Life: Equal and Opposite

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Anyone who has ever taken a physical science class knows this to be true (theoretically, at least). Based on my own empirical evidence, I would say it's true about life, too.

I have come to learn that for every positive emotion and experience we are lucky enough to uncover, we too, must deal with heartbreak and sorrow in some form. And vice versa. The Buddhists call it Samsara, as I remember learning about in high school so long ago. It essentially means that in life, we will all experience ups and downs as we go along. And that's unfortunate, but also... fortunate. It is paradoxical by its very nature, as is life itself. Nothing can be done to change it. It can only be accepted.

We cannot live and fully experience life without undergoing profound grief and loss, precisely as we cannot live and fully experience life without feeling extreme joy and euphoria. The good and the bad must go together in equal and opposite amounts, in order for the Universe to achieve natural balance. Nothing exists without its opposite, and everything in the whole of the Universe is interconnected. Therefore, when something is tugged, another thing must give. When one thing gives, it is because another has been tugged. This means that when something is lost, something else stands to be gained.

Or at least that's what I have chosen to believe, so that I may articulate and explain to myself the human condition and all that it contains. We may not experience so much of one while never being touched equally by the other. Otherwise we would cease to understand the spectrum of humanity as we do.

Logically, then, that is why we must feel such pain in our hearts at times in our lives. We must experience loss and heartbreak, in order that we may better understand and appreciate presence and love. We must become attached so that we may eventually suffer, and so that our eyes may learn how to see beauty in strife. All of our experiences culminate in our becoming exactly who and what we were destined to be, contributing to the Universe in precisely the way we were intended to do. This must include the good with the bad.

No person is complete and fully formed -- ever. We all continue to learn and grow and change and teach those around us in every moment of our lives. But it would be amiss to assume that we could ever get near such completeness without a scar of pain running through us, constantly reminding us of the immense clarity it brought to our lives. Our pain makes us human, equally as much as does our love. One cannot exist without the other.

The more open we are to receiving kindness and love, the more vulnerable we become to being caused distress and pain -- each to precisely the same degree as the other. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Therefore, to love greatly means to lose greatly. And both mean to be transformed by experience. If love has the potential to cleanse our souls and show us beauty, then pain has equally as much ability to break our hearts and bend our spirits; the both of them working together in unison to deliver us understanding which catapults us to twice the level of being as we were before.

But how grossly negligent it would be to live a life void of pain, and therefore, void of love, in order to feel very little at all. What an insult to the opportunity the Universe has handed us -- us, the very mass of cells which combined in precisely the way it did, to make us exactly the way we are -- on this planet, in this world, with these people, at this moment in time.

The Universe has lent us a window of time, and we may choose to do with it what we please, be it playing it safe and guarding our hearts, or risking it all and feeling as much as we possibly can -- positive and not. To feel means to feel it all. Do not smite the Universe or squander the privilege it has granted you. Once the Universe has closed our window, our chance of feeling anything will be permanently gone.

Even after such pain has stricken our hearts, and so many tears have left our eyes, we remain with memories in the back of our minds and at the bottom of our hearts, which we may choose to recall at any moment for the rest of our lives. Our experiences have left us with unique scars which did not exist before, and which will accompany us forevermore. And sure, all that it would take in order to feel the pain, is to remember the scar and how we earned it. But that's true for gazing fondly upon the happiness it taught us, too.

It is imperative that we understand one cannot exist without the other. Life seeks balance. Attachment will always mean suffering, but it will also always mean the purest of joy up until the very moment when suffering arrives. And the beautiful combination of the two is what makes our experience in this Universe meaningful and unique. It would be wise to cherish them both, and to see the love which came along with the pain, while we can. After all, we, like all things, are only ever intended to exist like this, for a moment in all of the vastness of time. Eventually, we too, will change and be gone, transformed into some other capacity, equal in energy, but opposite in form, in order to give back to the Universe everything that we have been given during our time in this life.

Personal Questions: A Long Distance Relationship Is Still A Relationship!

"A long distance relationship? Oh, that must be hard."
"When is the next time you'll get to see him?"
"What is the next step in your plan after this?"
"Do you Skype all the time?"
"How do you trust him?"

All real questions I have been asked recently regarding my personal life. Seriously.

Isolated, or in passing, perhaps these comments wouldn't seem so invasive to the average listening ear. I am sure no harm was meant by them. But good gravy, does it start to get annoying after a while when the most interesting thing people can seem to think of to talk about with you, is the status of your relationship, as if there aren't any other meaningful things happening in your life at the same time.

I can tell you right now, I won't be sharing any juicy details about my personal life in this blog post, or really, anywhere else online; so if that's what you're looking for, you can stop reading right now. I'm not Carrie Bradshaw. As part of my coming of age, I have learned that relationships are best kept private; with the majority of details shared only between you and the person of your affection. Period.

What I am interested in hashing out, though, is how downright irritating it is to be asked these kinds of questions. Especially when they compound on one another because it's not just one person asking.

