerator just in case my best friend Brooke comes by and wants some. I hate ranch. I read text out loud in movies and TV shows because my mom can’t see it well from the couch. I didn’t even notice I did it until my boyfriend told me it’s cute when I do. 

I am more than myself. I am a mosaic of all that have loved me and all that will love me. When I hate myself, I hate the combination of thousands of years of love. When I get aggravated at something I do, it’s probably something I gained from an old friend or a distant relative. 

I am me because someone loved me.

You were more than just a short time

I wasn’t sad when I graduated high school. I had a new chapter to start. Something fresh and exciting and my own. I was finally an adult, the one thing I spent my whole life wanting to be.

Three years later, I am graduating college. And I am sad. 

How can I describe my experience? How can I sum up roughly 1,100 days in a page of words? It feels like such a small amount. 

I started college in fall of 2021. I felt like a kid getting pushed into the deep end. I was going into a field I wasn’t crazy about -- I always wanted to be a creative. As many of you know, I began volunteering at the newspaper that same semester. It was life changing! I loved being a writer. I still do, even when facing endless burnout. I changed my major to journalism in the midst of a heavy heartbreak in fall of 2022. That semester was hard. I started therapy and felt like I had no safe space other than my home. I cried in my car at the end of every day. I only had four friends, and three of them were my two sisters and mom. My career wouldn’t go further than news editor, despite the fact that I constantly tried to prove myself to people who, at their core, hated me. 

God gave me a barrage of tests between August and November 2022. It made me stronger. It made me softer. It made me never want to make someone feel the same way I did. I almost transferred to University of Tennessee-Chattanooga and moved in with my dad, but I had the few people who were in my corner telling me to stay. I am so grateful I did. I love this place, despite the people who made it a living hell for four months. All those times you were throwing punches, it was for nothing. Sucks to suck.

I have a lot of thank yous to give, so bear with me. And sit tight. You just might pop up.

The biggest thanks will always go to my mother. You’re a mama bear. You will go to bat for me, even if I’m wrong (and I often am). I am grateful to have you as my best friend. While I am excited for what my future holds, you’re always there to listen when I need to admit I’m scared. You have proofread most everything I have written (so you’re basically an honorary Flor-Ala editor by now, them’s the rules). I have been supported so heavily by you that it makes my heart just burst with love. I love you to the stars and back, Mommy. You mean the world to me. Thank you for always holding my hand when I need it.

My sisters have been my rock for as long as we’ve all been breathing. 

Jordan, you’re the most logical of us all and thank God one of us knows what we’re doing. You’re the bravest person I know, and you’re stronger than you think. I still cannot believe you trusted me to be your maid of honor at 18 because, let’s be honest, I couldn’t even buy you wine if you wanted it. When I was a kid, I always looked up to you (both literally and figuratively). I still do. You’re my blueprint, so we’re both screwed if you mess up. Jokes aside, I don’t know where I’d be without you. I can’t wait for what both of our futures hold.

Elliott, I have already dedicated my best opinion piece to you, but I thought I’d say a little more. Every day, you make me proud to be your big sister. You’ve survived so much more than I could and still came out with beautiful humanity. You have a gorgeous spirit and a connection with God that I envy. You are strong and kind and funny and extremely talented. Don’t let anyone ever tell you you’re not good enough, because you are more than enough. You’re going to be up on stage with Megan Moroney one day, I just know it. 

You both deserve the world, and I love you.

My dad isn’t getting off the hook either. You’ve been a huge supporter of my writing career, and know when to tell me what I need to hear (no matter how bluntly). We’ve bonded over silly things like Game Of Thrones and The Last Of Us, which has been a light in the darkness. Thanks for always being there. Love you!

Karl, this one’s for you. I met you in that cursed semester I mentioned earlier. You brought the color back to my face and the light into my eyes. You showed me a feeling I had never felt before: true love. Corny, I know, but it’s true! You’ve been a breath of fresh air in my life. I can’t wait to start our life together. We’re two halves of a whole idiot. Thank you for showing me parts of yourself you haven’t shared with anyone else, and allowing me to do the same. Also thanks for showing me Naruto. I love that show. And I happen to also love you. You get the best boyfriend award.

Brookie, you are my soul sister. You were the managing editor while I was a volunteer and once I was promoted to news editor. You also promoted me to best friend (see what I did there?). I think I would have lost my mind in college without you there for most of it. You taught me a lot. Like how to use InDesign, and when it’s okay to act unhinged to get back at your ex. I knew the way, and I got the map from you. It feels redundant to tell another person I love them, but I love you.

Cathy! How would I have done it without you? I am so glad that I didn’t have to do this alone, and that I am graduating early so I don’t have to spend a semester without you as an adviser. Thank you for covering my meals when we would have breakfast meetings at BBB. Thank you for listening to me when I felt like no one wanted to hear my voice. You didn’t just hear it. You amplified it. Thank you for reassuring me that I am fierce. I still wear the bracelet you gave me. 

Kelley, you are the best managing editor a girl could ask for. It has been amazing to see you grow along with me. You’ve blossomed into an amazing person and leader. You’ve been the level head and reliable person I needed. You are going to make this newspaper even better.

Trenedy, I am so glad you didn’t secretly hate me when we started working together. You’ve become, what I consider to be, a very, very good friend of mine. You are a kickass writer, and you’re going to go so far. I am grateful I’ve had a role in the journalist you’re becoming. You better send me your articles when you get your internship. I’ll always be cheering you on. And, seriously, make a blog.

To the rest of my staff, it has been a privilege to be your editor. You are all so incredibly talented. You will all flourish without me. I am always here if you need to talk, need advice, or want to use me as a reference. 

Audrey, thank you for laying out a blueprint for me, even if I didn’t follow it. You shaped the journalist I’ve become. Even though I know you didn’t intend to at all, you empowered me to become an advocate for myself and others. So thanks for that!

Dr. Sanders, I have learned so much not just from your classes, but also from the way you lead. You hold me accountable (like for the absences I racked up), and show me that women can be powerful leaders. You have been a great supporter of the freedom of student media, and we all thank you for that.

