CHARGED-UP RESULTS

It’s 1:38 a.m. Outside my window, the wind is moving in that soft, half-awake sway that makes trees sound like they are whispering. I sit in the dark, lit only by the faint glow of the screen and the dull hum of electricity, both from the room and my own brain. I should be asleep. But my thoughts have drifted past this house, this planet, this version of reality. Tonight I’m thinking about the multiverse. The multiverse is the idea that there is not just one universe, but many. Maybe an infinite number. Each one slightly different or radically unrecognizable. It sounds like science fiction, but it is a real theory, not proven, but not impossible. It sits at the edge of quantum mechanics and cosmology, hovering where our understanding thins out into speculation. It dares to ask the question: What if our universe isn’t the only one? What if it is not the default? I imagine it like a tree. Every time something can go a different way, a new branch splits off. Some scientists suggest that every quantum decision, every particle flickering one way or another, creates a fork. Every fork becomes a new universe. A new version of reality sealed off from ours, but just as real. It is a wild concept, but think about what it could mean:That every moment you have lived is one thread in an unfathomable web of reality.That there are universes where Earth never formed.Where gravity is weaker or stronger.Where light travels differently.Where time loops.Where stars never ignite.Where nothing ever becomes anything. The multiverse is infinite, they say. And infinity is hard for the human brain to sit with. We treat it like a big number, but it is not. It is not just “a lot.” It is beyond counting. Beyond finishing. It does not have edges or centers. It does not care where you begin. There is no middle to the multiverse. Somewhere out there, if “out there” even makes sense, there could be a universe made entirely of energy. One where the constants of physics are just slightly different and life takes on forms we would never recognize. One where time runs backward, sideways or not at all. One where nothing moves, and nothing ever does. A frozen eternity. A perfect stillness. And in contrast: here, this version.The one where stars formed.Where matter cooled just right.Where elements fused in nuclear fire and scattered into dust that became oceans, forests, satellites, cities, thoughts.Us . It is enough to make you feel microscopic. One dot among infinite dots. A flicker in a field of endless static. But  the strange part is that it makes everything feel kind of miraculous. Not in a magical way, but in a statistical way. The chances that this reality exists at all? That atoms arranged themselves into thought? That this planet settled into just the right orbit, at just the right time, just around the right star, with just the right ingredients? Astronomically unlikely.And yet, here we are. We often talk about the universe like it is all there is. “The universe has a plan,” we say. Or “everything happens for a reason.” But what if there are countless universes, each unfolding with their own rules and their own randomness? What if there is no “plan,” just possibility, endlessly repeating, endlessly branching, endlessly rewriting reality into new drafts? It is a humbling thought. And maybe a hopeful one too. It means this version of existence was not guaranteed. It was a narrow thread, chosen not by destiny, but by chance, or by a rulebook we have not decoded yet. We may never know what governs which universes come into being and which do not, but it makes you look at this one differently. Like a rare alignment. A brief window. A strange, but beautiful accident. Sometimes I wonder if we are meant to know any of this. If our minds were built to think beyond our own timeline, our own physics, our own bubble of stars. Maybe consciousness itself is a fluke, a byproduct of complexity, and now it is stuck asking questions too big for itself. Questions like: Is this all there is? Are we real or just one variation of real among infinite others? What happens when the number of possible versions of “you” becomes uncountable? I do not have the answers. Maybe no one does. Maybe no one can. But that does not stop the wondering. Because here I am, in the dark, on a small planet, in a small solar system, in a galaxy that is one among billions, and still, I am here. Thinking. Questioning. Existing. And that, somehow, feels like a miracle all its own.

Photos by Elisa Broche @eyesofeg When I first met Sydney, she was tucked into her own little world: a beanie pulled low, a hood covering her head, slouched in a classroom chair. She looked more like a construction worker surviving winter than a college student. We weren’t close then; we just happened to take the same class. Then life twisted, as it often does. Suddenly, I wasn’t just sitting near Sydney in class; I was living with her. A stranger turned roommate, with the oddities and rules that come with learning who someone really is behind closed doors. Sydney was messy in ways I didn’t understand, but oddly strict about other things. She was careful and cautious. I secretly nicknamed her “Safety Kid.” I wasn’t sure what to make of her at first. There’s a moment in every young adult’s life when something inside just ... snaps. The ground beneath you shakes. The identity you thought you had slips away. Suddenly, the clothes you wear feel like what defines you, your nest feels far away and every day feels long and heavy. For me, that moment came far from home. In that unfamiliar world, it was Sydney who quietly helped build a bridge back to myself. It started with something small. In passing, I mentioned how McDonald’s fries were my comfort food on bad days. Most people would have nodded, maybe laughed and moved on.  Not Sydney.  She remembered. From then on, she never let me fight a bad day without fries. That tiny act of care became a ritual. Sydney became more than just a roommate. She became a pillar, someone so solid that when my world felt fragile, I could lean on her without fear of breaking her too. She even traveled all the way to Honduras to meet my family—a world away from hers. She loved it. Strong friendships don’t come around often. They sneak up on you, dressed in beanies and hoodies, carrying fries on the hardest days. They aren’t perfect. Believe me, I could write a long list of things that drive me crazy about Sydney. But here’s the twist: the very things that sometimes annoy me are also the reasons I love her most. Friends and family are two words that start with the same letter, but if you look close enough, they begin to blur together. Family is the nest we’re born into. Friends are the nest we choose, or maybe the ones who choose us. In high school, I had friends I swore I’d never lose. We promised forever, the kind that lives in yearbooks and late-night texts. Today, I don’t talk to most of them. Life has a way of scattering people, teaching you that not all "forever's" are meant to last. But how do you walk away from someone who sat beside you in a hospital room? From someone who held your hand in the moments when words couldn’t reach? From someone who taught you the traditions of their country when you felt far from your own, or who showed you what it means to belong when your definition of home was blurry? You don’t. Or maybe you can’t. Friendship, I’ve learned, is unpredictable. Some people appear in our lives like cameos—they play their role, leave their mark and move on. That’s OK. They were meant for a season, for a lesson, for a moment. Every so often, you meet a person who doesn’t just pass through. They change the whole plot. Woven into your story in ways that can’t be undone. Sydney is that person for me. We all need a Sydney. Maybe that’s not their name. Maybe it’s the roommate who always left coffee waiting for you, the teammate who carried you through finals, or the friend who answered the phone at 2 a.m. without asking why. These friendships are rare, but when they show up, they remind us that life isn’t meant to be carried alone. In a world where we scroll past faces more than we sit across from them. A world where “best friend” is sometimes reduced to a title under a profile picture, it’s worth remembering what real friendship feels like. It’s not just the laughter or the adventures. It’s the fries on the worst day. The hospital chair pulled up beside yours. The willingness to travel across borders just to meet the people who made you. That’s what Sydney gave me. I hope this story reminds you that sometimes the people we barely notice at first—the ones hidden under hoodies and beanies—end up becoming the most important chapters of our lives.