First of all, the very nature of these questions is probing. It crosses the line into a territory of topics which I would prefer not to discuss flippantly with just anyone. I am a naturally talkative person, but I expect for my privacy to be respected, just like anyone else. I can promise you, if I wanted to discuss these kinds of things with you, I would come to you, rather than waiting for you to broach the topic with me. So if I'm not talking to you about what a struggle something is, that's probably because (gasp) it's not actually a struggle.

Secondly, I find these comments to be so rude because I don't imagine they would be directed at someone who lives in the same zip code as their significant other. I'm guessing you'd be less likely to pry into the business of a couple who lives together. I get it: people are fascinated by what they don't understand. But long distance relationships are not unicorns; you can find them anywhere. Maybe the real question here should be, what is it about them that is so difficult for you to comprehend? They are still relationships, and you're still not entitled to be a part of mine. Google exists. Please consider using it, instead of relying on me to share with you personal details about my life for your mind-opening education.

And third, these kinds of comments put an undue amount of pressure on a situation where there simply is no need for it. Contrary to popular practice, a relationship is a sanctuary of love and peace, a bond of acceptance, effort, support, and teamwork. There is very little room for pressure in a place that is so uniquely reserved for giving you life instead of bringing you stress. So pardon me, but who the hell are you to demand that pressure and stress be entitled to a single square inch of this love, for which you are not one of the architects? If I'm pretty chill about it, I'm not quite sure why you're so worked up on my behalf.

I don't mean to seem overly sensitive, because they are, after all, just questions. Questions, which others have asked me because, I presume, they care enough about me to know the answers. But is that really it? Or are you just so perplexed by the easy existence of what you think is unnatural, that you feel suddenly insecure in yourself because, as you say, "[You] would never be able to do that"?

You can't do it? Great. Then don't. No one is asking you to.

I can do a lot of things. Some of which, I presume, you cannot. And vice versa. There are plenty of things that others can do, which I cannot. But I don't go around casting these things as bizarre or outlandish and asking probing, personal questions about how they do it, or why they do it, or if they plan to keep doing it a few years down the road. So I'd expect the same courtesy in return.

Work on yourself first. That's the best answer I can give you, and it's in response to you sticking your nose in other people's business, rather than to a single one of the questions you asked. Why are you so interested in the inner workings of my personal life? What's missing from your own that made you so concerned about mine? That's the first question I think you should really be worried about learning the answer to.

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The Pleasure and Pain of Travel: Always Holding On, Always Letting Go

I know I am young - a few weeks shy of twenty-two - and I have not experienced nearly enough of the world. I've only ever been to three countries and I haven't even graduated college yet. But I still have my fair share of valuable experiences to offer me guidance and to help me continue to grow.

Something I have learned during my short time on this planet is that life is a balance of holding on and letting go. This lesson became especially close to my heart after I experienced a little bit of traveling and learned what the world looked like from the other side. Of course I had experienced the joy of cherishing a moment before, as well as the anguish of letting go. But it really wasn't until I took myself so far away from my comfort zone, acclimated myself and got comfortable, then had to leave again, that I had a deeper grasp on understanding how these feelings work - or how natural and common they actually are in so many parts of life.

Falling in love is so easy. I can fall in love with anything, really. People, places, food, television shows, boy bands, clothes, foreign languages... There is a doe-eyed, hopeless romantic hidden away deep inside of my heart, and she loves to love. Over time, as is the case with many people, the romantic inside of me has learned some tough lessons from her own experiences with pain. But despite being immersed in agony at times, she remains eager to explore the world and all it has to offer, greeting everyone and everything she encounters with an open mind, an open heart, and a ravenous curiosity.

A few years ago, I fell in love with traveling. I had no idea what I was in for, but I know now that when it comes to not being heartbroken, I never stood a chance. I went to France for a summer to study abroad as a sophomore in college, and my life - and my heart - was changed forever. I fell in love with the abstract idea of traveling itself, as well as the country of France, the culture, the architecture, the food, and most importantly, the people. I had no idea how difficult it would be to let all of these things go when I had to come back home.

Last year, I went to Boston for half a week by myself. Nearly everyone I talked to thought it was such a terrifying idea, a single woman flying across the country alone. But I had to go. I had to know what it was like in the city where I'd never been before, but that was calling me steadily towards it. I needed to experience it for myself. My heart needed to feel what it was like. Four days came and went, and before I knew it, I was on a plane heading out of Logan Airport, just like that. Once again, I felt that familiar twinge of sorrow as I watched the tops of tall Bostonian buildings fade from view as we rose higher into the clouds.

All of these experiences and memories - all of the things I think of fondly when they cross my mind - make me so happy because I hold onto them; I do not let them go. I keep these wonderful tidbits of my life safely tucked away in my heart, filed between other sweet memories like childhood birthday parties and perfect first kisses.

I remember how it felt when that plane landed in Paris at 9:30 in the morning local time after almost 24 hours of traveling. I remember the warmth I felt when I hugged my two adorable and ornery little host sisters for the first time. I remember the fun I had together with an American friend as we drank and flirted with French boys on a Saturday night.

I remember boarding my connecting flight in Atlanta and hearing Boston accents in the rows near me, as we prepared to head northeast. I remember slurping oysters and drinking beer in the oldest restaurant in America after a morning of solo kayaking on the Charles River. I remember the blisters on my feet after a long day wandering around the big city in a sundress and taking photos of skyscrapers.

