CHARGED-UP RESULTS

To my peers, and to my community, It was winter break, December 2024 and while my mind was reeling from months of late rent payments and struggles with college courses, my mother surprised me for Christmas with a flight to North Carolina. She moved months ago, and what little she knew of my struggle on campus, she knew less of my struggle on my own. I was scared to step away from so much responsibility, even for a few days. My mother’s worry is worse than any anxiety. I couldn’t parse her seeing how I was during that semester. I was lost and ashamed of my academic performance. Mom was certain I needed time away from the chaos, and she was right. I just couldn’t pry myself away from what I was busy with. In her simple Charlotte apartment, I spent evenings with encrypted phone calls, signal chats and proton email chains, planning a northeast students for Palestine day of action. There was not a moment I wasn’t face first in my journals, so to the dismay of my protector. Mom had seen me restlessly toss and turn in the mornings over lost sleep. I was burning holes into the back of my notebook, erasing and re-erasing edits. Finally, near the second to last day of my layaway turned conference call, Mom sat me onto the couch for some quality time. I got to pick the movie and the snacks, just like we used to do at home. 12-year-old Patch would stay up finishing whatever was on FX, and mom’s promise not to fall asleep was universally broken (but I had never minded it). This time, sitting beside her at 20 years old, I chose to watch Judas and the Black Messiah. Fred Hampton’s life, assassination and the story of the man whose complicity got him killed. What moved me to start thrifting textbooks and stealing away into the shelves of Peterson Library was not some grandiose awakening of the self. I never had a perfect moment, and I’m certain there were no lightbulbs involved either. I never even considered myself leftist until this January. It’s a strange thing because I didn’t even notice the change until I noticed the questions. “What can get others to understand this?” “What is the real risk of protesting?” “Who can I count on to care about this?” “How do I know that without speaking even more?” Three simple changes in framing: How did this happen? Why is it still happening? How does it stop? Reaching the last wasn’t possible without accepting the place I was in. I needed to treat myself like a learning, growing person and not striving to become a monolith of leadership. Seriously considering that maybe if I don’t know the answer, I can teach myself to find it. Lead with my actions and act on my principles. During the New Haven Black Panther trials of 1986, Angela Davis was in confinement awaiting her moments to testify in court. In her interview filmed from the cell, she said something that stuck with me. “The real content of any revolutionary thrust lies in the principles; in the goals that you are striving for, not in the ways that you reach them.” I believe all my peers can learn for themselves how our system of oppression operates, and in exactly what terms and manners it trickles into our lives. I believe that for my peers to gain this awareness it will take a conscious, dedicated, long effort on my person to engage them in these discussions of freedom, because how else will these discussions come about? I stay believing, despite the raids and shootings and lynchings across America, that my peers and I will not be intimidated by any oppressive force. My peers and I rather quickly are becoming the leaders of our generation. That means by teaching ourselves to lead, learn and speak, we start to free ourselves from silent classrooms and isolated in-groups. I believe that with this letter, addressed largely to the Black student, the Latino student, the international student, the queer student and the Muslim student; and still so addressed to the wider campus community of workers, faculty, staff, families, friends and allies; I can rally you under our collective struggle, and stir the type of social consciousness needed for the moment of history we live within. I believe you are ready to lead in the same way I am. I believe that only trying will realize that potential. Always, Patch Isaiah Bowen Colon