Mr. Taylor (or Kevin, or Mr. Kevin… I’m still not sure what to directly address you as), thank you for showing me how a real-world journalist works. Being in your newsroom was the highlight of my college experience, and I hope to be someone’s Kevin one day. You encouraged me when I needed it, and steered me in the right direction when I went off track. You helped reaffirm that I wanted to be a journalist, and I wanted to be in news writing. I am a bulldog, and I learned it from you.

Dr. Bates, though I am no longer in psychology, I still learned a lot from you. 1) That it’s okay to admit when you are overwhelmed, 2) that psychological research is very fun and 3) that I am capable of so much more than I ever thought. You’re still one of my favorite professors, even if your tests were really hard. The way you teach shows that you love what you do, and that made me love it. I know I’m not going to save the world, but I can certainly try.

James Spann, thank you for letting an amateur reporter interview you for their college newspaper. That interview I did with you catapulted my journalistic career and it’s still a very fun story to tell today.

Nana, thank you for reading every newspaper I have written in. Your support means the world to me. I love you.

First Lady Kitts, thank you for warmly welcoming me into your home not once, but twice. You always made me feel comfortable and welcome, and you are a very fun interview. If you could, please pet Allie for me. She’s a very good girl.

I know there are people I have forgotten to thank. I’m sure I’ll read over this and kick myself for leaving someone off, but that doesn’t mean I’m not grateful. I have had the privilege of having a wonderful college experience that has taught me more than I could put into words. I will miss the Flor-Ala. I’ll miss goofy Wednesday meetings and the rush of production night. I’ll miss walking into the Pubs Building and feeling like I’m home. 

I will miss it all. It was three years, but it was more than a short time. This year I’ve had as editor-in-chief has been more than I ever thought it could be. 

So to you, reader, thank you. Thank you for supporting student journalism. Thank you for (inadvertently) supporting a 20-year-old girl’s dreams of writing and telling people’s stories. Thank you.

Why are we scared of adaptations?

Everyone was talking about “Anyone But You” about a year ago. You know, the Sydney Sweeney and Glen Powell romcom that had cheating rumors circulating because their chemistry was just that good. Did you know it was an adaptation of Shakespeare’s “Much Ado About Nothing”? 

“Anyone But You” is far from the first movie to do this — it’s just the most recent. The ‘90s hit “Clueless” is also an adaptation of a classic. Any guesses? It’s Jane Austen’s “Emma” with a beautifully preppy (and wonderfully ‘90s) backdrop. 

To give you a little breakdown of the main players: Cher is Emma, Tai is Harriet and Josh is Mr. Knightley. The funniest thing is that it’s a fairly faithful adaptation. Although, most people don’t know that they’re the same story at first glance because it’s not advertised as an “Emma” adaptation. It’s “Clueless.” 

To show you just how prominent this is, I will rapid fire some other movies you may not know are versions of classics. “She’s The Man” is Shakespeare’s “Twelfth Night,” “10 Things I Hate About You” is Shakespeare’s “Taming Of The Shrew,” “Bridget Jones’ Diary” is Jane Austen’s “Pride & Prejudice,” “She’s All That” is Bernard Shaw’s “Pygmalion,” “O Brother, Where Art Thou” is Homer’s “The Odyssey” and “The Lion King” is literally just Shakespeare’s “Hamlet” with animals in Africa rather than royals in Denmark. 

Some more out there ones (which are more theory than fact) are the 2004 Spongebob Squarepants Movie being “The Odyssey” and Nickelodeon’s “Barnyard” being a loose adaptation of George Orwell’s “Animal Farm.”

I do love the way that people can constantly innovate and adapt a story to fit modern principles and ideals, but why can’t we just admit that’s what we’re doing? I would have watched “Anyone But You” way sooner if I knew it was an adaptation of my favorite Shakespeare play. I love a good romcom. I love Shakespeare. It’s even better when the two combine. The only real indication they give that it’s “Much Ado About Nothing” is in the end credits. I had to wait until the end credits for confirmation! 

Movies and classic literature aren’t the only ones to do this. Film studios are absolutely terrified to admit that something is a movie musical. Like, they will do just about anything but admit that a film they are releasing is just a musical. 

“Mean Girls” is an absolutely amazing 2004 movie. I grew up loving it and quoting nearly every line. You know what “Mean Girls” also is? A really, really good 2018 musical that I fell in love with as a teenager. I was thrilled when I found out the musical was being adapted into a movie. Movie musicals aren’t always my jam — I prefer the stage plays — but I would more than willingly sit through a new version of one of my favorite movies… especially if Renée Rapp was playing Regina George. 

Imagine my surprise when the trailer mentions nothing about being a literal musical outside of Rapp’s delivery of “My name is Regina George…” and a faint allusion to the fact that the 2024 flick is “a new twist” on the original. 

Audiences were blindsided by the fact they were watching a musical instead of a fresh new version of “Mean Girls.” Musicals aren’t for everyone. People should not be forced to watch something they know they won’t like just because a company wants some sweet, sweet box office revenue. 

Two other new movies are also musicals with no marketing mentioning being a musical at all. “The Color Purple” released in late 2023 with an amazing cast that has some serious vocal talent. The trailer does not say a word about music. What it does say is something along the lines of it being “a fresh new take.” Just say what it actually is: a damn good musical. 

I didn’t know “Wonka” was a musical until my boyfriend played Timothée Chalamet’s version of “Pure Imagination.” Okay, fine, “Pure Imagination” is in every version of Roald Dahl’s “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,” but “Wonka” has more songs! Enough to categorize it as a musical! Their Wikipedia page calls it a musical fantasy because it is. 

Something that really, truly grated on my nerves is this particular quote from Paramount Studios’ president of global marketing Marc Weinstock: “[Mean Girls] is a broad comedy with music. Yes, it could be considered a musical but it appeals to a larger audience.”

Marc, I’m going to level with you here. If it is an adaptation of a Broadway show, it is 100% a musical. It’s like saying an omelet could be considered an egg, but there’s bacon and cheese in it, too, so it’s really just bacon and cheese. 

I would love it if studios started embracing their movies for what they are. Oh, it’s another adaptation of “Romeo and Juliet?” Okay, cool! It’s a movie musical that has a following already due to its stage shows? Sick! You’ve got built in fans. 

