Most people who know me even peripherally know that I have a deep, deep love of plants. My mom laments that I can’t let a dying plant die, that I have to take it in and nurture it back to health. In my apartment, we joke that we have the best air quality on campus.… Continue reading in the garden
The thick mats that cover the floors of this climbing gym are supposedly not meant for lounging, but no one seems to mind. Hailey and I are on our backs, arms pressed together, chatting about everything and nothing as our boyfriends attempt to climb a difficult undercut route nearby.
In the summer of 2017, in the midst of our mother-daughter New York trip, my mom and I get the chance to visit the National September 11 Memorial Museum. Neither of us know what to expect.
Recently, a conversation with my apartment-mates dragged a long-forgotten song to the forefront of my mind--a Sunday school memory, childish and uncomplicated. With almost alarming accuracy, I began to sing "Jesus the Soccer Star", complete with the dance motions I'd been taught many years prior. I didn't think this was a strange memory. My apartment-mates did.