Mural above APNH check-in desk. Credit - Patch Bowen, Horseshoe Magazine 2025 Early into Hartford Healthcare’s partnership with the University of New Haven, pediatric gender services and programs were terminated. Since July, medication management for youth under 19 has ended, as well as counseling programs and access to gender affirming surgeries and treatments. (See last edition of Horseshoe Magazine, Fall 2025, for context on this issue.) Students at University of New Haven must still beat steep obstacles to receive gender affirming care. These pediatric services are needed for students living with gender dysphoria to feel wholly themselves. As the federal government worsens transgender erasure nationwide, reliable access to these services have become life- saving . How are the local West Haven & New Haven communities staying alive? Nonprofits like A Place to Nourish your Health ask these hard questions, as the Center for Disease Control winds back progress in medical inclusivity. “So funding remains a tenuous- an unpredictable, funding remains an unpredictable force,” said Melanie DeFillipo, preventative care services manager for APNH. “We have got two sources of funding. We have the state prevention grant…, which is funded by the state of Connecticut through the CDC. And we also have a separate grant that is direct funded from the CDC.” Recently, the Department of Education’s office for civil rights sent communications to universities, including UNewHaven, about removing DEI programming. The Center for Disease Control released the same letter to recipients of federal grant funding. As soon as executive orders regarding diversity and inclusion were signed in January 2025, the CDC sent email notices to nonprofit grant recipients like APNH to remove all references to atypical genders or sexualities from patient documentation.  A shocking exclusion was the intersex population, who in recent years have been advocated fiercely for by activists and pediatricians alike. Backslides in nonbinary inclusion are evident with this administration. “The way that the template for 2025 looks is the gender identity question is completely stricken,” said DeFillipo, over a copy of patient onboarding forms she provided directly from the CDC. “It doesn't even say ‘client assigned at birth’, it just says ‘client sex’; and it says ‘male’, ‘female’. There's no option to decline there.” Without a strong body of data to be studied on the STI/STD transmission trends within various transgender and nonbinary populations, DeFillipo explains, no path for prevention is possible. Their dedication to their role is their own personal oath to protect patients from paper genocide. APNH staff are determined alongside them to maintain these prevention programs. “To take kind of the will of the government and still do important work” said DeFilipo, “and, you know, to make sure that their needs are taken care of and that they're not being pushed out of services.”

Dear Diary, When I was a little girl, my father was my hero. I admired him more than anyone in my little world. He was everything to me. I would spend my summers going to work with him, not because I was interested in what he did, but because I wanted to spend time with him. I found him fascinating. The way he would take me into his arms and put me on his feet so we could dance together. The world would disappear around me when I was with my dad. With him, nothing could scare me. I was the happiest little girl in the world. My father was the strongest person I knew. In my innocent eyes, he could do no wrong. I knew then that I would never fear anything, because this man was my father. He would protect me until the very end. I saw my father as the Hulk, completely and utterly indestructible. I guess I had to grow up to learn that he is as human as anyone else in this world.  Little me put so much faith in this man that when I realized he was not as good   or as strong as I made him out to be, it shook me to the core. Everything I had built my whole life crumbled right under my eyes, like a sandcastle collapsing under the weight of the ocean waves.  Today, I find myself questioning that little girl’s memories. She was blinded by this rosy fantasy of her father. How could she not realize how flawed he was, or did her love for him overwhelm all of her senses? Here I am, asking myself, 'How did I not see it?' The abuse, the manipulation, and everything else in between. Was it innocence or love? Which one of those emotions kept me blind to the truth for so long? Reality pushed me out of my innocent bubble, and I could finally see things for what they really were. They were not as picture-perfect as I seem to remember. Growing up means receiving a new pair of glasses that makes you question what you once believed in.  Despite everything I know now, my love for my father is unwavering. The child in me refuses to give up on her protector. Who is going to protect me from the monsters under my bed? Whose arms will I run to when I feel lost?  I know how pathetic this sounds. I am not supposed to rely on anyone but myself, but he is my “father,” the only man I ever knew. The first one who held me in his arms and said, “The sky is your limit, Princess.”  He was also the same man who broke my mother’s fingers and the same one who sent my sister to the hospital with a nail in her knee.  Does that mean I never knew him? Or does it simply mean that he loved me more than he loved them? If so, why put such a burden on a child?  At first I wondered if maybe, just maybe, he was a bad husband but a good dad. But my sister disagrees. Not everyone can wear father and husband titles and be great at both. Am I just making excuses for him? How can I not? I am hoping I am all wrong and that I can just go back to being clueless.  I do not hate my father at all. I just feel lost and completely broken. I am not strong enough yet to say, “Screw him.” I am not strong enough yet to walk away and start fighting my own battles. Chase away the monsters on my own. Should I have to? I never asked for any of it. Why should I have to choose between my mother and my father? Daddy, I love you. When Mum calls me crying about you, I do hate you for a split second. But then my brain tricks me into thinking about what would happen if you disappeared, and my heart breaks. I do not want to be without you. Why are you doing this to me? Why can’t you be a good dad, a good husband, and a good man in general? Please make the pain stop. The first man I ever loved completely broke my heart, yet here I am, telling him I love him and crying at the thought of losing him. No matter how bad you are and what kind of man you are, I still need you to chase away my monsters and scare away my boyfriends. Tell me, how am I supposed to move on without you? I am mourning more than just the loss of my father. I am mourning the loss of love and innocence.