There are ways to market films without stripping them of the main parts of their identity. I know that. I just wish studios would catch up.

Depression is more than mental

I have a growing apathy for the things that I love. It isn’t that I don’t love them anymore, I just lose the spark that was once there. 

I was an artist as a kid. I filled entire sketchbooks in months, and had folders full of digital art that never seemed to end. I would make characters quicker than you could say their name and write stories perfectly tailored to them. My love for drawing ran deep. 

Nowadays, I’m lucky if I even pick up my iPad. I had saved up my high school graduation money to buy it; it was like the crème de la crème of digital art workbooks to me.

I don’t really know when the love faded away. Like I said, I don’t not draw anymore. It just isn’t nearly as often, and I don’t complete any pieces to their full extent. I have been a lifelong artist. Why did I stop after 18 years?

I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety at 12 years old. I was diagnosed with panic disorder at 18, and ADHD at 19. I wasn’t really dealt the best cards in the mental health lottery. It is pretty rough as a 12 year old kid to battle getting out of bed every morning. It was like being hit by a truck every single day.

Now, as a 20 year old, I have developed a symbiotic relationship with my depression. Some days, it is as small as a pebble in my shoe. Inconvenient, yes, but not day-ruining. Other days, it’s like a boulder on my back. Undeniable, heavy and impossible to get through the day with. Lately, it’s been the boulder. I force myself out of bed and grow exhausted through the day. By the time I get home around 2 p.m., I can’t help but fall into bed. Naps are required to make it through the day. I never have the energy to do anything. It is exhausting just to exist. 

It feels almost ridiculous to complain about doing something as simple as being alive. I like being alive, it’s just extremely tiring. I miss feeling well rested. 

One thing I wish is for people to understand that this is something I cannot help. If I could snap out of it, I 100% would. I can’t just stop being tired or apathetic or angry. I would much prefer to live a life where I can wake up refreshed in the morning and go about my day like any other person. No amount of workouts or positive affirmations can fix it. I can take my medicine consistently, and that sometimes works. 

Being depressed doesn’t mean I am deprived of happy moments. I smile when watching a TV show I like with my mom. I laugh at my friends’ jokes. I blush when my boyfriend kisses me. Eventually, the happiness fades and I’m left with that emptiness again. It’s mostly when I’m alone, driving in my car or writing in my room. I think that’s when it’s the strongest. 

The mental strain crosses over to the physical very quickly with depression. Exhaustion is one of the main signs. Limb and back pain are symptoms, too, crazily enough. Excessive hunger and loss of appetite are pretty common, and they affect me. 

When your brain is sick, your body reacts appropriately. I am not making it up or over exaggerating it. I am sick. I go to a doctor to be treated for it. I take medication for it. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t make it any less real than any other illness.

(Re)learning to love my body

I’ve skipped more lunches in my life than I would care to admit. Dinners, too. And I almost never eat breakfast. 

I stare at myself in the mirror and pinch the soft skin of my stomach, wishing I had the completely unattainable goal of a belly with no rolls when I sit. I have felt that way since I was eight years old, and it is a ritual I have continued on nearly every night for the past thirteen years.

I realized it was a problem when I lied to my therapist about why I passed out at a hair salon. It was nerves, I told her. I had just gone through a breakup and forgot to eat! Nothing was really wrong. I was just sad.

That wasn’t true. I had a big dinner the night before and felt bad. I didn’t eat a morsel of food for 24 hours. The pass out spell was partially nerves, but mostly my empty stomach. I had accidentally called my mom when I fell to the ground, and I couldn’t avoid telling her what had happened. My little sister had to retrieve me from the floor of the half-clean bathroom while I thought I was dying. She made me eat a burger from Wendy’s, even though I insisted I was fine. I haven’t gone back to the salon in the year and a half since.

I worked an internship this past summer. I often wore business casual clothing that hugged my stomach in a way that made the alleged softness of it apparent when I sat down. When the thought of “I look pregnant” popped into my head, I resorted to a handful of grapes in the morning and no more food until late afternoon. That would be all I ate in the day, with every calorie tracked along the way. I never quite broke 1,500 calories. I felt dizzy all the time. I nearly passed out at work and found myself sprawled on a bathroom floor all over again. I went back to work like nothing happened. I lost about ten pounds in a very short amount of time. I already had a small frame, but it shrunk further under my strict routine. 

I weighed 99 pounds in high school. I would compare any part of my body to someone smaller, hating every part of myself that was different. I don’t know where the hatred of my body came from. My mother always did her best to build me up and love myself. I would have spells where I did, but they would go away the second I saw something a little too big for comfort.

The self-hatred didn’t just extend to my body fat. Sometimes I would look at my face or my smile and feel like I was plain. I would immediately feel bad once the thought crossed my mind. I’m always told I look just like my mother, and I think my mother is absolutely beautiful. So why did the features she gave me look so different in my own skin? Why didn’t I like the features that I loved about her?

It took a lot of work to deconstruct years of body dysmorphia. Most of it was silent, as I didn’t want to admit the struggles I had gone through for most of my life. Some of it was spent hunched over a toilet, trying to keep my dinner in. My own mom didn’t know about it until I told her I was writing this article. Admitting you struggle with something as simple as eating is humbling to say the least.

I still stumble when it comes to progress. I find myself saying “you’re not hungry, you’re just bored” more often than I would like to admit. I catch myself looking at myself in my mirror and wishing I could erase the pocket of fat that keeps my internal organs safe.

But I also look in the mirror and admire the way my parents’ features came together to make me. I love the curve of my nose and the hands I got from my mom. I love the eyes I got from my dad, and the eye shape I got from my aunt. I love that, when I look at photos of my mom, I see a version of myself smiling back. I love that I look like my little sister in some ways, and my older sister in others. I love that my boyfriend has made my body feel worthy of the love I never gave it. 

I can now wear a tight-fitting dress and not feel self conscious. I wear sleeveless tops and don’t worry about how big my arms look (because they don’t). I don’t avoid looking at my frame when I step into the shower. Do I do yoga and pilates? Yes, but because they make me feel good, not because I want to be the weight of a child at 20 years old.

