A Day in the Life

6 AM

the gym smells like rubber mats and regret

I lift, I squat, I convince myself this is wellness

I watch a guy drop a dumbbell once—no blood, just ego

headphones in, music punching me awake

7 AM

Boulder café

omelet: eggs, bacon, broccoli, onions, cheese, perfect chaos on a plate

protein shake shaking in my hand like it has plans

countless students slouched over laptops, coffee cups, existential dread

I tell the cashier “extra bacon, please”

she smiles like she knows I deserve it

8 AM

molecular genetics

I sit in lecture hall 204

text my boyfriend a random fact: mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell

emails to professors ping constantly: some urgent, some passive-aggressive, all unavoidable

I nod along as the professor talks about CRISPR

I pretend to understand the ethical debates while mentally planning lunch

9:25 AM

biology of mammals

I watch a video of a meerkat standing sentinel

I realize the campus squirrels are probably plotting against me

I smile quietly, headphones off because this lecture demands my attention

somebody sneezes, “bless you” echoes

a fleeting moment of shared humanity

10:40 AM

synthetic biology

lab coats, pipettes, accidental chemistry explosions in theory

my partner laughs at my terrible pipetting technique

I laugh too, humor is the only thing keeping me from crying over DNA strands

1 PM (sometimes)

lab rotations, like a carousel of petri dishes

I taste test nothing, but smell everything

note-taking, pipetting, accidentally learning something new

my brain juggles RNA and tomorrow’s fashion show schedule simultaneously

Home

home smells like quiet and procrastination

sometimes strawberries, sometimes caramel

homework, online classes for travel reporting, popular culture, management

my brain toggles between ER shift anxiety, assignment deadlines, and texting my boyfriend dumb memes

sometimes Choolah for lunch, sometimes sushi

every bite a small cultural adventure, Indian BBQ that tastes like the city’s immigrant stories condensed into sauce

sushi rolls that feel like tiny, disciplined art pieces

I’m alone, yet the world hums through my headphones and notifications

8 PM

fashion show practice

I walk in, confident in heels, terrified inside

I memorize choreography, smile through mirrors, nod at the chaos around me

laugh at my own clumsiness

10:15 PM

back in my dorm

day collapses into lists for tomorrow

emails drafted, alarms set, protein shake residue on desk

I feel like I touched the city in tiny pieces: cafés, labs, gyms, classrooms, hallways full of ambition and exhaustion

Weekends in the ER

10 PM to 7 AM

hospital fluorescent lights hum lullabies of urgency

patients, families, monitors, whispered fears

I move through it like a ghost of my other self, noticing diversity in suffering, in resilience

the city’s heartbeat becomes real here: different accents, different stories, all under one roof

Reflection

Even in the microcosm of campus and ER life, I glimpse the city’s diversity: students from around the world, local café owners, hospital staff, patients. Each space, whether Boulder café, Choolah, or the lab, offers a lens into the culture, priorities, and pulse of this place. My day is chaotic, but it’s a living map of a city defined by ambition, resilience, and constant movement. Visit these spaces, or ones similar, not just for sustenance or learning, but for the stories that unfold. Boulder for breakfast that fuels your brain and humor. Choolah for spice that reminds you the city is bigger than campus. Labs for tiny victories and discoveries. ER shifts, if you dare, for a crash course in humanity, diversity, and life unfiltered.

Baltimore Snowpocalyse

Baltimore does not do snow quietly. 

The forecast could say two inches and suddenly the city moves like it has been personally wronged. The week leading up to the storm was nothing but vibes and opinions. Some people swore nothing would happen because everyone kept talking about it. The more warnings, the less snow. That is Baltimore math. Others were already emotionally preparing for death, power outages, and a future where bread became currency. There was no agreement, only confidence.

The grocery store told the real story.

The parking lot looked like Black Friday with worse attitudes. Inside, people moved fast and avoided eye contact. Carts were packed to the brim. Water was gone. Not low. Gone. Bread was disappearing mid-reach. Milk was being hoarded in quantities that suggested people planned on bathing in it. Someone had enough eggs stacked in their cart to build an igloo. I grabbed what I needed and pretended not to stare.

My boyfriend did stare.