I would never willingly let any of those memories go. I cherish them. They're beautiful pieces of my life and together they help add up to me, so I clutch them tightly, very near my heart. But I have learned, after some time, that there are things in all of this mess of life that I do have to learn to let go.

Each semester, there is inevitably a new crop of international students who arrive on campus and who create unforgettable ripple effects in my life, if only for a moment. Each semester, after finals are over and celebrations have begun, the time comes when I have to say farewell to a friend I've known for four months. After seeing this person on a daily basis for so long, I have to accept that we will only be communicating over Facebook for the foreseeable future. I have to hug them and tell them to have a safe flight and try not to be sad about someone else leaving. And each semester, it never gets any easier.

These feelings wash over me when my new friends leave for other continents, mainly because of the fun we've experienced and the relationships we've shared across international borders, language barriers, and cultures. But I think these moments remind me of something else, on a deeper level; something that shaped me during such a pivotal moment in my development as a traveler: the morning I had to leave my host family in France.

It was early enough that the sun hadn't yet risen, and in France during summer, it seems rare that the sun is ever down for long. This was such a gloomy morning in comparison to the sun I had known for four weeks. I put my last few belongings away and zipped up my suitcase, carried it down the stairs, and prepared to tell two precious pieces of my heart good-bye. I remember trying in vain not to cry, and hugging my host mother tightly like the American women we are. I remember a sleepy seven-year-old, in the backseat of the car as her family prepared to leave for vacation, wagging her finger at me and very seriously telling me to "continue à apprendre le français" because my French sucked. I remember closing the door, and walking away toward the tram stop, rolling my suitcase behind me, and bawling like a baby.

I remember feeling as if some kind of monster had reached down through my throat and ripped my heart from my chest. My heart, which had just previously been smothered with love, compassion, curiosity, and wanderlust. My heart, which I thought I was keeping safely inside my rib cage, but which had somehow found its way out onto my sleeve. I had built such strong, beautiful, meaningful bonds with so many people in such a short amount of time, and now I was being forced to tell them all good-bye. It didn't seem fair. To subject a human being with such a vast emotional capacity as myself - who feels things before she thinks things - to such an emotional roller coaster ride, is simply cruel. Unless... These feelings exist for a reason, and they are there to teach me something about myself.

Historically, I've never been particularly good at letting go of things once I have become emotionally attached to them. And why would I be? I don't think it's something which is necessarily natural-feeling or innate to human beings. Moreover, it was certainly not something I was explicitly taught to do growing up in Western culture. So I knew how to hold on, how to fall in love with something or someone. But I had no idea how to get over it and let it go once this wonderful thing was gone. I didn't know how to handle the time after it was over, or what the grieving and recovery process should look like.

Boyfriends, sure. I'd loved them and lost them, and strangely enough, gone on to be better than fine without them. Best friends, yeah. I'd lost them too, and I knew I would be just as well without them. Family members and pets, I'd lost before, and I knew how to grieve then. But this was different. This was more than a person or an animal leaving me.

The notion of traveling as an abstract idea is fascinating to me, because it is so malleable and able to be customized to fit any individual's experience. No two people travel the same way, either literally through the rugged countryside or metaphorically throughout life. It is deeply personal and the traveler oftentimes learns more about themselves during their journey, than they originally set out to do. So how can something so beautiful that offers such wonderful experiences, also be the cause of such heartbreak and pain when it's over? Well, that's true with anything we love, isn't it?

Life is a balance of holding on and letting go, but you've got to not only know how to do both, but you've also got to learn when to do both. Perhaps most importantly, you've got to learn that both are equal and necessary counterparts to life and have faith in yourself that things will work out as they are meant to be. You've got to learn that letting go of the experiences and people you love is a part of life, and although it causes you pain, that is only because it first brought you so much pleasure.

The catch about being so alive and feeling so much pleasure, is that the parts of your brain and heart which feel that pleasure, can feel exactly that same amount of pain. All that your nerve receptors do is receive the message you send to them, and transmit it back with the same intensity, regardless of what the feeling is. And if so much love and euphoria can send your heart flying into the sky, that means that anything which hurts it can just as easily bring it crashing back down to the ground. It can be scary. The fact that something like intersecting lives and connecting souls around the world can affect you in such a way, and that it can influence and shape who you are as a person, means that we are vulnerable to being molded and changed at any time. But isn't that beautiful?

The first reaction to pain by many people, is to run from it. To ignore it and avoid it. To try to tough it out in hopes that it will go away. But that approach seldom works for the person experiencing it, and that's how problems go unresolved for quite some time. What if instead of running away from our pain, we ran towards it instead? What if we reach out and touch it, embrace it, hold it close and let it crack apart all the beautiful pieces of our heart and then use the fragmented voids to fill it up with a new kind of love? Get downright vulnerable with our pain. Let it wash over us and consume us, because if we do, it will heal us.

At first pain demands that we feel it - and we do. Then it sucks for a while. But eventually, if we run toward it rather than away from it, we will run so far into it that we meet ourselves. And when we come out from the other side of whatever this painful experience is, we will have changed. We will have been transformed into a different version of ourselves, and there will be no going back to the people we were before. Feeling so deeply can seem like a curse sometimes. But at other times, it provides you with a euphoria so much higher than everybody else. And that makes it all worth the pain.

