I spent my childhood waiting for the world to end.  

I experience an enormous amount of pressure to perform my queerness to the perfect rhythm.

Part of my self-worth has always been tied to my appearance.  

Back in twelfth grade, I wrote a panicked journal entry beginning with the line, “I don’t think I’m a girl.”

Overthinking has absorbed my university life. I find myself bound by standards for and perceptions of myself—and sometimes it goes overboard.  

On my first day at Queen’s, I drove to Kingston with my parents in a U-Haul, unloaded my things on my floor in Gordon Brockington Hall, and understood what it meant to be an outsider in Canada.

It’s been exactly one year and one month since I slurped on a bowl of authentic Taiwanese beef noodle soup. One year and one month since I’ve seen my parents, not through a small black screen, but in person.  

During my second year at Queen’s, I worried I might flunk out.

I never understood why women of colour are so underrepresented in Canadian politics. 

I never expected to be involved in social justice and advocacy.

All I did in my first year of university was lie to myself. I didn’t know what I wanted to do socially or academically, but I kept telling myself  I did.

I’ve always grappled with my identity and how to express it.

The most incredible aspect of living in residence is the opportunity to influence, and be influenced by, people you likely never would’ve met otherwise.

This year, the Journal house was mostly empty. 190 University Ave., for me, had always been a hub of activity: layout room laughter, couch room banter, a place to hang out in between classes, last-minute writing, and just plain chaos. Losing all of that would be reason enough to become dispirited, but you, our staff, didn’t. 

Around this time three years ago, I was anxiously awaiting my acceptance to Queen’s Commerce. At the time, I had already been accepted to every other university I applied to, and I was terrified of being rejected—despite my 96 per cent average and wealth of extracurriculars.

Two years ago, in a small suburb outside of Glasgow, I had an evening I’ll never forget.  

I think it’s safe to say everyone has learned something new during the pandemic. Some people picked up knitting, others learned how to skate. What I gained this year, however, was something more significant to me than any hobby. I learned how to say goodbye.

For a while now, I’ve been on the hunt for the perfect pair of white, straight leg jeans. 

When my five housemates and I met in October of our first year at Queen’s, all that connected us was a mutual friend, Amy. We were six young women thrown together, each from different religious backgrounds and ethnicities, all planning to live under the same roof.

I’ve found that white people are often more worried about being called racist than they are about actually being racist.