He’s from California, where snow exists mostly as a concept and occasionally as a weekend getaway. He went shopping with a friend and came home visibly shaken. He kept repeating that the water shelves were empty like he had just uncovered something deeply unsettling about East Coast survival instincts. He said it slowly. The water was gone. Completely gone.

Then the snow actually came. And it did not play around.

The city went quiet under a whiteout that seemed determined to erase it entirely. Streets vanished. Cars looked like lumps of snow someone forgot to shovel off. Wind clawed at anything exposed, turning every step into a negotiation with physics. Trees bowed dramatically, like they were auditioning for a tragedy. It was terrifying. It was absurd.

Obviously, we had to go outside. 

I emerged from the bedroom looking like I had gained fifty pounds under three layers of pants, two shirts, a hoodie, a heavy jacket, earmuffs, and a bandana covering half my face. I stared at him and said, “Okay… ready?” 

He stood there in a hoodie, sweats, and… plastic grocery bags wrapped around his socks? 

He looked at me. I looked at him. We just… stared. The silence stretched like the snow outside, both of us silently negotiating the absurdity of this situation.

“Yes,” he said finally, with the confidence of someone who had absolutely just invented survival footwear five minutes ago. “I’m ready.”

He was not.

I put on my tall UGG boots. He grabbed his Crocs. 

Yes. His Crocs. 

“What’s with the bags?” I asked him. He beamed like some survivalist MacGyver, “It’s tech babe, trust.”  He told me the bags would help keep his feet dry. He was very proud of this system. 

Not wearing Crocs would also keep your feet dry, but whatever makes you happy honey. 

Without another word, we left the bedroom, went outside, and did not come back in.

We threw snow. We threw each other. We slipped. We laughed too hard at absolutely nothing. He checked his feet every few minutes like he was waiting for betrayal. Somehow, the bags worked. The Crocs did not, but that was a separate issue. At one point he admitted that next time he might bring a jacket. Possibly his work boots. Growth was happening in real time.

Baltimore shut down completely. Classes were canceled. Then canceled again. Then cancelled again. Three full days. Streets stayed buried. DoorDash and UberEats moved to pick up only. Group chats filled with pictures of snow-covered stoops and messages from people who had absolutely doubted this would happen.

And that is Baltimore.

Half the city insists it is all hype. Half the city prepares for the apocalypse. The storm arrives anyway, unapologetic, and forces everyone to experience it together. We did not die. We did not run out of water. We did get a ridiculous amount of snow, unexpected days off, and a very clear lesson about outerwear.

Baltimore panicked. Baltimore doubted. Baltimore delivered. Baltimore survived.

And my boyfriend will never forget a jacket again.

Pigs, Roller Coasters, and First Date Chaos

There’s something about fairs that makes time stretch and bend, where laughter, adrenaline, and sticky cotton candy collide into memories you didn’t even know you were making. The first date my boyfriend and I went on, before we were officially “us”, was to the Maryland State Fair, and it was an adventure in every sense of the word. From the moment we stepped onto the fairgrounds, the air buzzed with energy: the smell of funnel cakes mingled with the tang of popcorn, carnival music looping endlessly, and the occasional shriek from a ride that made your stomach lurch. He bought me a strawberry lemonade in a fair cup that I still have tucked away somewhere, simple, silly, and somehow perfect for the day.

He won me a stuffed pig named Pork Chop at one of the game booths, and we watched real pigs race around a tiny track, squealing and kicking up dirt. I still don’t know if I should be impressed or horrified by how invested we got in the pig race, but we were cheering like it was the Kentucky Derby. Then came the rides. He’s normally terrified of the gravity defying rides I crave, but he went on one because I wanted to. In the process, he nearly ripped my arm off holding on so tightly, and I couldn’t stop laughing and panicking at the same time. There’s a strange intimacy in that kind of chaos, shared adrenaline, shared fear, shared laughter that leaves your cheeks hurting for hours.

After surviving the fair, we drove over to Towson and indulged in one of my favorites: KPOT Korean BBQ and Hot Pot. I’ll be honest, there’s something exhilarating about cooking your own food at the table while steam and sizzling sauces fill the air. There’s a rhythm to it, a tiny dance of timing and taste, and watching him try, and sometimes fail spectacularly, at flipping thin slices of meat while I teased him just enough made it even better. Sharing a meal like that feels like more than just eating. It’s collaboration, a little messy, a lot of fun, and completely revealing of character.