When I first met you, it was the kind of unexpected meeting we read about in romantic books.  It was never about looks.  It was the way you waltzed into my heart, like you owned the place.  I wasn’t ready, yet you showed me grace.  Suddenly, I wasn’t so afraid of the male race. Or maybe just you.  You were the only exception that I knew. I introduced you to my diary as Elevator Boy. Our frequent meetings in the elevator brought me joy. My diary entries became colorful with words like “cute”, “smart” and “different.” I couldn’t put my finger on what made you so important. My lack of experience in the matter made it even harder to tame my feelings. You were the main subject in my weekly therapy briefings. The elevator became more than floors and steel.  It turned into a capsule of how I feel.  A simple space of buttons and light  Became a stage where my soul took flight.  I began to wait for the sound of its doors sliding open, Hoping for the chance of seeing you inside  As if my heart has already been stolen.  Every ding of the doors brought a rush of chance. Every glance of yours was a stolen dance.  Each ride, a coin toss between disappointment and delight.  I dreamt of you waiting for me in that steel box every night.  Little did I know you were about to disappear. When my phone lit up with your name, I thought I was going insane. Was I so smitten with you that I was dreaming about you calling me? If only I had known then that you were about to set me free. Not for my benefit, but because you were bound to fade. The story we started would never be made. Our honeymoon phase never saw the sun,  And yet you broke my heart before it had begun. Change and the unknown are sometimes my biggest fears. They always manage to bring me to tears.  Some days, to help with the pain, I blame you. Other days, I thank you. Some days I curse you for making me cry. Other days I whisper a desperate “why.” Thank you for giving me something to look forward to. Thank you for showing me that there are exceptions too. If only I knew our time would be brief, Maybe just maybe I would have held on tighter, through joy and grief. After you left, my words grew dark, My diary became a painful mark. Words such as “pain” and “fear” filled every line. “Forgiveness” struggled to intertwine.  I made a list of things I should have said. A hundred thoughts ran through my head. You were ninety-nine of them, the rest was one, That single thought reminded me that waiting on you was done. Yet still, the echoes of the elevator doors never erased. Your shadow remains in my memory’s space.  Lately, the diary entries about you have lessened. I don’t know if it means that you have been forgiven or forgotten. There are still days when I wonder where you are  And whether you think of me as much as I do. I hope you don’t, because then it would mean you are in pain too. My love for you makes me pray you have moved on. It is fine if I am the only one who gets to think of you from dusk till dawn. Does love disappear, or does it transform? I wonder if longing dies or takes on a new form. Perhaps it softens, perhaps it bends,  Perhaps it lingers though the chapter ends.  The elevator doors closed on us fast, And today I stand, even though our love couldn’t last.  Maybe your purpose was not to stay, But to teach me love in a perfect way. To show me that courage lives in the heart, If it dares to open, it faces the risk of falling apart. Your gaze through those doors showed my heart a dance, Two souls giving each other a chance.  Your role was brief, but your impact was deep. Your voice wishing me good night is a secret I’ll keep.  So, I write of you still, in rhythm and rhyme, Not to trap you in pages, but to honor the time.  For words are my keepsake, gentle and true, The only souvenir I have of you. And though the doors have long since closed, And though the story was never composed, Sometimes in dreams, the elevator will ring, And I’ll remember the joy a boy once could bring.

Jade Dream Edwards-Figueroa. It's 24 letters, 25 characters that define who I am. Without a name I am simply just someone. I could be anyone. But my name makes me unique.Not in the way that my fingerprints may, but in a way that’s authentic to my personality. To love my name is to love who I am, my story and the story of those who came before me.   Though with age and time I’ve grown to love the name my mother chose, and the surnames given to me by both my parents, this was not always the case.   I grew up in a small more suburban area of The Bronx called Woodlawn. Woodlawn is known for its Irish culture so growing up only half Irish made me feel like an outsider. To be a child of color in an area filled with white people is a culture shock for those around you. I grew up with no one ever being able to pronounce my last name. Aname given to me by my father and his before him was subject to ridicule for its pronunciation.   I grew up embarrassed of being a Figueroa  because having that name made me feel like I wasn’t normal, whatever normal may be.   As I went on through middle school, comments about my name became matched with some regarding my appearance.  They’d say “I wish my hair looked like yours” or “I wish I had your skin color. It's the perfect mix of white and brown.”  These comments made me feel out of place. In this Irish neighborhood my Irish descent was being disregarded by the fact that I am also Puerto Rican. Instead of being able to embrace both sides of me I was put into a box to fit one.   When I got older and attended high school, I attended a predominantly Hispanic school in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. At this school I finally felt like I would fit in, having been treated differently given my Hispanic background I was thrilled to be in a place I could belong.  But of course, that didn’t happen.  High school is a time where many people start growing into their identities, but for me it was just another opportunity to be lost in my own. Edwards, the name that no one ever batted an eye at, was finally the topic of discussion.   Suddenly I was being asked  if I was Italian and being referred to as the “white one” in my friend group. I had friends who were paler than me, but the biggest difference between us was they were fully Hispanic. Not two halves of something that could never be whole.  At this point in my life, I was begging for an ounce of understanding. Anything to make me feel like being a part of two different cultures would make me feel lucky. Not cursed. I began asking more about my family trees on both sides, putting in the work to learn more about my cultures rather than letting one define me. I slowly started to see myself as Jade Edwards-Figueroa, not just Jade Edwards or Jade Figueroa. I finally began to see myself as me.   Now this growth is still happening and no change happens overnight. There are still times where I can be sensitive to comments on my race or ethnicity. But all in all, I am happy to be finding myself and learning to love me as one whole person, not two empty halves.  Picture by Tasha Kamrowski

