For the most part, I don’t go about my days actively thinking I am a bad person. But I can’t control when the thoughts arise — and when they do, they are relentless.
Caring for myself at Harvard is more difficult than I like to admit. I question how I can stem from generations of nourishing women as someone who can barely replenish myself.
The ground is forgetful — after a few dry months, it’s flustered by the torrent of rain and can’t hold onto the precious moisture.
Entering American customs is a game of chance. The officers hone in on seemingly arbitrary factors: fidgeting, nervousness, hypervigilance. Yet, warned about the risks of failing to pass immigration, aren’t we all nervous?