Around this time three years ago, I was anxiously awaiting my acceptance to Queen’s Commerce. At the time, I had already been accepted to every other university I applied to, and I was terrified of being rejected—despite my 96 per cent average and wealth of extracurriculars.

Two years ago, in a small suburb outside of Glasgow, I had an evening I’ll never forget.  

I think it’s safe to say everyone has learned something new during the pandemic. Some people picked up knitting, others learned how to skate. What I gained this year, however, was something more significant to me than any hobby. I learned how to say goodbye.

For a while now, I’ve been on the hunt for the perfect pair of white, straight leg jeans. 

When my five housemates and I met in October of our first year at Queen’s, all that connected us was a mutual friend, Amy. We were six young women thrown together, each from different religious backgrounds and ethnicities, all planning to live under the same roof.

I’ve found that white people are often more worried about being called racist than they are about actually being racist. 

Back in 2018, I went out on a limb and accepted an offer to do my first year of undergrad at the Queen’s Bader International Study Centre (BISC), located in East Sussex, England, where students go to school at Herstmonceux Castle.

I attended a competitive high school where I took AP classes, made honour roll every year, and graduated with awards—but competition wasn’t limited to academic achievement.

January is almost over, and as Journal readers know, the annual search for new student government and club executives is underway. As much as this time is about new beginnings, reflecting on the past helps help shape our goals for the new year.

You know it’s extremely common, right?” That’s what a psychiatrist said to me last summer when I itted I was contemplating suicide because of my circumcision.

The story goes that if you put a frog in a pot of boiling water, it will instantly leap out. However, if you put a frog in a pot filled with room-temperature water and heat it slowly, the frog will stay put until it boils to death.

November 4, 2020: If I’m not my good grades, the hours I put in at the gym, or the clothes I spend hundreds of dollars on, then who am I?

I came out of high school dripping with confidence. I was secure in the body I had, proud of my features—moments of insecurity were present but bearable.

One of the most tumultuous relationships I’ve had in my life is the one I have with my hair. 

My relationship with my skin has never been great. I’ve spent the majority of my preteen, teenage, and young adult life struggling with acne. It’s a little hormonal, a little stress-related, which means pinning down one daily routine that works all the time is nearly impossible.

It was the morning of my Grade 10 science exam when the pain started. Up until that moment in my life, my period pain had always been manageable. On that morning, it became so bad I began to black out.

I’ve been at a white institution for three years now, isolated from diversity and fighting battles every day to be allowed safety and comfort. Somehow, despite the casual and not-so-casual racism, the toughest thing about being at Queen’s has been the people who call themselves my allies.

On Sept.4, 2019, the Green Bay Packers and the Chicago Bears started off the NFL season at about 8 p.m. It was the first day of classes last year, and I sped home on my unlit bike to watch the kickoff. The game would end up being disappointing, but I would never know: a truck turned across my path, and I was going far too quickly to stop. 

As I scrolled through the news headlines back in July, “WE Charity Scandal” caught my eye for a moment, but not enough to entice me to click and read the article. Pandemic predictions, historic civil rights movements, and university updates had all of my attention.  

In March, the pandemic shut down campus. In April, I found out my Opa had cancer—it was in his esophagus, his lungs, his brain. In May, he died.