“I am never going to have children” is something I’ve always said whenever the subject was brought up. I made the permanent decision at the old age of 12 for two reasons: children annoyed me and I wanted to fit in with my friends who felt the same way. The thought of them crying, puking and having to discipline them scared the living daylights out of me. I’ve also always connected the idea of having children to losing my freedom. My life would be over once I brought a new one into the world because I would have to prioritize that life instead. I wouldn’t get to only think about myself. Much to my mother’s disappointment, this mindset stayed with me throughout high school and into my first semester of college. Then at the beginning of 2023, she asked if I would want to work for the before-school program at the school she worked at. My initial reaction was hesitation. I just got done with waking up at the crack of dawn in high school. I had no interest in doing it again. I also never liked trying new things because the unknown freaked me out. You can’t predict the outcome of an experience when you have no idea what to expect in the first place. My mind was racing with possible negative outcomes. What if the kids hate me? What if I let them do something they’re not supposed to because I didn’t know the rules yet? What if one of them got hurt on my watch because I didn’t notice they were doing something dangerous? The list of cons went on and on. The one pro I thought of was that I’d be with my mother. The person who would be showing me the ropes would be someone who understands how I prefer to learn new things. I tend to feel more comfortable around her. Plus, she’d be a familiar face in a sea of unfamiliarity. I ended up taking the job. Only because I needed the money and the hours would work well for my college schedule! I still had no excitement over the children. I remember the first day. I walked into the empty multi-purpose room with anticipation. I had no idea what was going to happen during those two hours. As the kids kept filing in, they would stop and sit at the table I was at because they wanted to ask me questions. They all liked my mother, so there was a bit of curiosity there.  For the remainder of the day, I walked around and tried to insert myself into conversations with the kids so they would get to know me. Then, I was coerced into playing sharks and minnows. I never thought that was a game that children played outside of the pool. The two hours came to an end and I was left out of breath and unsure. After that day, I didn’t know if working with children would be something that I actually liked to do. I didn’t feel like I connected with any of the kids. But what I failed to realize at that moment was that the children weren't going to want to play with me unless they knew I was going to be there consistently. Once they kept seeing me on a regular basis, the experience was different. As time went on, I had certain kids that wanted to play with me whenever I was there. I was playing card games, Battleship, Uno and Guess Who. Sometimes, I even indulged in what one of the kids called “grandma basketball.” That’s where you basically play basketball like an old person. Before starting my job, I believed that none of the kids would even care that I was there. By the end of that school year, I had kids that would want to sit on my lap and would call me their mom. And I wasn’t fully freaked out by that. I almost felt chosen. It made me feel like I was good at my job. There’s another part that I loved. I felt like there was a part of me that came out at Before-Care that I’ve had to restrain as I’ve gotten older. Life is more serious now and it’s great to be able to escape for those two hours and behave like a kid again. I don’t have to minimize my reactions to things. I could nerd out about my interests. The kids would excitedly beg me to show them pictures of my cats. If I randomly started speaking in a British accent, they would join in. I started to have traditions with certain kids. Every time I would see this one kindergartener, we would have a different nickname for each other. Whenever I would see her parents’ car in the drop-off area, I would run to the door so I could be the one to greet her first. 12-year-old me would be shocked at the person I have become. I used to loathe the idea of being around children and now, honestly, Before-Care is my favorite part of the day. Because of this job, I’ve faced my fears. I’ve seen one of the kids I am closest to start to bawl her eyes out over someone ripping the bookmark that her dad made for her. Instead of freaking out, my heart broke for her and all I wanted to do was help her feel better. I’ve watched a kid throw up right in front of me. I’ve had kids talk back to me, which led to me disciplining them. If they wouldn’t listen to me, they’d have to deal with my mother’s wrath. And while I’ve always thought having kids meant my life would be over, I realized the more important part: I could help make their lives better.