After 13 years of self-imposed abuse, I finally feel secure in my skin. I look forward to seeing how my shape and skin changes as I grow and change. Bodies aren’t meant to look 16 years old forever.

You can’t please everyone

I am a lifelong pushover. My biggest trait throughout my grade school years was my docility. I was quiet, waiting to be told what to do and crossing my fingers that I wouldn’t upset anyone in the process. I think my biggest fear was any form of rejection or disapproval. On top of being a pushover, I was a crippling people pleaser.

Growing up means increased chances of rejection. It was rough going to come to terms with that. I can’t continue to go through life making everyone happy all the time. I have to be the bad guy sometimes. Does that suck? Absolutely. Is it a necessary evil? Absolutely.

The first time I came to the realization that I would upset people no matter what I did was last fall. For those of you unaware, student media had a rocky time when it came to leadership and respect. I saw the issues that were lurking under the surface and called attention to it. The leadership we had at the time was greatly displeased and made sure I had a miserable semester in turn. I think it was entirely worth it, though. For my fellow staff members, I knew they deserved somewhere they could thrive and feel comfortable. I was willing to fall on the sword to protect them and give them the work atmosphere I knew they deserved.

A year later, my actions have yielded the results I wished they did. Student media once again feels like a family. The few friends I have in college are due to the newspaper and the wonderful people I have met through it. I know that my willingness to sacrifice my well being and (potentially) my job are signs that I am a good leader. It didn’t stop the paralyzing fear I felt while doing it. 

Living through that made me realize that I can continue to displease people in the pursuit of what is right. I know I’m not some martyr or world leader, and I don’t intend to be. My actions are minute in comparison to the bigger picture, but they matter to me. They matter to the people I am helping.

And sometimes the people you try to help end up taking it a different way. Maybe you don’t do things the way they wanted you to. That’s okay. You’re not a mind reader (I know I’m not), and you’re not a miracle worker. 

You’re only human. Humans are inherently flawed. There is no picture-perfect person who has never done anything wrong. That isn’t how God designed us. We aren’t supposed to please people all the time. Life wouldn’t be the way it is supposed to be if everything went perfectly according to plan. No lessons would be learned that way.

There’s this song I like called “Foreverever” by Leanna Firestone. It talks about girlhood and having to balance feeling like a kid while being an adult. One of the lyrics that really resonated with me was “I want everyone to like me all the time.” That was 100% me as a kid. It was me up until the age of 19, really. 

Newsflash: Not everyone is going to like you. Some people will dislike you before you even meet them. People’s opinions cannot be forced to change. I mean, do you like everyone you’ve ever met? I know I don’t.

You can’t please everyone. You can’t go through life with no enemies. Life is full of misanthropes. It sucks, but it’s true. The only people you have to worry about pleasing are the ones you love, and even they will get upset with you sometimes. That’s okay.

You are only human. We all are.

Empathetic grief: growing through loss

My first experience with real, true loss was my maternal grandfather’s passing. I was five years old. Truthfully, I don’t remember much of that day. Most of my memories are flashbulbs that come and go with little context. I was sitting on a bed eating lukewarm McDonald’s while my older family said their goodbyes. My dad came in and told me what we had grown to expect after his latest cancer prognosis. It didn’t make the loss hurt any less.

I remember more from the funeral itself. I was dressed in a black coat that swallowed my small frame. It was a cold February day, and I kept wiping my runny nose with the rough material of my coat. I had a raw nose and upper lip for a couple of weeks after. My mom would apply diaper cream on the sensitive area to ease the stinging.

I remember leaving a small, hand-drawn card in his open casket. My sisters and cousin had done the same. I was slightly hesitant to approach, not knowing what to expect. All I saw was my grandfather. He was dressed in his Air Force blues. I had never seen him in them, but he looked well-polished. If I had not been so well-educated on death, I would have assumed he was sleeping.

I covered my ears during the 21-gun salute. 

He is buried in the humble graveyard behind my childhood church. My little sister sometimes eats her breakfast at his grave, polishing it up if needed.

The next loss I distinctly remember, and a much clearer recollection, was my paternal grandmother. She was somewhat of an eclectic. As I grew older, I saw how our personalities mirrored one another. She was witty and quick and had an excellent taste for British television. 

I was fourteen years old when she passed away. It was a heart attack as she was leaving to walk her dog. I had seen her six days earlier, but had gotten a new phone and didn’t say much to her. I regretted it once I found out. I should have said more.

While cleaning out her apartment, I took a few tokens. A few old t-shirts, a book about the British monarchy and a copy of Lois Wright’s “My Life at Grey Gardens.” The latter two remain on my bookshelf today. I found peace in the scraps of her I still had left. 

Contrasting my helplessness following my grandfather’s death, I felt the need to hold my family together. No one asked me to, but it was the best way I knew how to cope. Everyone was a mess. Someone needed to put on a brave face, and I decided that would be me. 

I was the last person to fall asleep the day she died. I cleaned up the house, listening to Stevie Nicks because it made me think of her. When I got to my bedroom, I cried. I had cried earlier in the day, but stoicized once my father showed up. I didn’t see him cry much before, but he was a wreck. 

Christmas was a little over a week later. We rented a cabin to try and cheer up for the holidays. I like to think it worked.

I found my grief to be something I always needed to hide. I hate when people worry over me or treat me with kid gloves. Especially if I am grieving a person, I would rather be alone in my sadness. I feel like that’s a common sentiment to hold. 

Last week, my little sister Ellie (a nickname, in case she is feeling private) unexpectedly had a very close friend pass away. She is only 17, and her friend was nearing his 20th birthday. Death was something I had shoved to the back of my mind. I had a former classmate pass away in a car accident my senior year of high school, and my resulting existential crisis was brief but jarring. My sister had never had something similar happen to her. 

Our relationship had fallen into a lull in the past year. I had become as busy as a partially lazy, partially workaholic person can be. On top of that, I am in a stable, nearly long-term relationship. My commitments had fallen to other places, and I let Ellie fall on my priority list. 

It isn’t my proudest action. I know I failed as a big sister. I will be the first person to admit that.