I've grown so much and learned a lot about holding on and letting go during the last few years of my life. I have fallen in love with people and places and then a short time later, had to leave, every bit as in love as when I arrived. I've driven friends to the airport and hugged them good-bye, and told myself I'll see them again someday. My life has been touched by so many people, places, and experiences, and there's no doubt it is all the richer for it. But that's exactly why it's so hard to let go.

As a traveler, nobody prepared me for the moment when I'd have to say good-bye and return home. As a person, nobody prepared me for how to handle loving so many people in so many places at once. I don't have a solution as to how to let go, because I'm honestly just not very good at it yet. But I know life requires balance, so that must mean that I have to let go in the same capacity and intensity with which I try to hold on.

The people I love will still be there the next time plane tickets go on sale. The places I long to explore are not going anywhere, either. Maybe in the future, I can go visit my international classmates on their soil, rather than waiting for them to return to America. There are so many options for letting go.

Once your heart has made a connection to traveling, once you understand how liberating and beautiful it is, then you begin to understand why it's necessary to let go. By its very nature, traveling is a transient act. You move. You go. You leave. And while that certainly means something incredible is waiting to be seen ahead, it also means you're leaving something else behind. The beauty is found in the act of leaving, of letting go and letting be.

Travelers who master this art have simply opened their hearts so wide, that it has shattered time and again from the pain of leaving love behind. But they understand that anything which is beautiful is also oftentimes shrouded in pain. They open their hearts to feel all of the wonderful things about exploring new lands and new people. But in so doing, they make themselves vulnerable to feeling all the torture and anguish that comes with it, too. And in turn, that shapes and molds the person they are, just as any experience with love does. That's how we know we're alive. One of the most beautiful things about the human experience is that we can feel a full range of emotions from touching the lives of others, and having them touch ours; whether that happens when we are holding on, or when we have to let go.

The Battle Between My Brain & My Heart

Boys. I love them and I hate them. Not in a feminist ideology, equality-of-the-sexes way. In a "I've loved them and hated them since middle school for all the joy and pain they've brought me" way.

A handful of them have left marks on my life at different times, and undoubtedly, this has changed who I am as well as how I go about living my life afterward. I love it at the time; the excitement and the schoolgirl squeals and the butterflies in my tummy and all that jazz. But god, looking back at it, I can't help but roll my eyes and laugh. Why? Because I'm a cynic or a pessimist? No, I don't think so.

More likely it is because every time I have started with those squeals and that excitement, I have immediately imagined this perfect fantasy in my head, and once my heart is on-board with it, I am doomed. Doomed, because the actual relationship in reality has no chance of ever living up to the scenario in my head. So I laugh and roll my eyes afterward, because not a single one of those boys, just as young and inexperienced as me, had a prayer for giving me the perfection I didn't even realize I wanted.

One of the mind's favorite games to play is thinking without ever having the intention of acting. My brain loves to sit idly and fantasize about an imaginary future where everything is easy and things go perfectly according to plan. I like to dream up alternate universes where boys do exactly what I want them to do, and I have all the time and money in the world to make everything perfect. But I am a smart girl, and I know in reality, that's not how any of this works. Real life is not a Taylor Swift song. Time and money do not facilitate a perfect relationship. Manipulating others into doing what you want them to do, does not cultivate love and respect. It would be so easy if that's how things worked, but unfortunately it would not be even half as rewarding.

I have felt the highs and exciting squeals, and soon thereafter, the lows and the disappointed eye-rolls. I have played it cool and I have internally freaked out. I have played along in the game, just as I have been taught to do, and it worked out pretty well for me at first. But then my brain caught up to my heart and it metaphorically bitch-slapped it back into reality where it belongs. What am I thinking? What am I doing? This stuff is exhausting.

I am at odds with myself, and I have been for what often feels like forever; because my heart is busy painting big pictures and dancing around in the same euphoria it always demands, while my brain is scrambling to keep up as it files these grand ideals away neatly in their proper, alphabetized, places. I have always been a dreamer with a big imagination and enough ideas to never worry about coming back down to earth. That's why it has always been a less-than-graceful face-plant when I do come crashing down. I haven't ever really been bothered with the necessary planning that is required to build the steps on which I climb so high in the first place. But the existence of those steps is crucial for when the clouds of joy and excitement eventually fade away and I need something solid on which to support myself until my imagination can take off again.

I have always, for as long as I can remember, relished my individuality. I enjoyed alone time long before I ever enjoyed time spent with boys. My solitude means so much to me, that no obscene amount of money could ever compete. That's why I hate that I ever let a boy change that about me. There have been times in my life -- multiple in fact -- when I have felt myself lost, consumed almost entirely by someone else's being. Almost completely gone, I don't know if I would have been able to recognize who I am today in a mirror. It was a nightmare for someone like me, whose independent spirit demands to be recognized. I wondered how I ever allowed myself to get to that awful place. It is paramount that my individuality, my independence, remain untouched and intact, throughout every relationship with anyone that I ever have. I have known the feeling of losing myself in someone else before, and that is exactly why I now understand the importance of finding myself and never letting go again.