Photo by Donald Tong: https://www.pexels.com/photo/four-person-in-naruto-costume-65767/ The term “fandom” in my experience, strikes three major reactions: confusion, disgust or excitement. Fandom is used to describe a space that shares a passion of the same interest. The word is mostly associated with the act of “fangirling” on the internet. When many people hear fandom, they think about the fans of boy-bands or actors they “freak out” about and share their love with likeminded individuals.  Fandoms are nothing new. The term was created and used around the  early 1900s , then skyrocketed in use around the early 2000s.  The topic of fandoms currently exists in a semi-public-semi-private space. Discussing involvement in a fandom is a fact usually meant to keep to yourself or post anonymously online. It is deemed strange to be so involved with a piece of content.  Being a part of a fandom is perceived as a cringe topic and an embarrassing thing to own up to.  Content like fanfiction is thought to only be crude and works of “fanservice” and fan edits are deemed low quality and lazy.  Fandoms have also gotten their “cringe” rap from stereotypes that surround certain types of content like anime, manga and K-Pop. These are predominantly non-western forms of content that are often considered “weird” or “immature” to western audiences.  What many fail to realize is that fandoms and their components play a crucial role for the content we love.  When a piece of content is able to touch the heart of a viewer, many want to share the feeling of adoration to not only fellow fans, but to the creator(s) as well.  Fanart is a common practice to pay homage. The point of fanart was to take the time to create free artwork that encompasses the love for a character or scene within a favorite piece of content. Fanart is also a way for fellow creatives to recognize one another, practice artistic skill and provide a gift to those that created the specific content. Types of fanart are not limited to drawings and paintings. Fans also go above and beyond through cosplay and animations.  Fandoms provide a form of escapism and a safe space. Self-expression and creativity have no limits in fandoms. It provides a space for people to practice art and writing skills while also sharing their creations freely and at no cost.  Fandoms also contribute to the practice of close reading and media comprehension. Many individuals develop close reading skills through character analysis and examining settings, themes and scenes. Discussions regarding these components with other people also expose each other to differing opinions and viewpoints. These discussions and close analyses strengthen comprehension skills in a fun and creative manner.  But sticking to my word, I’ve decided to be “cringe” and share my favorite fandom and the art fellow fans created. It isn’t cringe to be passionate, it's cringe to hide your interests.  Red Hood: Resurrection  by Noah Beyer: DC Studios is one of the most well-known film production companies with their success in both the comic and movie industry.  Red Hood is a character within the stories of Batman that has captured the hearts of many fans. While his story is not the forefront of many comic issues any longer, fans decided to create what they wanted to see.  Noah Beyer, a fan of Red Hood’s character, took it upon himself to plan, write, cast and film a free-to-watch Youtube series detailing and following DC’s character, Red Hood. Beyer and his team have dedicated their effort and time into forming their own show that is accessible for anyone and everyone to watch.  Red Hood: Resurrection is also only funded by the team and whatever fellow fans donate out of the goodness of their heart for a fan series they enjoy.  This level of dedication and adoration for a character has created its own fandom within a fandom.  I found myself unsatisfied with the content and approach that DC took with Red Hood, and finding Red Hood: Resurrection scratched the itch I had regarding the approach to one of my favorite characters. I was also able to witness the skill level of the production and acting of the team. Watching such love and dedication be put into a project that is free to view is a gratifying and exciting experience.  Within the DC fandom, one of my favorite artists is instagram user @hiikeu. They are one of the most talented artists I have seen that creates many pieces of art ranging from Superman, The Teen Titans and Red Hood.  Supporting artists and interacting within fandom spaces allows you to find and support not only the original content you enjoy, but also support talented artists that were brave enough to share free content and fanwork for your viewing pleasure. It isn’t cringe to support artists and critically think about the content you enjoy. You may just find a community to interact with or a new artist to follow.