It’s 2:11 a.m. My couch is wrapped in a muted kind of darkness. Cars drive by and their headlights shine in. It’s quiet… like everything is holding its breath. I should be asleep by now, but my mind, as usual, has other plans. Tonight, I’m not thinking about things on Earth or anywhere near it. I’m thinking about the Goldilocks Zone. The Goldilocks Zone is the perfect stretch of space around a star where a planet could be just right for life… Get it? Not too hot, not too cold… That exact temperature is the reason why liquid water exists on Earth’s surface. It is what makes Earth so special… so alive. When I think about the Goldilocks Zone, I can’t help but feel how fragile that balance really is. How easily it could tip one way or the other, and everything would be different. A little closer to the sun and Earth would be a burning ball of fire. A little farther away and everything would be frozen over. There are billions of stars out there. Billions of planets circle those stars. Scientists say that many of those planets sit in their own Goldilocks Zones. That means there could be other Earths out there. Other skies. Other oceans. Other versions of home. Other couches wrapped in darkness. There could be another guy writing about this same topic on Kepler-22b. It is fascinating to think about how life might exist somewhere light years away, wondering the same things we do. Staring at the stars and asking what else is out there, just like I do. It ’s comforting to me to know that Earth is not the center of everything. To know we are part of something much, much bigger. A vast universe where life might be more common than we thought. And yet, despite that comfort, there is also something lonely about it.  There is something almost poetic about it too. The idea that life only happens when things are just right. Like the universe has this very narrow window for magic to exist. And somehow, against all odds, we slipped through it.  We are living proof of a cosmic sweet spot. Balanced between too much and too little. Between chaos and stillness. Between burning up and freezing over. Sometimes I think about how many chances life could have missed. How many times Earth might have been just outside the Goldilocks Zone, and how lucky we are that it was not. It makes me wonder if the universe is a place full of miracles. Or if it is just chance, random and indifferent, giving life a small shot and moving on. Maybe that isn’t just true for planets. Maybe we have Goldilocks Zones too. Maybe there are moments in life that only happen when things line up just right. Not when we force them. Not when we wait too long. But in that tiny stretch of time where we are open, honest, and vulnerable enough to let life happen. Maybe falling in love is a Goldilocks Zone. So is healing. So is growth. Not too rushed. Not too delayed. Just right.  The Goldilocks Zone reminds me that sometimes all it takes is finding that small space between extremes. A place where life can breathe and grow. A place where we can be ourselves without burning out or freezing over. If life is so rare and so special, then what do we do with it? How do we take care of this little blue planet? How do we protect the balance that keeps us alive? How do we make sure we do not push ourselves too far outside our own Goldilocks Zones? There is so much we do not know about the universe. About life beyond Earth. About what the future holds. Maybe the answers are not just in distant stars or far-off planets. Maybe the answers are also right here, in how we live, how we love, how we take care of each other and the world we share. Sometimes I think about the people who look up at the stars and dream. Scientists building telescopes and sending probes. Children asking questions about the sky. All of us are searching for meaning and connection in this vast universe. Maybe that is the real meaning of the Goldilocks Zone, not just a place in space but a reminder. A reminder that life needs balance. That life needs care. That life needs hope. So here I am, awake, thinking about the millions of miles of space between the stars. And thinking about how lucky we are to be here, in the perfect spot, for this brief moment in time. And maybe, just maybe, that is enough to keep me awake a little longer.

I flirted with failure and it became my first ever talking stage. It wasn’t my intention, but it happened. What started out as casual flirting, just for the hell of it, turned into something more. Entertaining failure created a toxic relationship that altered my entire freshman year. Before my freshman year of college, I hadn’t experienced many things, but I ended up experiencing a weird rooming situation, parties, relationships and even failure. Part of it could be because of where I was from. It could also have come from how sheltered I was.  But I found it interesting how I hadn’t truly experienced failure before. And of course, I am a human who has made mistakes and embarrassed myself, but I’ve never seen those obstacles as a failure, as a loss, or as a regret. I hadn’t even had a grade below a C. I’ve always been taught and pushed to not just do my best, but to be  the best. Nothing less was accepted.  And in college, this mindset led me to create a misstep that I thought would figure itself out. That’s how I began flirting with failure. If you had asked me my thoughts and opinions on this before, I would have told you that this is the ideal mindset. This is the way you should want to live your life. Now as I look back, I think to myself that I still haven’t experienced all that life still has in store for me. And this semi-flawed mindset can be holding me back from my potential. I’ve experienced hardships that I have no control over and I’m still in that situation. I’m forced to sit back and watch everything unfold in front of me and pick up the pieces as I go. The worst part? I can’t even fit it or put it back together. As someone who hates to experience change, I’m told that I must make something new out of what is in front of me. And I have no creative direction. But that misunderstanding led me to make a mistake that looked smaller than what it truly was. I sat back and watched as my grades slipped away. I could have done something, but I thought it would figure itself out. Talking stages and situationships don’t ever figure themselves out. You have to put in the effort for it to work. So how could I have possibly thought that my relationship with my grades would just work itself out without my contribution? While talking stages don’t necessarily have a step-by-step  process, you can argue that the majority of them have five basic steps: the initial connection/interaction, getting to know each other, exploring compatibility, spending time together and discussing expectations. Step One, The Initial Connection/Interaction : I had already known myself and my work patterns. I knew that I led with determination and persistence. But I never knew the part of myself that actually failed. Failure was not a part of me, and I was slowly being introduced. It started off with missing one or two assignments and reassuring myself that I’d make them up later. But then I kept missing assignments, and they started piling up one after the other. To make matters worse, I hadn’t reached out to any of my professors. I hated seeing the 30+ missing assignments due and ultimately just stopped opening my Canvas. I still went to all my classes and completed in-class assignments but didn’t do anything else. It felt like the act of going to class was enough when it truly wasn’t. But even when everything started piling up, I never had the sense of worry or anxiety that the work wasn’t getting done. I was just stuck in the mindset of “I’ll do it later.” Step Two, Getting to Know Each Other : Over winter break, I received the email. “You are placed on academic probation.” And although my heart dropped, that email never really sunk in. I couldn’t let it; I was working, and I couldn’t just have a random outburst of emotions. I think this is where I began to experience numbness. So many things would happen and take place in my life, and I couldn’t show any emotion. I couldn’t cry; I couldn’t get upset. I’d talk about it and end it off with a masked laugh and smile. I was