But it is so tough sometimes, when my dreamer's heart takes hold. It's like a kite caught by a strong northern wind, and all I can do is clutch helplessly onto the handle at the end of the string, holding on and being dragged along wherever it takes me until the wind dies down and all is calm again. My childlike heart does not care about the times it has been hurt before; it does not count the stitches in it or the scars it has collected over time. My heart has amnesia when it comes to the bruises and contusions it has suffered from all the times when I have lost myself in another. All it knows is, cute boy + possibility = grand illusions. My heart never paid attention to anything past this in math class.

My brain, on the other hand, gets it. My brain loves my independence more than almost everything else. Once the alcohol from the night before has worn off and the sunlight is streaming in through my window, my brain is awake and fully alert, demanding answers from my heart as if it is the main murder suspect sitting in an interrogation room. "What were you thinking? What were you doing? Didn't you learn anything from last time?" My brain is hesitant about making big commitments now, after what they have done to it in the past.  It understands that commitment to another person comes with the possibility of sacrificing a part of the whole person I already am. And my brain won't stand for such a betrayal of self anymore.

These two quarrel back and forth time and again, garnering experience and wisdom very slowly over time. My heart, throwing all caution to the wind and ordering just one more drink at the end of the night; and my brain chasing my heart frantically around, wagging its finger in its face like a disapproving mother. When will I learn?

I guess I will learn when I am ready to sacrifice a piece of my individuality for a piece of someone else, again. Out of unsolicited desire, rather than implied necessity. It will probably happen when the idea of taming my wild heart is no longer an option at all. Likely when someone else comes along and scoffs at the idea with the same disdain as I do. Someone who is appalled at the mere notion of me ever reigning my heartfelt ideals into the boxed-in framework of logic. I will finally know better when my brain draws a blank because my heart has already found the answers it seeks reflected in that of another.

But who knows when that day will be? Who knows what I will have to go through and experience in order to prepare myself for that opportunity? I sure as hell don't. So until that day arrives and hits me in the face like a ton of bricks, I guess I can just keep on dreamin', doing all the things that make me wonderfully myself. I can keep wearing my heart on my sleeve and gaining glorious experiences and having my hopes shattered time and again. Because really, it all adds up to the net sum of myself in the end, anyway. And none of it is so bad that it cannot eventually be overcome. I've got twenty-one-and-a-half years of empirical proof of that.

I'm not ready just yet to give up any part of myself or my freedom just because I like someone else. Yeah, I may like them, but I love myself more. This is something I have learned through experience over the years. And the way I see it, if someone is stupid enough to ask me to like them more than I like myself, well... they're just not a good fit for me. The day my brain draws a blank and doesn't know what to tell my heart to do, will be the day when someone comes along and tells me, "Don't you dare change any part of who you are for me. I love you for you, not for being a reflection of me." My brain will be perplexed by such an idea, and it won't have a file to reference. But my heart will finally understand.

Hitler, Voldemort, Fear, Love, and Terrorism

You know what I think? I think terrorists like it when countries are so occupied with fighting against themselves that they can’t work together to present a unified front for combating terrorism. I believe that they count on all of us, as individual citizens, feeling isolated, terrified, and angry. Their success depends on our failure to act cohesively against them. How do you take out one of the most powerful threats to your cause? You break them down into their individual, weakest links, and dissolve their hopeful morale so much until the unified hatred you can offer them is the best option for solace they have – from the very fear which you manufactured and instilled in them in the first place. United we stand, divided we fall.

That’s what Hitler did. He showed the German populace that the Nazi regime was a valiant cause to protect German nationalism and the best interests of the people. He told the citizens of a fearful, war-torn country that he would help pull them out of the wreckage left behind from World War I. He gave the hopeless, vulnerable people something they could believe in. Then he twisted their well-meaning faith into brainwashing and persuaded many to support a message which was contrary to his original rhetoric.

He conveniently provided the German people with a scapegoat for their woes; an entire group of people where they could place the blame. He focused his arguments around how these people were different from the Germans – they were “others,” they were inferior, and they were most certainly worthy of hatred. Hitler stripped the Jewish people of their humanity, and he made doing so seem so trendy, that an entire country jumped on the bandwagon. And in case they weren’t so easily convinced, he had a militant regime of weapons-yielding marionettes ready to help enforce his hatred.

Hitler preyed on the Germans’ fear; he hooked them with illusions of a better life, showed them the actions they could take to make it a reality, and then he manipulated masses of people into fighting his cause for him – his cause, of violence and bigotry, convincing the German population to turn against themselves and fight their own brothers and sisters, resulting in the most death the world has ever seen from a single war – a war which dragged nearly every country in the world into violent death and despair. A war, started out of manufactured fear, and after which, FDR eloquently pointed out, "The only thing we've got to fear is fear itself."

Hitler was a real bad guy. He actually existed, he lived and breathed, and walked among places we can still visit today. But since Hitler’s time, fictitious bad guys have been based off of some of his qualities – his authoritative leadership, his implicit coercion and explicit threats, his dependence on fear and isolation among the masses. Take for instance, Voldemort.