There are many museums in New York, and the one I was most familiar with as a kid was the American Museum of Natural History. You know, the one with dinosaurs and whatnot.  As going to New York City became a casual endeavor for me in 2024, the following year brought new insights into museum traveling, namely the spot called The Metropolitan Museum of Art, or the Met, for short. It’s the sort of place you can’t just spend 45 minutes in, like I did in the British Museum in London (trying to peer over a crowd of tourists snapping photos of the Rosetta Stone). At The Met they offer student discounts for admission where you can pay what you wish to donate. With my camera in hand, I was ready to snap away at some thousands of years old artifacts. The no flash rule applies to museum work for a number of reasons when it comes to photography in places like these. It’s to protect old ancient objects from light damage over time, to avoid disruption and preserve the integrity of the institution. The photo above was of a reindeer made of reflective iridescent bubbles. It wasn’t reflective enough to display me taking the picture like that of a mirror, yet it created a cool effect of bead-like spheres of various sizes that comprised the body. Combined with atmospheric dim lighting of the room the light shines off the creature in a spectacular way.  Yet the strangest part about this reindeer is that I believe it was taken in the ancient Japan section of The Met. The lettering on the orange banner in the background confirms my suspicion. Why would a reindeer be in the Japan section? Irrelevant detail to the story but an interesting point. The world may never know... Worlds collided that day. My best friend from high school happened to be in the city at the time, and someone who had become one of my best friends this past year was visiting the city with me. These two worlds converged in The Met as I convinced my high school friend to spend an hour with us in the museum. It was beautifully and accidentally arranged and I wasn’t sure they’d get along. They were from very different backgrounds. Yet at the end of the day they were tethered to each other in that moment by being close friends of mine. Back to the main point of this story, which is to not use flash at the museum. We were in a great hall of African sculptures of the sort, and my idiot instinct, a primitive reflex to be funny and win the appeal of others, broke the most important unspoken rule in museums: don’t use the camera flash. I barely got the flash going before I immediately pointed the lens down, knowing it was an awful idea. What was I thinking?  As if on cue, a museum employee shuffled over, as if I had stepped on an invisible tripwire. What had become a split second decision to spam capture photos of my high school friend avoiding my gaze, turned into a supernova of light that clearly attracted unwanted attention. There’s not too much left to say about The Met. Apologizing to the museum employee was borderline embarrassing but I quickly laughed it off. I suppose it’s just fun when worlds collide, especially those close to you. Old friends logically know you better, because they’ve been your friend for a longer amount of time especially at these pivotal ages when we grow up. Yet as old friends drift apart in physical proximity and can devote less of their time to you, new friends get to know you better in a more literal sense. At college, you’ll see them everyday or at least more often then the old friends. They know you better because they’re more up to date on the current happenings of your life.  It’s like the reindeer made out of bubbles. If the reindeer represents me, then it’s made up of individual pieces that create the whole. Whether those pieces or spheres in this case are memories or knowledge or connections with others, that’s up to interpretation. I just know that in the Metropolitan that day, it felt nice to be surrounded by people I knew I cared about deeply and I knew they felt the same. Even if they came from different cultures, time and space. Should I have taken a picture with flash in an open exhibit at a New York museum? No. Yet it’s just another humorous memory, another spherical shaped memory that adds to our whole being like the makeup of the reindeer’s body. We’re going to make mistakes in life, we’re going to have friends old and new, and sometimes we’re even going to feel out of place (like the reindeer did in the Japan exhibit).  But one thing is painfully clear. The donate what you wish for student admission to The Met is a real test of one’s moral qualms. I donated a dollar for admission. Oops.