The day after his death, I took Ellie shopping and to lunch. “All expenses paid. Get anything you want.”

Her picks were mild for that of a teenage girl. Starbucks, mascara, a hoodie from a brand she likes. I felt almost awkward in my approach to her, unsure how to engage with my own little sister. We had been so close before, but I had allowed our relationship to change.

On the way to lunch, we talked about mental health. She is aware of my past struggles, and I have never hesitated to be open with them. I tried to give her reassurance about her friend’s passing by sharing my experience.

I became more careful in my interactions with her, erasing the dramatic vocabulary of “I’m going to kill myself” after every minor inconvenience. She seems to appreciate the gesture.

I finally felt that sisterly bond, that “click,” return while watching her perform in my childhood church’s praise band. She sang two songs dedicated to her friend, “Gratitude” by Brandon Lake and “Dancing in the Sky” by Dani and Lizzy, and made it through the latter with tear-streaked cheeks and shaky breath. But she did it. 

Her grief was the opposite of mine. Her grief was loud. Her grief existed beyond the comfort of her bedroom walls. She wasn’t scared to show how she felt.

I was so proud at that moment, I could have run up on stage and hugged her. In fact, I wanted to at seeing her overcome with emotions. I held my pride in until the sermon was over and she asked me to help her take her guitar to her car.

We leaned up against the warm metal of her sports car, talking about grief and faith. In her hardest times, she found comfort in God. This time was no different. Listening to and singing His word gave her a sense of peace. She wanted to do the same for others.

Without realizing it, she had done that for me. Over my life, my faith has wavered. I feel it is common for most Christians, but seeing her relationship with Him become so strong made me wish for the same. 

She is one of the bravest people I have ever met. I learn more from her than she probably does from me. She still teaches me lessons about life.

I don’t know if she knows it, but she is one of my favorite people on the planet. I’m glad she hasn’t let her grief take away her spark. It deserves to be shared with the world.

As we reentered the church, I looked over at the quaint graveyard and saw the smooth black stone with my grandfather’s name inscribed on it. He would be so immensely proud of her. I like to think that pride extends to me, too.

High school dress codes suck

I am here to deliver an opinion on behalf of teenage girls everywhere: High school dress codes suck.

I think every girl can relate to the sweat-inducing, anxiety filled ride of walking through the front doors of your high school with the hope that no teacher looks too long at your skirt. You pull down at the hem, praying that it covers just enough of your thighs to not draw attention. 

The skirt isn’t even too short, it falls a few inches above your knees. It would be more than appropriate in any other setting, but your administrators have decided that boys would get distracted by your legs… or your shoulders… or your collarbone. 

The list goes on into an endless spiral of nitpicky rules that are all based on how boys may perceive a pubescent girl’s body.

My rage against the high-school-sexist-dress-code machine was a slow boil as I walked the halls of my (admittedly shitty) high school. I would occasionally rebel and wear a tank top or *gasp* ripped jeans. I was a quiet revolutionary. More often than not, it resulted in a 20 minute stint away from class, sitting in the in-school suspension classroom until my mother could bring me “proper” jeans. 

I vividly remember my 15-year-old self missing most of my math class so my older sister could bring an appropriate change of clothes. My sister was royally pissed that she had to wake up before her college classes to bring her pesky little sister new clothes. My friend was able to cry her way out of a behavioral mark, but I had earned myself one by asking “Why?” So instead of learning about the quadratic formula, I was learning that the environment I was forced into was built on the systematic de-liberation of women before they even are women.

One of my first stories at the newspaper involved me talking to a girl who arranged a protest against school dress codes. I found her admirable. She was able to do something I never had the guts to do as an adolescent. She was outspoken. I was quiet. She was methodical. I flew under the radar. 

I still think about her now, when I have the courage to speak my mind about something important to me. I hope that she didn’t let the school system take away her spark.

I had completely forgotten about the high school dogma of dress codes until my sister went to a public high school. She had spent the past two years homeschooling, but finally gathered enough courage to return from her senior year.

“Can you believe this?” she said after describing the new rules girls were obligated to follow. They have grown more severe since my graduation. 

Skirts, shorts and dresses can’t be higher than an inch above the knee. I don’t know how many girls own bottoms an inch or less above the knee, but I am willing to bet that it’s not many. Tight clothing is not allowed under any circumstance. Leggings and yoga pants have to be covered by a t-shirt at the risk of being “too disruptive” (a direct description from the handbook).

I felt that slow boil from high school overflow at the prospect of my sister having to deal with the same thing. She is so careful with what clothing my mother buys for her because there is the looming risk of missing class and public humiliation.

In doing this, grade schools are elevating boys’ reaction over girls’ education. In a world that claims to have gender equality, there are still cracks in the structure. Girls are told to hide parts of their body as young as fifth grade. Who looks at an 11-year-old and worries about their shoulders exciting young boys? As a former 11-year-old, I can assure you that none of us were paying attention to each other’s clothing. 

I find it strange that male administrators and board members are always the one who make and enforce the rules. It makes you wonder who the rule was really for.

How I found my niche

At age 5, I wanted to be a singer. At age 8, I wanted to be a doctor. Age 11 was my space phase — I wanted to be an astronomer. Then, I discovered art around middle school. Most of my high school years I wanted to be an artist or a writer. Towards the end, I settled on 8 year old Emma’s dream.

I call it settling because that’s exactly what I did. I did not see art as a viable path for me and my parents worried that my “smarts would go to waste” if I followed a creative path. STEM fields did not give me the same spark that the arts did. Nevertheless, I persisted. 

My twelve year plan of undergrad and med school was quickly endangered when I began volunteering for the university paper. I knew absolutely nothing about journalism. I wrote poetry and short stories in high school, ones that never saw the light of day, but always saw journalism as a boring field. I never watched the news, never read the newspaper. My news source was a combination of Twitter, Instagram and TikTok. 

But I was desperate to involve myself on campus. I was not the most popular person in high school. My school was small enough that everyone knew each other by default, but I never felt like I belonged among my peers. I floated between social groups that I don’t even talk to anymore. College was the chance for me to reinvent myself and finally feel like I fit in. 