Voldemort did much the same thing as Hitler, though Voldemort is a fictional character in Harry Potter. The reason why so many fans love Harry Potter and its characters is because it is so relatable – Voldemort is to the wizarding world what Hitler is to ours.

There is a scene, in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, toward the end of the movie, where the always-wise and unconventional Luna Lovegood tells Harry, “If I were You-Know-Who, I'd want you to feel cut off from everyone else. Because if it's just you alone, you're not as much of a threat.” And that’s exactly it. People like Voldemort (referred to as “You-Know-Who because people feared him that much) and Hitler understand this fact better than anyone else, because it worked for them. If a dictator – a terrorist – can successfully isolate the people whom they wish to target, then it is suddenly much easier to manipulate them. How does a terrorist successfully isolate people whom they wish to target, you ask? Well, historically speaking, it seems fear tactics are a pretty good place to start.

Voldemort murdered hundreds of thousands of people needlessly; he enslaved others to do his bidding for him; he held others hostage and tortured them for information. He was a pretty bad guy, in general. But how did he get to such a position of power? Fear.

He spouted rhetoric to the Pureblood witches and wizards of the world that they were superior creatures. He provided this fictional Aryan Race with a scapegoat of their own – the Muggles, and well, anyone with a blood status less than Pureblood. He focused on how people were different, strategically ignoring (and actually not even knowing) the humanity common to all. Voldemort told the masses that these people were “others,” they were inferior, and they were most certainly worthy of hatred. Sound familiar? He also had his very own legion of loyal, militant puppets with weapons (okay, wands) ready to enforce his hatred.

Voldemort showed the Pureblood witches and wizards of the world how Half-Bloods, Muggleborns, Muggles, house elves, centaurs, and pretty much every other living creature on the planet contributed to the bane of their existence. He promised the Purebloods their lives would be better if only they could wipe out these inferior creatures – do his bidding for him – and those most loyal to him (who committed the most war crimes) felt the safest from his own dangerous power. In hurting others, they felt they were protecting themselves from becoming targets. In fact, he invoked so much fear, that people were actually afraid of even saying Voldemort's name. However, as our beloved Hermione Granger points out, "Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself."

Voldemort reduced the wizarding world to fighting against itself. He distracted great, intelligent witches and wizards from fighting the true evil – hatred, fear, and bigotry – by emphasizing differences among themselves and telling one group they were better than the rest. He robbed his scapegoats of their humanity, just as Hitler did with the Jews, and he taught the aggressors that they would finally have the power and respect they deserved, if only they could eradicate the world of its scourge of Muggles.

He did all of this by preying on the fear of Purebloods. He was able to convince one half of the population to murder the other by simply playing into the things that scared them most – losing their lives, their loved ones, their power, their reputation. Whatever the individual feared, Voldemort worked on a personal level to threaten, in order to rise to power. He did so by strategically disintegrating any remaining sense of community among witches and wizards. He made sure everyone felt alone and vulnerable, untrusting of those around them, and concerned only with protecting their own self interests. By fostering a toxic environment rife with uncertainty, fear, and hatred, Voldemort was able to manipulate full-grown adults into waging a war against themselves, against humanity.

Why is any of this relevant? Why am I sitting at my keyboard, passionately typing away in a blaze of fury about Hitler and Voldemort, drawing comparisons between the two and their fear tactics? I’ll tell you: Hitler and Voldemort were dictators, yes. They were also terrorists. They struck fear and hatred into the hearts and minds of millions. They both began wars with their respective worlds, born out of their own prejudices and bigotry. They manufactured fear in large groups of people, fear that did not exist before, and then they conveniently provided a solution to the problem they just created.

They told their audiences: “Look at how miserable you are! Aren’t you miserable? I know why. You are miserable because of this other group of people. They are different from you, and you are better than them. Your life is worth more than theirs. In fact, your life would be better if theirs ceased to exist. They are the cause of all of your problems. Hate them. Kill them. Follow me. I will help you in this cause, and together we will be happier without them.” They preyed on the fear of their audiences and brainwashed them into fighting an imaginary war which had real consequences.

This is what terrorists do. They terrorize. They create fear in others that never would have grown organically. They plant the seed of doubt in the minds of so many; and they water it occasionally, fertilizing it with hatred, bigotry, xenophobia, and transferring blame and responsibility to someone else. They tend to this garden regularly, and eventually, fear has grown to its full size. Then they harvest this fear they’ve created and nurtured from conception, and just like a vegetable, they use it to nourish themselves, to further their cause. Fear provides nutrients to terrorists. It is what they depend on to survive.

If you fear another group of people, who don’t look like you, speak like you, dress like you, or come from the same place as you, then you will likely turn to what is more familiar and comfortable to you. And what is easier and more comfortable for us than blaming someone else, who we already fear, for the problems we think we have?

Don’t let the terrorists win. They’ve already won too many battles before. Don’t let them create a feeling of fear inside of you that doesn’t need to exist. The best way to do this is by reaching out, facing that supposed fear. If you would only take a moment to recognize the humanity which resides in all of us, you would realize that people who are different from us are nothing to be feared. If you do not allow the terrorists to cultivate a shadow of doubt within you, then you will understand that we are all one common, human race; and that in hating our sisters and brothers, we are, in fact, hating ourselves.

