Racism is inescapable. 

Growing up, the only time I can remember learning about mental health was through my hockey association’s charity.

Ever since my family immigrated to Canada, I’ve been trying to find the perfect balance between Russian, the language of my family, and English, the language of my new home. 

No matter where I go, I see media reflecting a society that centers on whiteness, no matter how “inclusive” they claim to be.

The night I lost my virginity, things didn’t go the way I’d planned.  

The way I look was one of the only sources of control I had over my life.

In April of 2019, I moved back to Prince Edward County for the final time. 

When the original version of Red was released, I was in middle school.

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.