The Flor-Ala seemed like a nice chance to release my creative energy. I attended the first volunteer meeting, sitting awkwardly and seldom raising my voice to speak. I even managed to pick up a story. It was a sports story. I knew nothing about journalism and somehow even less about sports. I still put my all into it and researched what I could. Looking back, it wasn’t bad for a first article from someone with no knowledge of AP style. 

As time went on, I honed my skills and got closer with the staff and my fellow volunteers. By November, I was set to become news editor. I kept telling myself that I would not change careers over this. It was a side hustle at most. I would do some freelance work in med school to supplement my income. I added a journalism minor to my pre-med psychology major. It was nothing too serious, though.

Spring semester of my freshman year was (for the most part) amazing. I got close with my now best friend as she taught me the ropes. I developed a rapport with the staff, as my fellow volunteers had moved up in the ranks. I felt more at home in student media than I ever did in psychology or pre-med. I wanted to help bring other students into the thing that I loved, too.

After a summer of reflection and contemplation, I changed my major in the fall. It was like a breath of fresh air to finally feel comfortable with my future profession. My passion for journalism didn’t fizzle out either. In fact, I seem to love it more every day.

I hope I’m different now

“New year, new me” is a wildly overused phrase. If I had a dollar for every time I heard it, I would probably be a very rich woman. That being said, 2022 was a year of intense growth for me. 

Going into the year, I didn’t intend to change much. I had just begun my first semester as news editor. I was a psychology major. I had a girlfriend and a limited number of friends. I had red hair with dark roots from a lack of redyeing. I was still nervous to stand up for myself — there was no real place I felt like I belonged at UNA.

The first half of 2022 and the second half felt like two completely different years.

Going into 2023, I feel like an entirely different person. For starters, I am now the Flor-Ala’s managing editor. This time last year, I never dreamed of going higher than section editor. I had no reason to be more, given the fact that I worked at the paper as somewhat of a side hustle. In about October, I changed my major to journalism. Going from pre-med psychology to journalism was an interesting shift to say the least. It created a few awkward conversations with my parents. 

Another change is the fact that I now have a boyfriend. I won’t go into much detail (feel free to read the entire opinion I wrote about it), but I got dumped. In September, I met the boy that would heal the heart that he never broke. 

Being with him showed me the stark difference between first love and true love. His love is unconditional. He loves me for me; I’ve never had to change a singular thing about myself for him. It wasn’t until recently that I discovered he wrote his own response to my aforementioned heartbroken opinion piece, detailing the fact that he wanted to be with me (if you are reading this Karl, which I know you are, you have to let me read all of it). Being loved by him is one of my greatest victories.

I am once again a poetic and sappy mess to someone who fully deserves every bit of love given to him and then some. I seem to love him more every day. He showed me that it is OK to give my heart to someone again. You just have to give it to the right person.

My friend group has also increased. Almost all of my friends are from the newspaper and I am more than happy for it. The hardships of the past year have given me a best friend that I wouldn’t trade anything for — she’s literally the best. I feel such a sense of community within our staff. I know I can reach out to any of the amazing women I work with if I ever need anything. 

I dyed my hair dark and cut my bangs. I did the whole “reinventing myself” thing. I realized that with enough confidence, I can feel like I belong anywhere. I have gone from a quiet, awkward teenager to a secure, confident young adult. Therapy sessions and self reflection have helped form the person I am growing into.

When people tell me “you’ve changed,” I see it as a compliment. I underwent a lot of personal growth to become the person I am now. The person I am is the person I have always deserved to be. Growth is not just knowing your worth, it is knowing when you’ve been wrong. I am not always blameless in everything I have done, but I’ve accepted that I cannot change things from the past.

Compared to last year, I hope I’m different. I hope I’ve changed. If you knew me before, I hope you like the new me. I think she’s pretty great.

Dare to disturb the universe

It was a quote I first heard in my junior year English class. English was fourth period. I was having the usual bleary-eyed, “I wish I could go home” kind of day. High school, amirite?

My teacher had assigned us to read T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” I was never much of a poetry person, as my only experience was with Rupi Kaur-adjacent Instagram poetry. However, Eliot’s work was somehow relatable to me. The poem was written in 1915 and I — in 2019 — related to it. 

Søren Kierkegaard, a 19th century Danish philosopher, said that “anxiety is the dizziness of freedom.”

“The Love Song” deals with themes of anxiety, indecision, loneliness and isolation. Prufrock is almost suffocated by the myriad of choices he faces. He does not want to do something that could be presumed as wrong, but he has the choice to. 

I am a chronically bad decision maker. Ask anyone in my life, they will agree with you. I also hate having to make choices. Being an anxious teenager, I saw a lot of myself through the title character. 

Three weeks ago someone asked me what my favorite quote was and I replied with my go-to from 11th grade English. When asked what it meant to me, I kind of blanked. It obviously did mean something, I just couldn’t put my finger on what it really did mean. What caused me to have such an undeniable draw to it?

Maybe it was where I heard it. English was my favorite subject and the teacher was a mentor to me. I was the one kid who always lingered after class to further discuss whatever we had read. It was nerdy, but I loved it. She was one of the few people who noticed my writing and praised it. Without her, I probably never would have shared my work with the world. 

Her explanation was that “disturbing the universe” is doing something outside of what’s expected of us. I’m not sure what my initial interpretation of it was — it is completely lost somewhere between 2019 and now — but I usually just spouted out something similar to what my teacher would say. 

I never really had to consider what the meaning was to me until I was asked some three weeks ago. 

When I thought about it, I realized that disturbing the universe was something as small as changing your route to class. The smallest, insignificant changes in your life can disturb what the universe itself had planned for you. Similarly to Prufrock, I think that one action can affect the course of your life. Like a butterfly effect of sorts.

Do I take Pine Street instead of Wood Avenue to get to class? That is disturbing the universe. Getting Chinese food for lunch instead of a sandwich is disturbing the universe.

I like to believe my actions mean something. It doesn’t have to be a negative action or result in something horrible. That’s where Prufrock and I differ. Perhaps one insignificant action can lead me to the best possible thing or person in my life. 

