Remember the label “class clown” from elementary or high school? It was usually given to the loud, goofy, slightly outrageous student. Now think about who that student was in your classes. It was probably a boy, right?

With September rolling around again, Kingston is coming alive; a city, and experience, I’m just outside of.

Imagine being told that university would be the most formative years of your life. The most impactful, eye-opening years, filled with learning and excitement. Then imagine you’ve finished your first year feeling like an embarrassment and wondering what was wrong with you.

I’ve been having growing pains.

I thought that when I came home, everything would be exactly as I left it, including my grandmother.

When applying to universities and colleges in high school, I thought I had the next four years of my life all planned out. I was wrong.

Leave your door open they said.

I’ve been told that I talk about being gay every five minutes.

University is often said to be some of the most enjoyable years of your life, but I can’t seem to let go of my life before.

A medium s’mores Blizzard, a large box of fresh, crispy fries with mayo, Takis, Grocery Checkout yogurt pretzels, and a cold case of Coca-Cola—those were my go-to orders on a typical press night. Not the healthiest choices, but the ones that brought me the most joy in the middle of all the chaos.

This year, I was the only girl in an all-boys unit. What began as a random, complicated living situation has led me to a deep, profound reflection of what it means to share life and love equally with men and women—and how to tune out the gendered noise.

In an era of immediate results, people my age are falling back in love with the old ways of doing things, which says a lot about how disconnected we are from our current reality.

Some days, I will sleep for 48 hours straight.

It’s all too easy for me to spiral. Whether that be in worry, dread, or despair, I used to feel like my life was dictated by the next bad thing that was going to happen to me.

When I enrolled in Queen’s in the spring of 2022, I expected to graduate in 2026—exactly 70 years after my late grandmother did. I

I learned too late that selflessness can become a slow kind of violence. I used to think love meant shrinking myself and my needs. Disappearing. I made space for everyone else and swallowed my own needs so theirs could breathe. I wore exhaustion like a badge of honour and called it kindness. I said yes when my body begged for rest. I stayed quiet when something hurt and convinced myself that being needed was the same as being valued.