On growth
By Vega Bharadwaj | April 25, 2016I feel compelled to spill out everything I’ve ever wanted to say in this column, seeing as it’s my very last one.
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I feel compelled to spill out everything I’ve ever wanted to say in this column, seeing as it’s my very last one.
Something bizarre happened to me the other day: I received personalized career advice from not one, but two of my instructors.
I can’t forget the simultaneous power and frustration I felt over my stockpiles of Plus Dollars, resulting in a continual catch-22 of needing to get rid of them but not wanting to consume the extra gummy worms.
I don’t feel bad for having spent most of last week curled up with a book in my air-conditioned bedroom, blissfully ignoring the weather’s pleas to venture out into the uncannily summerlike NOVA temperatures.
The end of my senior year of high school did not cure me of my senioritis. Nor did the start of college.
I decided to enroll in a swimming class this semester because it seemed like the optimal alternative to more torturous forms of cardiovascular exercise — particularly running.
At the ends of the emails she sends students in response to tragedy, University President Teresa Sullivan typically emphasizes how we must “come together as a community.” Though this advice seems appropriate in theory, in practice it is difficult for people to cultivate an environment in which they share complex emotions without fear of judgment or imposition.
For many reasons, I am not comfortable with the idea that reducing the stigma behind mental health starts with equating mental illness with physical illness.
From time to time, I come across days laden in abnormal circumstances. Today, for example, I knew from the moment I accidentally poured curdled milk into my fresh cup of coffee that something wasn’t right.
I came to college with the firm belief friendships are only worth growing if they have the potential to become exceptionally tight-knit.