beginning to get to know the feeling of not caring. It wasn’t like I didn’t want to care but more that I couldn’t care because I was running out of time. I was in such a constant state of belief that I was so behind my peers and I was running out of time. I was falling behind. I was falling behind so much that I couldn’t care for anything else. In such a time of asking so many questions and not asking the important ones, I began to learn a little about myself without realizing it just yet. Step Three, Exploring Compatibility : I didn’t feel the consequences of failing until it was much too late. When I tried to fix it, things only got worse. Instead of fixing any of my problems, I tried to ignore them and focus on my work, but the problems continued to wreak havoc from behind the scenes. I had taken on too much at this point and could no longer hold on. Even though I turned in some assignments at the end and even went to two of my finals, it was basically as if I had just given up and hoped for the best. I specifically remember thinking about it at the time from the perspective of “it’s too late now. All I can do from this point is try my best now and turn my life around next year.” And that’s basically what I told everyone! When I look back now, I wonder why I thought that if I just gave up now that things would suddenly change in the next year? But that's how I left the semester and entered the summer. Step Four, Spending Time Together:  I was academically dismissed from the University of New Haven. Now if you don't know what that is, being academically dismissed means that your GPA did not meet the requirements to continue to attend the university. Once again, I was at work when I received the email, and this time the email told me I was dismissed. And what did I do? I acted like my world didn’t just shatter. And for the most part, my world really didn’t shatter, because no longer going to college didn’t mean that there weren’t other things that I couldn’t do. I was in such utter disbelief. I knew things were bad, but never did I think they were this bad. I felt like I was left out of so many conversations that I desperately needed to be a part of. I was working with my advisor to do better, meeting with her biweekly  and she didn’t express that I was in danger of being academically dismissed. I almost felt lied to. Even during the summer that this was happening, I hadn’t told anyone what was going on. I only told my best friend at the time. My parents didn’t know, my family didn’t know, my friends didn't know and not even my sister knew. But I knew that if I wanted things to change, I had to share my struggles with the people around me. I had to share, not because I wanted to, but because I knew I could no longer do this by myself.  So, I went to my mentors. The great thing about my mentors was that they also happened to be my family. Meaning they know who I am, they know who my parents are, and they know how my parents would react. They were able to give me the best advice on how to go about the process and made sure to constantly check in on me to make sure that things were going along smoothly. They were even there when I had sat down and told my mother everything. I strongly believe that sharing with others what I was going through is what really made me work hard to be readmitted. And a week or so after I sent in my appeal letter, I was readmitted to the University of New Haven. Step Five, Discussing Expectations : Unfortunately, failure hasn’t left me yet. Even now back at school I pass by failure sometimes and it feels like he’s everywhere I go. I can’t escape him. Although we weren’t really in a true relationship together, it feels as if we’d broken up without actually doing so. And truly, I feel scared because what if I’m still unknowingly flirting with failure? At what point can I escape? At this moment, I’m definitely slipping, but the difference between now and then is that I’ve shared my experience with failure with others. My friends know, my family knows, my teachers and advisors know. If anything, I should talk to a therapist and let them know, too. But it’s for the better. What I didn’t know or see before was that I was struggling in silence. I didn’t share the conversations I had with failure. Maybe because I was embarrassed, but I think it’s because I really thought I had it under control, and what a sad mistake that was. Ultimately, yes, failure might be after me, but I have support now, and I’m asking for help now. I know now that the more I reach out and ask for help, the more failure has the chance to lose me and never see me again. I share all this with you because nobody really talks about it. At least, not the people I know. Yes, everyone makes jokes about failing, but I’ve felt like this has been an original experience, even though I know it’s not. And if you’re currently in a similar situation as I was, my advice is to cut failure off. Do what you have to do in order to remove failure from your life. Most importantly, remember that it’s most definitely not the end. In all honesty, when it comes to flirting with people, I have no experience in that. And I find nothing wrong with it at all, but if I’m such a great flirt when it comes to failing, then I should definitely build confidence to do more for myself and especially to do better for myself. I’d like to recount this time as my first-ever situationship and it was toxic. Now I definitely won't let a bad experience put me down or stop me from putting myself out there. Instead, I take it as a lesson I’m still learning. Failure and I don’t talk anymore; failure still haunts me and maybe it’s because I haven’t blocked him. But I’m done with failure; I’ve moved on, I’m doing better and I’m building a healthier relationship with myself.

Before Reading, Transgender youth shed suffocating layers of secrecy on campus grounds. College, for many, is a recess from the fear of being caught. Far away are habits of hiding halter tops, filling shoeboxes with makeup or tucking away binders alongside football gear. Whether home is miles or minutes away, transgender undergraduates move mountains to become themselves for a single semester. For the fortunate few, our educational institutions provide hormones, counseling, clean needles and bias-free clinicians. If medicine isn’t a human right, surely it is an undoubtable privilege. Accessible gender affirming care is a lifeline. Our transgender youth are now presented with grave choices: perseverance or suicide. The Largest Hospitals In Connecticut Are Cutting Transgender Services. Permanently. Yale New Haven Hospital and Hartford HealthCare ended their gender affirming care services in late July. Uncertain are figures to how many clients were affected. “After a thorough assessment of the current environment," said Mark Dantonio, media coordinator for YNHH, "we made the very difficult decision to modify the pediatric gender program to eliminate the medication treatment component of the gender-affirming program.” “This decision was not made lightly. We are aware of the profound impact that this decision will have on the patients treated in this program, as well as their families.” Search ynhh.org  for ‘pediatric gender services’ and the non-discrimination policy is all that remains. Any information on the former pediatric services exist outside public view. YNHH and HHC are the largest service providers for hospital care statewide, operating three out of five of the most trafficked inpatient facilities. Transgender youth attending University of New Haven are hit hard by these changes. Where last spring students had multiple local options for counseling and guidance on transitioning, now the resources are wearing thin. The newly adopted partnerships between UNewHaven and Hartford Healthcare leave more uncertainty to boot. “That is the market difference between, like, living in a blue state versus a red state,” said Dr. Melanie Walsh, PH.D in Counselor Education and clinical fieldwork coordinator, “where we can't just confidently say, I can send my trans student to CAPS at Mississippi State University and know that they will be safe and cared for in a manner that's equitable, you know, all of those things.” As recently as 2020, Dr. Walsh published a content analysis