A booth at SOAR caught my eye and a year later I am news editor. I have changed my life’s path completely because of the tiniest thing. I definitely don’t think that is for the worst. I find myself happier now than I was three months ago because of a series of small events that culminated into an ending. Was it something I wanted at the time? No, but I would not change a single thing looking back.

I have come to terms with the fact that I undeniably and consciously will change things around me. 

So, do you dare to disturb the universe?

An ode to small towns

When I tell people I grew up nestled right next to the Shoals, I am told I was lucky. I got to experience the music festivals and creativity firsthand! I didn’t have to move for college and live in cramped university housing. I had people I knew at UNA because I’d known them since we were in diapers. 

But the truth is I didn’t love it. I hated it.

To introduce you to my hometown, I grew up in Killen, Ala. Killen is the kind of town you drive through without stopping because there is not anything worthwhile to see. We have had the occasional tourist stop to take a picture of our apparently hilarious local pharmacy (for those curious, it’s called Killen Drugs… it’s phonetic humor). Killen is nothing more than a pit stop on the way to Florence, and I say this with love.

My main grievance came from the fact that I didn’t have an interesting background like the people I read about in books or watched on social media. My world was a handful of interconnecting streets and a run down supermarket. Fairly uninteresting. Our claim to fame is Arx Mortis, which was deemed one of USA Today’s “10 Best: Spookiest Haunted Houses in the USA.” It is a good haunted house, I will give them that much, but aside from the 50,000 square feet of entertainment it offers there isn’t much else to do in the little town. An honorable mention is the Miami Ice that was added last year. I’m very thankful I don’t have to drive 30 minutes to get my beloved Sno Cream.

Killen isn’t one of those towns where you have to hunt down the hidden gems. There aren’t any.

Allow me to clarify, I don’t loathe my hometown. I still live there! If I did truly hate it, I would have taken my housing scholarship and moved into a residence hall. However, my disdain for my small town festered into a disdain for anything having to do with north Alabama. I hated Florence. I hated Muscle Shoals. I even hated UNA. I was a teenager with very negative opinions on everything. Yes, I was a real joy to be around. My family would definitely agree.

I decided that, since I didn’t fit in with the people of my hometown, I was going to move away. The University of Alabama had offered me a good scholarship. Tuscaloosa had to be better than Florence by a long shot. However, when decision day came, I chose UNA. 

I couldn’t really put a finger on why I had chosen to stay in my hometown. Maybe because I was offered a better scholarship. Or perhaps it was the undeniable separation anxiety I had when away from my family. At the end of the day, the truth was that I wasn’t ready to leave yet. I had my grievances with my area, sure, but I couldn’t think of a version of myself away from it. 

College introduced me to an entirely new side of the Shoals. I found cafes I’d never even heard of before (if you’re ever looking for a great hot chocolate, by the way, Rivertown is the place to go). I fell in love with local music. I met new people and attended countless events. The Shoals has a crazy amount of things to offer and I didn’t even know about any of it! It gave me a severe case of FOMO. 

I know I talk about growing a lot, but when you’re on the cusp of your twenties, you reflect a lot. Quite a bit of my changed attitude can be attributed to maturing and growing as a person. Do I still find myself slipping up and saying I’m from Florence? Yes, but I’m changing every day. 

I’ve fallen in love with the broader Shoals, but maybe it’s time to centralize focus back to my hometown. I could share some of the abundant love I’ve given Florence with poor little Killen.

A letter from the broken-hearted girl

I started off this school year with a sore heart. I lacked the enthusiasm and wonder of my freshman year. My change in maturity was partly to blame for that, but the elephant in the room was the fact that I had been dumped the day before.

I had never been through real heartbreak before. I heard it in songs and from the mouths of those who had been hurt in that cruel, indescribable way. My heart had been guarded like a bank vault from the time I was young, but I allowed myself to be vulnerable in college. It was a new start for me, I thought, so it was due time I changed. 

“I think I’m getting dumped today,” was the text I sent to my best friend the day my (now-ex) girlfriend asked to meet in a place we’d never been to before. 

To quote “Friends,” we were on a break. We had been for four days. I waited with bated breath for any sign of fondness from her, but all I got was a text asking to meet me thirty minutes away from my home. I was nearly vomiting the whole way there.

Cue me crying in my car in an empty park. I had worried myself sick over the final verdict on my relationship, one I didn’t have a choice in. Nearly a year of my time had been watered down to a two-minute conversation. I thought back to all of the things I gave up or turned down to spend time with her. Just a moment of her time was like gold to me.

I am not saying I was completely blameless. My standards of wrongness were different from hers. I could forgive an argument while she could not. Our breakup was so sudden, though, that I felt blindsided by it. 

In gaining her, I lost myself. I tossed aside any interest that didn’t align with what I thought she would approve of. I attempted to make myself the oh-so stereotypical “cool girl.” She never asked me to, but I felt an obligation to be ever-available to her. I became someone I didn’t even recognize. 

Looking back, I can see the rose colored glasses I wore for my first love. I was eighteen with a naivete to relationships. My previous experience included high school boyfriends that I was less-than-stellar to, so I didn’t know what to do with myself when I felt real love toward someone. I loved the rush of something new. It was invigorating. I ignored any flaws or cracks in the foundation of our “perfect” relationship. 

Love is so much easier to put into words than heartache. I was a poetic mess while I was in love, but it has been an uphill battle to express to my family everything I am feeling. My responses are short and rapid-fire. Yes, my heart hurts. Yes, I feel lost. No, I haven’t eaten. Yes, I’ll do it soon. 

Grief is an expression of love. That ache is so much worse when the person you’re grieving is still there and you have the unfortunate luck of seeing them at least once a week. Seeing her exist in the same space as me feels almost voyeuristic. My biggest fault is my ability to love endlessly.

Ever since, I have attempted to focus on myself. I am not one to prioritize my health and well-being. I started yoga. I went to therapy for the first time in six years. I have tried to eat healthier. My progress is not linear. I have stumbled and fallen. I have cried in my car after school more days than I would like to admit. Healing of any kind is not perfect.