The terrorists have planted the seed. They are encouraging it to grow. They’re counting on it for their harvest in order to survive. We can choose to believe their fear tactics and water the seed, or we can remain resilient in our faith in humanity, and resolve to be as hard to crack as the Kansas earth in the planting season.

There’s another scene in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix which comes to mind. Upon realizing the seriousness of the impending war, Harry remarks, “Even though we've got a fight ahead of us, we've got one thing that Voldemort doesn't have… Something worth fighting for.” Harry knows that unity among all is the answer, and he knows that Voldemort literally cannot feel love. That is why he strives so hard to achieve power through hatred and evil. But Harry understands that the solution for winning a war against terrorists like Voldemort is not fighting against a cause or a group of people. It's not fighting among ourselves which will win. The answer is fighting for all the things and people you love, with all of the differences between you which make up a united, differentiated front. Fear of others never had a chance to blossom inside of Harry, because he was too busy nurturing love for all.

Turning our backs on those who need help and lumping entire groups of people together as scapegoats is not only morally irresponsible, but it is playing directly into the hands of the terrorists. Fear in the hearts of the masses is the best tool they have for succeeding, and they know it. They're bloodthirsty for it. Holding love in our hearts, in place of fear, is our best weapon against them.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 26 (Things You'd Say To An Ex)

Day 26: Things you'd say to an ex

First things first, I just want to say that I have never really much fancied the term "ex", because it is so obviously lacking a noun. Ex-what? To me, it sounds harsh and finite and just rough around the edges. Maybe it's because I love words so much that I choose mine so carefully, but to me, "ex" conveys something less-than. It purposely reduces a person with whom you shared something of yourself, to nothing more than a monosyllabic letter of the alphabet; a slashing sound uttered only with disdain in an attempt to distance yourself from pain.

I suppose this is a completely subjective feeling, and it probably stems from the fact that I have never had a relationship end so horribly that I have ever felt such disdain. Or perhaps I simply know that attempting to distance myself from the pain with my linguistics will not actually lead me to any closure or healing in the end. At any rate, I don't like the phrase "ex" because to me, it seems like an attempt to erase the person from the word. "Ex" is only an adjective, after all. By leaving it at that, you're eradicating everything else they ever were to you. Ex-boyfriend, ex-best friend, ex-lover, ex-confidant, ex-support system... And I suppose that thinking about all those nouns is what really does a lot of people in. That's why they stick with simply calling them an "ex". It doesn't do justice to all that the person used to be to them, and that's the point.

Anyway, now that I have said my piece about that, I will get to the point: things I would say to a former boyfriend. The list is quite short, and I am going to include both those people who wore the actual title of "boyfriend" as well as those who didn't quite get there, but who more or less filled the role. While there are certainly some specific things I would say to the boys with whom I've had relationships, there are also some things which are universal to all of them, and that I'd probably say to any future former boyfriends of  mine, too, just as the nature of who I am. So I'm going to stick to those.

1. Thank you. Thank you for the experience you allowed me to have by knowing you, and thank you for helping develop my own personal growth in doing so. I am grateful to you for embarking on this journey together with me, no matter how it turned out. We have given one another precious moments of our lives which we will never get back, and invested hours into a relationship that ultimately failed. But there are tremendous lessons to be learned from failure; more so than there will ever be from success. You trusted me with your heart and we shared things together which nobody else will ever know or understand. You invested in me just as I invested in you, and even though it ended differently than we would've once hoped, we both walked away from it better for the trouble. So thank you for this opportunity and privilege of learning and growing, both together and independently.

2. I'm sorry. I am the farthest thing from perfect, as I am sure you realized this after the honeymoon phase was over. I cry, I storm off angry, I am a master of the silent treatment. I have a temper which rivals that of a grizzly bear. I am sure we fought over some really stupid stuff. I am positive I started at least half of those fights. And I probably made you feel guilty about it afterward, too. I bet when you were busy daydreaming about me during those first few weeks, you had no idea what a nightmare I could be. I'm sorry for the times when I jumped to conclusions or picked a fight over something which really doesn't matter anymore. Now that our time is over, looking back at those fights, I wish I would've been more aware that I was wasting precious time of which we were only allotted so much.

3. I forgive you. This one is most certainly the hardest, and it undoubtedly took me the longest time to get around to doing. As terrible as I can be, you can be too. We are both human and we have both done things to one another which have left permanent scars. A few of those things were intentional, but most of them were not. Most of them were simple casualties of love; or at least, an attempt at loving one another as imperfect people held up against our own stupid standard of perfection. Sometimes you broke my heart in a million little ways, over the course of time. Other times, you broke it a one big hurrah where I questioned everything our relationship ever meant to me. Yet, the beautiful thing, and the most important thing, about love and heartbreak, is forgiveness. I could name all the ways you destroyed me. Or I could focus instead on the time, determination, and energy I put into forgiving you for all of it. You broke my heart. But in doing so, you broke it free of the cage which encased it and allowed it to spread its wings and fly toward its freedom. Once I was able to forgive you for breaking it, I was able to realize all I could do after being broken.

