September marked the beginning of the end for me—my last year at Queen’s and, in turn, my last year living in Kingston. The bittersweet emotions that come over me when I think about this fact are overwhelming.
Throughout my entire undergrad, Queen’s campus has felt seemingly endless. Each year, I discover a new study spot, a new secluded park bench to sit on between classes, and a new overpriced vending machine in one of my lecture halls.
The Law School Admissions Test (LSAT) world is one I thought I’d leave after taking my test this past September—but as November has now begun, I’m wondering if I’ll ever truly escape its grasp.
For the better part of the first 20 years of my life, I grew accustomed to being considered a “young” person. It came with its perks: the obligatory “You’re born in 2003?!” and well-meaning advice from older people who always seemed to be preaching the same message: enjoy your youth because it’ll be gone before you know it.
The first time I ever went to a funeral was to mourn a person I never met. I went because my friend, and roommate, asked me to. She’d lost someone close to her, and though I didn’t know the person who had passed, I’d heard stories of the person she was.
As Halloween fast approaches, I enter a strange period where I feel split into two selves, torn between the past, characterized by innocence, and the mysterious and seductive future.
Last year, I participated in my first medical brigade. Our large, stark white bus pulled into the compound, its bright blue sign reading “Medical Brigade.” As the gates opened and we stepped off, the space—reminiscent of a public school—had been transformed into a makeshift medical clinic for the day and the week ahead. I took my first steps off the bus, and as I looked up, my heart sank.
Every social event I’ve attended in the last few months has been plagued by one question in particular: “Ella, what are you doing after you graduate in the spring?”
This past year, I found myself struggling with a dilemma many young artists face: the struggle between creating art for social and financial recognition versus the pure joy of creating for its own sake.
The last time I visited the Philippines was in 2008. I was five years old and have little to no recollection of my stay. I have slivers of memories of the trip—getting my nails painted by my ninangs (godmother), singing karaoke with my family, and walking a cute aso (dog).
In every role I’ve embraced during Fall Orientation—from being an incoming student, to a ConEd Orientation Leader “Teach,” Head Teach, and now, Orientation Roundtable Coordinator, one undeniable truth prevails—there’s a transformative magic to Fall Orientation that brings forth one’s finest self.
After a long and strenuous exam season, I kicked off my summer vacation in a place many of my peers might consider a nightmare: a kindergarten classroom.
Many of us are familiar with the Latin expression carpe diem, which translates to “seize the day.” Sometimes, I feel as though I’ve spent my entire life chasing the future, forgetting to live in the present and seize the day.