Our next stop was my “thinking spot,” a little park in Federal Hill tucked near a children’s science museum and a short walk from PowerPlant, famous for its electronic bull and the college crowds it draws. Climbing up into the teepee structure, we looked out at the harbor and skyline. The rain had washed the city clean, and the water shimmered like glass. In that quiet moment, we talked about everything, the shape our upbringings had given us, the dreams we secretly harbored, and the little things we noticed about life that sometimes go unspoken. It was one of those conversations that makes you feel like you’ve been let in on a private world, one you build slowly with someone who’s just as curious about it as you are.

As we wandered down from the teepee, we stumbled upon a 9/11 memorial. Seeing one of the rebars from the towers in person was sobering and grounding, a reminder that life, with all its adventures and thrills, is fragile and precious. And because no adventure is complete without dessert, we took a sweet detour to the Cheesecake Factory. I’d never had tiramisu cheesecake before, and paired with strawberry cheesecake, it felt like the perfect reward for a day full of new experiences, pig races, roller coaster terror, and deep conversations.

Looking back, that day at the fair, the hot pot dinner, the thinking spot, the memorial, and the cheesecake feels like a condensed lesson in connection. Activities that push you slightly out of your comfort zone, or allow you to pause and reflect, are surprisingly beneficial for relationships. They show you different sides of a person: their thrill-seeking, their reflective nature, their willingness to go along for you, and the way they respond to joy, fear, and everything in between.

Sometimes, the first dates that seem like nothing more than fun turn out to be the ones that teach you the most, not just about the other person, but about how to navigate life together. That day, we didn’t just go on a date, we discovered pieces of each other, of ourselves, and of the life we might share in the future.

Taquitos, Curbs, and the Baltimore Chaos That Made Me

I had just turned 21, and was still figuring out what it meant to "go out" in Baltimore, and somehow ended up borderline force-feeding taquitos to a guy I'd just met on the curb of a 7-Eleven. Yes, really. That curb, those taquitos, that laugh, it all somehow became the start of a story I didn't see coming. 

I grew up in New York, where sidewalks are crowded, your parents are louder than the city itself, and the nearest patch of grass might as well be a mirage. Coming to Baltimore for college was...different. I've been here for three years now, attending Loyola University Maryland as a Biology and Writing Major, and in that time I've had more adventures than I ever imagined: nights out that ended in curbs with convenience store snacks, mornings spent figuring out why Miss Shirley's is always packed, and far too many Maryland Mudd milkshakes from The Charmery, making it my go-to spot for a pick-me-up no matter the weather. For the first time, I could touch some actual grass, make my own decisions, and figure out who I really wanted to be, all without someone monitoring my every move. 

That Labor Day Weekend, armed with a combination of freedom, excitement, and maybe too much confidence, I went out with my friends. And that's when I met him. He had just gotten to Maryland, working in Bel Air for about a week or two, and somehow ended up on that curb with me eating taquitos. He obviously wanted to know more about me after my oh-so-unique compliment on his mismatched earrings and my insistence to buy him taquitos and bananas. 

Baltimore quickly became my "home base". Whenever I travel to see him, from Maryland to Pennsylvania to North Carolina, I always start here. Flights, trains, or questionable Uber rides, Baltimore is always the beginning of an adventure. 

Looking back, Baltimore wasn't about being "raised" or having some epic coming-of-age story. It was about freedom: the freedom to stumble around a new city, eat too many taquitos, talk to a guy I barely knew, and somehow find out a little more about myself in the process. Between my studies, my friends, my adventures, and the random nights that turn into stories I'll never forget, Baltimore has given me experiences I never expected. It's chaotic, it's weird, it's funny, and it's mine. It's the city that made what most would deem an ordinary curb outside a convenience store feel like the start of something bigger than I could have imagined. 

Baltimore might be just another dot on the map for most people. But for me, it's where I discovered who I am when no one is watching, where I laughed too loudly, ate questionable food choices, and accidentally fell into a long distance love story that keeps me traveling across state Ines every few weeks. 

Who knew that freedom, grass, biology labs, writing assignments, and taquitos, could all lead to this? Only in Baltimore.