in the Journal of LGBTQ Issues in Counseling . Her collaborative study ‘Rethinking counseling recruitment and outreach for transgender clients’  finds a gap in reports on transgender, nonbinary and gender nonconforming clientele, and Walsh meditates on reasons why. “My argument in that article was that we do need to be making a more concerted effort to recruit and do community outreach in a way that is not dissimilar to what we do with research participants in letting these communities know that, like, we're here, we're affirming, we're knowledgeable, etcetera” (sic). “We have that understanding with other minoritized populations or marginalized populations, but that type of understanding had not at least been written about before that article was published.” Hormones like estrogen and testosterone are schedule III drugs (et. United States Drug Enforcement Agency or DEA), and are difficult to source without the guidance of licensed psychiatrists. “We know that this happens all the time and people do it safely, but there's also a lot of risk involved with that. Like, are you getting clean-clean hormones, for example? That's my first question.” Dr. W said. “Are there gonna be fillers, etcetera? Do you know how to administer the drug properly or in a way that's going to be effective?..” “I think who it's hurting most, you know, are going to be our youth because… you're very unlikely to have a parent who's gonna sign off on let's get access hormones from the black market.” Many public and private institutions are appeasing the federal government by cutting short-lived DEI (Diversity Equity & Inclusion)  programs. These services aimed to support women, queer individuals and those with disabilities. Is a legal justification weighed the same as a moral one? “In Connecticut, we don’t inject politics into private family medical decisions, and we don’t let adults bully our kids. It’s that simple.” Attorney General William Tong is involved with multiple active lawsuits against the Trump administration over protections for LGBTQIA+ youth and adults. “In Connecticut, we don’t inject politics into private family medical decisions, and we don’t let adults bully our kids. It’s that simple,” Tong said to press when discussing the amicus brief for PFLAG v. Trump  (Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays). Tong, Governor Ned Lamont and Democratic Senator Ceci Maher have expressed their continued support for transgender individuals. The state of Connecticut is among 18 others  fighting these federal decisions in court. YNHH and HHC are in a better place with their budgets than many other hospitals nationwide. How much pressure is Yale facing from the Trump administration to drop gender reaffirming care? Was this decision forced or voluntary? The answer may lay in the massive national cuts to medicaid. The OHS (Office of Health Strategy)  says out of the 27 hospitals in Connecticut, YNHH and HHC operate 20 (74%) . From YNHH’s 2023 annual report, their system served outpatients upwards of 3.6 million. Looking at HHC’s report in the year prior, on emergency and patient services alone, their hospitals serviced 300,000 visitors combined. Numbers from this HHC report about patient billing also shows medicaid is covering above half, give or take some change, of the costs to care. HHC and YNHH might be pinching pennies as patients who cannot afford copays decide against treatment or travel out of state.  As a welcome introduction to Horseshoe Magazine’s investigative journalism, we’ll be charting the waves formed by removing gender affirming care from public institutions, the ripples felt by lgbtq+ students, as well as finding answers to burning questions from New Haven’s shaken community. Follow us here for more, and stay up to date on new editions of the Horseshoe Magazine & Charger Bulletin News.

Hi, I’m Elisa, and for the past two semesters I’ve had the honor of serving as the editor of Horseshoe Magazine . Sadly, this is my last semester. I graduate soon, and before I walk away from this campus with a little more wisdom, I want to leave something behind. For those who don’t know me, I’m an international student from Honduras. That label—international s tudent —has been my identity for the past four years I’ve lived in the United States. Being international is a mix of pride, frustration and comedy. Pride because we’re brave enough to build a life away from home. Frustration because regulations and immigration policies can make you feel like you’re playing a game where the rules change mid-match. And comedy—well, because nothing makes you feel more "other" than being the only person in the room who doesn’t get the pop culture reference since you watched all the movies dubbed in Spanish growing up. (Yes, I still think "Shrek" sounds better en español.) If I wanted to, I could complain for hours about what it means to survive here—about visas, work limitations or having less than anyone else. I could tell you about crying in Walmart because you saw the one brand of cookies you used to eat back home, or about learning how to cook your national dishes with substitute ingredients that never taste quite the same. But instead, I want this to be a guide, a memoir and perhaps a word of advice for those who come after me—or for those who are already here, far from home, missing their family, their food or even just the sun on their skin. Because here’s the truth: My experience here changed my life. If I were to meet the Elisa who got off the plane on Jan. 13, 2022, she wouldn’t recognize me now. Who I am, what I believe in, how I see the world—it’s all been transformed. So if you’re a freshman stepping off that plane, suitcase in one hand and dreams in the other, welcome. From now on, in this column, I’ll call you Global Chargers. That’s what you are—students from every corner of the planet, carrying not just textbooks but also traditions, memories and hopes across borders. Global Chargers, this will be the best and the hardest time of your life. If you’re stubborn enough to stick through it, you’ll discover joy in the most unlikely places. Yes, you’ll cry because, “After this exam I can’t just go home and hug my mom.” You’ll sit in the dining hall wishing desperately for huevitos con frijoles  or whatever comfort food raised you. But you’ll also laugh in ways you never expected. You’ll build a family out of friends, and you’ll learn that your spirit is bigger than this campus, bigger than Connecticut and bigger than every obstacle thrown at you. Global Chargers often feel like we need to be twice as strong to prove we deserve to be here. Asking for help doesn’t mean weakness—it means you’re human. Whether it’s the international office, professors or friends, don’t carry everything alone. Home is far away, school is stressful, but you need that third place: the cafe where the barista remembers your name, the corner of the library where you always sit or the soccer field where you forget about everything else. Claim a space that belongs to you. Remember why you came. When things get hard—and they will—hold on to your “why.” Maybe it’s for your family, for your career, for the version of yourself you’re still becoming. That “why” will pull you through homesickness, bureaucracy and long winters. Being a Global Charger isn’t easy. It’s walking through life with a backpack that carries not just your laptop but your culture, your fears, your visa status and your dreams. It’s also proof of your strength. To those still here, still navigating, still finding their place: I hope this column can be your place of information, comfort or even confirmation that you are not alone. This campus might feel overwhelming at times, but your spirit is bigger. Bigger because you made the brave choice to be here today, far from home but closer to the person you’re becoming. So here’s my goodbye for today (don’t get scared, you got me one more semester), not just as the editor of this magazine but as a fellow Global Charger. Wherever you are from, wherever you’re going next—keep thriving, keep being stubborn and keep celebrating every single moment. I’ll be around for one more semester, so feel free to email me if you’d like to chat. You’re not just studying abroad. You’re building a life worth remembering.