I have a distaste for an ending without closure. I never got mine and I have to live with the fact that I never will. Not every ending is perfect and things seldom end the way you want them to. The best thing I can do for myself is let go. I have to learn to exist without someone who was once a main player in my life. We are both adults who made our own mistakes that we have to live with. 

I know I will not be fine for a while, but that’s okay. Heartbreak is slow and painful, but it does not last forever. 

I am “like other girls”

I’m sure every Millennial or Gen Z girl can relate to the embarrassing middle school days where “I’m not like other girls” was a mantra of sorts. Maybe you shunned Twilight or poked fun at girls who wore makeup. For me, I swore off pop music, traded my Uggs for Converse, and never entertained the idea of a crush. It was an exhausting ruse to keep up, since I wanted to jam out to One Direction or Taylor Swift every time I heard them on the radio and Uggs were admittedly very comfortable. I just couldn’t bear to be one in the same with what was regularly ridiculed and God forbid someone call me basic.

From the early days of my youth, being an unapologetic teenage girl was frowned upon. Anything that was deemed “girly” was suddenly uncool among the masses. Things like Starbucks and Brandy Melville were suddenly dropped by all who deemed them too mainstream. In recent years, scrunchies and Vans sneakers have fallen under the basic umbrella (think VSCO girls of the late 2010s). Being a teenage girl is territory for ridicule, no matter what we do — it isn’t limited to basic girls. If a girl decides she likes gaming, she’s a fake gamer who is only doing it to impress boys. If she tries to delve into the punk subculture, she will be constantly asked to prove herself as a “true fan”. There is no way to exist as a teenage girl without being subjected to belittlement. 

I fell into the trap of wanting to feel unique. If I showed that I liked what was popular, then I would no longer be my own person. My identity would be watered down to basic. I tore down my One Direction posters and replaced them with pop punk bands. The more obscure the better. I insisted that I hated pink and would never be caught dead in a Starbucks. The truth was pink was my favorite color and Starbucks’ chai lattes are to die for. While the punk bands I liked were good, I was still secretly digging the Top 40. 

Having the ideology of “I’m not like other girls” made me a part of the problem. I ridiculed what I deemed stereotypically feminine. The idea that feminine things are inherently unappealing is a tale as old as time. Throughout history, many jobs were ditched by men when women began entering the workforce (think teaching, nursing, etc.). Even fashion items were labeled as feminine once they became popular. I mean, high heels began as menswear and pink used to be the main color of masculinity. Being anti-all things feminine was harmful in more ways than I knew. I became what made me reject femininity in the first place.

As I got older, I realized that there is nothing wrong with being like everyone else. I still have things that make me unique but I am not afraid to embrace the stereotypically feminine things about myself. I enjoy wearing dresses and applying makeup. I like listening to pop music. That being said, I prefer vinyl to digital music and would rather sport Doc Martens than stilettos. Being feminine doesn’t mean that I lack individuality. I can be like other girls and still be my own person. There is nothing wrong with being like everyone else because, at the root of things, we still have things that make us unique.

On being a (former) relationship pessimist

I have always been a look-to-the-future person. Five-year plans and long-term goals are second nature to me. That being said, I have also been independent to a fault. I kept my walls high and feared anyone coming to peer over them. The only thing I didn’t view through a long-term lens was relationships.

I have had my fair share of past relationships. Most of them were of the melodramatic and fleeting high school variety… or in elementary school. What I’m trying to say is that, before college, I never had a real relationship. Not the kind you hear songs or watch movies about. I was always told that high school relationships never last, so I assumed mine would eventually implode. Either I was right or I found ways to sabotage them for myself. I had conditioned myself to think that love was overrated. That the endless poems I read were full of it.

“This won’t last” was almost a mantra to me.

High school Emma was a pessimist.

Annoyingly so.

In my second week of college, I unexpectedly met someone. It was like the stars had aligned or I was finally dealt a royal flush. I found it extremely easy to talk to her. Conversations weren’t forced and no awkward silence could be found. It occurred to me all too quickly that this felt different from all of the past relationships I had. I wasn’t forcing myself to be with her because I thought that if I tried hard enough it would work. I didn’t have to try to make it work because it already did. It was like I had found some missing puzzle piece that my brain didn’t have before. It was both exhilarating and terrifying.

Imagine listening to your favorite song for the first time again. That’s what my whole world felt like. I understood the near-drunk feeling of adoration. I binge listened to Taylor Swift’s entire “Lover” album. I watched corny rom-coms. I did something I have never done before — I fell hard.

I knew it was something real when my mother told me that she had “never seen me like this with someone before.” I couldn’t deny it. With a  smile, I agreed and got that giddy feeling all over again. It was a running joke in my family that I was a little too harsh on people when it came to romance. One slip up and someone could be out of my life for good. Hearing my mom say that this one was different was all the confirmation I needed to prove that my pessimism had been washed away and replaced with unfamiliar optimism. I have probably annoyed my friends with how often I try to bring her up. Yes, I have become that person. My fifteen-year-old self would roll her eyes and call me idiotic for being so optimistic. Luckily, I couldn’t care less what my younger self would think of me. I’m proud of it. I would much rather be happy than cynical. Happy is a good look on me.

Maybe my pessimism came from the fact that I had a bad high school experience. I was a chronically lonely kid. To be fair, I had friends here and there but none ever stuck around long enough to actually know me. In high school, I found myself fearful of making connections because I had told myself from a young age that people just… leave.

In college, I decided I wanted to open up more. I wanted to shed my high school fears and become what I knew I could be. I joined a few on-campus organizations, made friends and decided that connections aren’t inherently bad. The people who leave my life leave for a reason. They have fulfilled their purpose in my life, and I couldn’t be mad at things beyond my control.

I like to consider myself a former relationship pessimist. Not just with romantic connections, but platonic ones too. The love I have to give isn’t bad. It won’t push the right people away.

To all of the people who relate a little too much to my younger self, I won’t get on a soapbox and say how wonderful love is. I know that isn’t the proper way to convince you. What I do want to say is that you are worthy of love. Not only from others but from yourself. Vulnerability isn’t bad. Trusting people isn’t bad. Sometimes you just need to find the person that makes doing all of those things easy.