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.

What I have with my pets is a bond that goes beyond words. My car drives down the road near my house and my cat senses I’m nearby. She sits at the top of the stairs and waits for me to walk through the door. And the moment I do, I’m ambushed by seven pounds of unconditional love. She sits outside the bathroom door and cries while I take a shower. One might think she is trying to protect me while I’m in a vulnerable state, but I know that she wants to come in because she hates to be alone.  When I walk off the porch and into the backyard, she watches my every move. If I sit out on the deck, she stares at me through the window and cries because she wants me to come back and be with her.  She stares up at me from the floor when I sit on the sofa and she won’t jump up until I nod my head. It doesn’t even matter if my sitting position looks difficult to balance on. My cat will find a way to sit on my lap. Once she’s settled, she leans her head toward my hand until I pet her. Her purrs are as loud as a car motor. A simple steady rumble coming from her lets me know how calm and protected she feels with me. I remember when she was just a kitten. I had to keep her in my room for the first couple of weeks before we could take her to the vet. The night I got her, I was lying in my bed with her close to me. She curled her paw around my finger, and I immediately felt like a mother to this animal. I even call her my daughter. She’s there to comfort me as well. She can sense when I’m sick. When I was battling with a stomach bug, she laid down with me and kneaded my stomach. She was trying to make me feel better.  She sits with me most of the time because she wants attention and she bites my phone whenever I don’t give her enough of it. She wants me to only focus on her when she’s on my lap. But if something else catches her attention, she’s free to catapult herself off me. Then she goes and chases the light that’s reflecting off the metal name tag on her collar. She’s not always the most gentle creature. This is especially evident with how she treats my older cat. While she’s simply looking for a playmate, my older cat feels like his life is threatened whenever the youngest decides to pounce. I don’t condone the behavior, so I hiss and growl until she runs away. Whenever this happens, my older cat gives me a look that expresses how grateful he is that I’m there to look out for him. When I found out my older cat had cancer, I was heartbroken. I made sure to dedicate some quality time with him. I’d invite him into my room in the middle of the night because at some point, I won’t be so fortunate enough to find him somewhere in the house. I’d start bawling my eyes out whenever he sat on my bed with me. He knew how devastated I was. I would break down right in front of him and he would just rest his forehead on mine and rub his face on my cheek.  He was trying to wipe away my tears. My older cat is like a brother to me. I used to dress him up when I was a kid. I’d make him wear sunglasses or a cowboy hat. He was my little doll, and he didn’t mind. He never once tried to scratch or bite me when I would mess with him.  That black-and-white ball of fur has been by my side since I was five. I don’t remember a life that didn’t have him in it and I can’t imagine one without him. It’s gotten to the point that whenever I see him sleeping on a chair in the living room, I have to go and check if he’s breathing. I’ll randomly make a loud noise to check if he’ll still perk his little head up. I’ll do anything to make sure he’s still with me. I feel so connected to these animals. My daughter and my brother. And while it sounds a bit unconventional, I wouldn’t have it any other way, because they love me for the person I am on the inside.  It’s shocking how close I can be with someone I’ve never exchanged words with. I think that’s the beauty of our relationship.

“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.

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.