For years there has been ongoing commentary that concerts have become a sea of phones,with audiences watching live performances through their screens. It is undeniable that smartphones have become a go-to for preserving moments and capturing snapshots of our lives. One example of this is filming concerts in their entirety. I was a firm believer that there was nothing wrong with recording, and that concerts were meant to be remembered in full.  The problem with my opinion was that I was 10-years-old when I attended my last concert. That changed on July 21, when I saw the band Ghost in person. The concert, however, was disclosed as a phoneless experience.  The announcement from the band's official ticket sale website sparked strong opinions on both sides. TikTok user @diixamond raised a valid critique under a post discussing the news, “I’m not spending all this money in this economy to see someone live and I can’t at least take home one memory.”  Average midsection seats range from $120 to $300 per ticket. When I purchased my tickets, I chose the nosebleed section, the highest and furthest area away from the stage. Nosebleed seats at TD Garden were about $80 each through Ticketmaster. For two tickets, the total was a little over $160 with tax and online fees. The cost of attending a concert only increases when you factor in the average overnight price of a hotel, Amtrak travel prices and the potential purchase merchandise.  Photo by: Abigail Riggins There is no doubt that concerts are no longer as easily affordable and accessible as they used to be. The frustration of being unable to document the event you spend so much money on is an understandable grievance.  Safety concerns have also filled social media in the wake of the band’s decision. There is always a risk for potential injury in large crowds. From the 2017 Ariana Grande concert attack in Manchester to the 2021 tragedy at the Astroworld Festival in the United States, there is a valid concern about concertgoers not having access to their devices in emergencies.  At my first concert without my parents, I had the same concerns as I queued in line to get my phone locked in a Yondr pouch.  A Yondr pouch is a small cloth pocket that you place your phone into that magnetically locks. To unlock the pouch, you must leave the venue and find an unlocking station to retrieve your phone. The pouch must be locked again before you can re-enter the concert.  The moment I couldn’t access my phone, I felt uneasy. However, there was not one area of the venue without at least four security guards stationed to help concertgoers find their seats and access exits. The event had one of the calmest and most controlled crowds I have experienced. TD Garden took necessary precautions such as metal detection, banning large bags and keeping the crowd in orderly lines. I had never felt safer in such a populated area.  The undeniable care and thorough planning on the venue’s part eased and put to rest the common fears many people had when confronted with the phone ban.  In the midst of this debate, I find myself seeing only the positives of a phoneless concert. While I can’t remember every detail of the concert, one thing I do remember is how connected everyone seemed to be. Hours before the venue doors opened, the streets were filled with fans interacting with one another. All that could be heard were people complimenting each other's hair, outfits, makeup and costumes. Strangers bonded over their excitement and love for Ghost’s music. While I was too shy to join in, others spent their time taking photos with one another and trading pins and bracelets. The knowledge of a phoneless concert inspired fans to make memories in different ways–by connecting with one another.  I can admit, as we waited for Ghost to get on stage, I was bored and itching to open my phone. Instead, my sister and I quickly took to people watching as I talked her ear off about the band’s lore and set list choice.  What was truly mesmerizing was when the music revved up and the band walked out on stage. There was no sea of lit screens disturbing the mood lighting. It was intense as everyone's eyes adjusted to the darkness and not one person lifted a phone above their head, blocking the view of the row behind them. Nearly 14,000 people’s eyes were glued to the stage, rather than their cameras making sure they filmed every perfect angle.  The crowd's response to the lead singer was even louder. So focused on what's in front of them, the audience’s participation during call and response moments was both intense and magical at the same time.  Tobias Forge, the lead singer, stated multiple times during interviews and social media posts that his choice of phoneless concerts makes him feel more connected to the audience. It’s clear that it must be an easier time performing to a captivated audience rather than singing to screens.  While I would have loved a video of my favorite song performed live for a memory keepsake (I refused to take out a loan for concert merchandise), I am grateful that I was forced to experience it with zero distraction. Through all the discourse about the phone ban during the concert tour, I think the lack of phones made the experience all the more memorable. Living “Rite Here Rite Now”–you’re welcome Ghost fans–made this truly a special occasion.

As much as I hate driving, my car is one of the most comforting places to me. I get to be alone, but I’m never lonely. When I’m alone in my car, the world melts away. My brain turns off and I become one with the music. I crank the volume up and escape from my life as I enter a moving concert. I get to choose the set list. For however long I’m in the car, I am granted an excuse to detach from my own reality and step into a more ideal one. The most dire thing in that moment is making sure the music I play serves that purpose. My stereo settings let me turn the bass up to the point where my car visibly shakes. The feeling is so similar to the seismic waves of a stadium during a concert. I let that feeling swallow me whole.  The expectations that people have for me no longer exist. The way that people feel about me does not matter. I simply enjoy the company of my speakers and act the way I wish I could at any given moment. It’s the way I truly am, but am too afraid to show to others. I can laugh. I can cry. I can belt along to a ballad as loud as I want. I am never too much. When I’m alone in my car, I can be myself . While there are times that I need a break from my life, my car provides me a place where I’m allowed to let my feelings out. As soon as I shut my door and turn on the ignition, I get to release every emotion that I’ve kept bottled up inside me. I’m not looking for someone to console me. The music is enough. There is nothing more therapeutic than going 50 mph down a country road while blaring a song about feeling misunderstood. “Too Strange For the Circus” by Debbii Dawson plays at a volume that’s harmful to the ears and blocks out any noise coming from outside. The tears can fall freely without feeling like my emotions are a burden to someone else. I can think about myself. I am allowed to take up space without needing a ticket. From my car, I can grasp that feeling of understanding that only exists when I’m watching someone spill their guts out on a stage. My car doesn’t judge me if I am too loud. My car doesn’t care how many times I play the same song in one ride. My car doesn’t tell me to calm down while I am bawling my eyes out after being criticized at work. My car doesn’t make me feel like I have to hide myself. I do understand that while my car may feel like a protective bubble, people can still see me. Even though my car is like a fishbowl, I barely think about how others on the road might perceive me. They might be doing the same exact things in their car, but the tinted windows just make it harder to see them. It’s in that scenario that I can see that other people are just like me. Everyone has their own way to decompress. Other people have the same thoughts running through their heads. However, I am unable to apply that logic to everything. I don’t know why I feel so protected from judgment when I’m in my car. I wish life was like a math equation, where I could use the same formula for every similar scenario. I want to go to a doctor's appointment as if I’m alone in my car. I want to walk around campus as if I’m alone in my car. I want to wander around a store by myself as if I’m alone in my car. I am so tired of feeling like I am not allowed to be somewhere just because it’s only me. I don’t plan out everything that I have to say in a conversation when I’m alone in my car. I don’t try to filter out things that might offend people when I’m alone in my car. I think people would like me if they saw what I’m like when I’m in my car. They wouldn’t just see a person who watches everyone around them and never speaks. I allow myself to be who I am, but only in secret. I guess I’m uncomfortable with who I am when I’m around other people. Why can’t I just be alone in my car all the time? Image by Adonyi Gábor on Pexels

It’s 2:03 a.m. My window is cracked open, and the longer I stay up, the more I lose precious sleep time. Still, my thoughts keep me awake. You know those nights when a random thought engulfs your mind and you can’t get it out of your head until you’ve pondered it? Tonight, for me, it’s the Library of Alexandria. If you know me, you know how much I love "what ifs" in human history, and this one is no different. I don’t remember exactly how I got here. Maybe it was a quote on social media, or more likely a TikTok that showed up on my For You page while I was doomscrolling. But once the thought landed, it stuck in my mind: What if the Library of Alexandria had never burned down? If you’ve never heard about it, or only vaguely remember it from a history class, here’s a short version: The Library of Alexandria was founded in Egypt during the third century B.C. It wasn’t just a place to store books; it was a temple to human history. Imagine a world where scholars from Greece, Egypt, India and beyond came together to study, debate and share what they knew. There were astronomers, mathematicians, poets, scientists and translators. It was a diverse and perfect culmination of human knowledge—something modern-day historians could only dream of experiencing. It’s estimated the library may have held 400,000 to 700,000 scrolls—not books, but scrolls—written by hand. Ideas that someone sat with, shaped and sealed in ink. Knowledge passed down across time and cultures, brought into one space to be preserved, understood and added to. Then it all went up in smoke. There’s debate about how it was destroyed. Julius Caesar might have accidentally set it ablaze during a military campaign. Others say it was gradually dismantled over time through neglect, political shifts and religious uprisings. No single villain, no dramatic cinematic moment—just centuries of apathy and missed chances. In a way, that makes it worse. Because it wasn’t just a building that burned. It was a buildup of many small problems that caused it to be lost to time. What were we on the verge of discovering? Could we have advanced medicine by hundreds of years? Could we have avoided wars with a deeper understanding of each other’s cultures and philosophies? Would North America have been discovered earlier? Who would have colonized what is now the United States first? Could we have developed technologies that still feel like science fiction today? It keeps me up (on nights like this) to think we might have known the Earth revolved around the sun centuries earlier, or had a working theory of atoms, the nervous system—even flying machines. These weren’t science fiction fantasies. There’s evidence some of this knowledge existed , or was close to existing, in those scrolls. And yet, here we are—picking up the pieces generations later. Starting from scratch on ideas that may have once already lived, breathed and died in those scrolls. Gone, because we didn’t protect them. What I can’t shake is that we’re still losing knowledge—not to flames, but to neglect. We’re surrounded by information, yet somehow more disconnected from understanding. There’s access, but not always intention. Truth competes with noise. We underfund the places meant to preserve learning and dismiss the voices that push us to think deeper. It’s not as dramatic as a fire, but the effect feels the same—we let valuable knowledge slip away. Quietly. Constantly. And yeah, I know—I’m just one person staring at the ceiling in the middle of the night. I’m not trying to solve the world’s knowledge crisis with a single thought. But it makes me wonder: What if we treated learning as sacred? What if we approached every conversation, every story, every piece of information with the kind of reverence the ancient scholars once did? The Library of Alexandria might be gone. But the idea of it—the dream behind it—doesn’t have to be. Maybe it’s in every open book, every thoughtful question, every time someone chooses curiosity over certainty. Maybe it lives again every time we choose to preserve knowledge, share it and protect it—not just for ourselves, but for the next generation. At 2 a.m., when the world feels heavy and the past feels painfully close, I think about what we lost in the fire. But I also think about what we still have the power to protect. Because knowledge, once lost, is hard to recover. But knowledge shared? That’s how you rebuild a library.