So far in my life, I have been very lucky to have the kind of relationships which have ended in mutual respect, amicability, and a basic understanding that the rights of each of us as individuals come before any obligation to another. In my mere 21 years of life and love, I have begun to understand the adage "if you love something, let it go". To truly want someone who you love so deeply to be happy, means understanding the sacrifice you will be making if their happiness does not include you. That is a lesson which can only be learned through painstaking experience. It is inexplicable to someone who has never felt it.

I'd say many more things to the boys who have been known a temporary residence inside of my heart, but to do so would be disrespectful of the peace which I have attained with each of them. Love hurts us more often than it does not, but part of the journey to our own happiness is following our heart, even when it drags us through some of the worst pain we've ever known. Through this deeply personal pain, we gain a kind of clarity which we didn't have before; which teaches us lessons in all sorts of things, but especially in gratitude, forgiveness, and acceptance. I believe it would be foolish of us to succumb to the desire to avoid our pain, and allow ourselves to forget the very people who offered us the opportunities to learn so much about ourselves in the first place. After all, an important part of knowing where you're going, is understanding where it is you're coming from.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 19 (Five Fears You Have)

Day 19: Five fears that you have

This one might be a little tough, because I don't really go around thinking about my fears very often. I don't know that I really have a lot of them, at least not from examining my thoughts on the surface. But I know fear is nothing more than an emotion, and I've got a full range of those, so I will do the best I can.

1. Being alone. Like in the creepy way when you walk into a place like a large house or a shopping center that is normally noisy and full of life, but it's actually empty and silent now. The kind of alone that scares me is when I am physically alone, and I can hear every small creak of a wooden floor or draft whistling through the crack between the door and its frame. I don't like it because I have watched entirely too much television and read way too many books, and my imagination goes wild with ideas of serial killers and seventy-year-old ghosts, and suddenly the hairs on the back of my neck are on edge and a simple gust of wind gives me a heart attack.

2. Being shot. You may laugh at this one, but it is very real. There have been times when I am walking somewhere in a very open, public space and a car drives past me and I think, "I would be really easy to gun down right now." I know that sounds awful, that I think about things like that... But is it really so awful that I think about it, or is it awful that other people actually do it? I have a strong enough dislike for guns in the hands of everyone, that I fear them. I spend most of my time on a college campus located in the middle of one of the most under-served, poverty-stricken, urban areas of the largest city (the only city) in Kansas. When I read national headlines on a regular basis about shootings in movie theaters, on college campuses, and in elementary schools, I start to get scared. Even more so when the state government announces a plan to make carrying guns on campus perfectly legal for everyone. (No lie. Google it.)

3. Losing a loved one. This one is pretty self-explanatory, I think. I have always been afraid of loving my loved ones since I can remember waking up from a nightmare at a young age and fighting back tears to tell my mom I had a dream that she died. (Analyze that for what it's worth.) I think as soon as my childlike brain was able to comprehend the adult idea of never seeing someone again, I realized that it could happen -- that it was in fact, going to happen -- to people I know and love. And that's a tough pill to swallow; one that I don't know if anyone ever really learns to get over.

4. Being left. That's a pretty real fear that I think most people have, but they are too afraid to admit it, or maybe they just can't articulate it because they don't even consciously realize it. The thing is, for many serial monogamists, or even for someone whose parent accidentally forgot them at the grocery store once, being left by someone you care about is frightening. It's frightening because it is such a real possibility; because you know, deep down, that it has a chance of actually happening... again. Not to get too terribly spiritual, but one of the main lessons of Buddhism is that "attachment leads to suffering". That's the whole game of life. You can't get hurt if you don't get attached. But, like so many others in the world, I get attached. It's only human to do so, after all. Getting attached is literally what makes us human. (That, and opposable thumbs.) Getting attached can be a beautiful thing! But like most other beautiful things, it also deserves respect for the danger of hurting you that it carries with it. Being left scares me because it has happened to me more than once before, and I know it will probably happen again. But that's okay. It cuts deep and it makes you examine yourself at the core of your being. And my goodness, do you ever grow from facing that fear.

5. Failure. Not the baby kind of failure, like getting an F on a midterm and crying about it then eating junk food all weekend long. That kind of failure I've experienced and I have recovered from before. I accept that that kind of failure happens on occasion. I mean the kind of failure where you grossly disappoint someone you admire, like your parents, your friends, your mentor, or yourself. I am afraid of the kind of failure where you have nothing to show for your effort except for a tough lesson learned and some scarring life experience. Failure like "I dropped out of college because I just couldn't be bothered to try," or "I moved halfway across the country and couldn't find a job that would hire me after graduation, so now I have nowhere to stay". I think everyone is a little bit afraid of failure, because like it or not, avoiding it is often what keeps you motivated to succeed. I am fairly confident in my ability to succeed, through whatever resourceful means are necessary, though, so I don't know that this fear is very realistic for me. It's more like encountering a serial killer: the chances that it'll happen are slim, but dire, and the only way to survive is to use what's around you to get out alive.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 11 (Your Current Relationship)

Day 11: Your current relationship; if single, discuss that too

I am single. God, I am so single; and I am basking in all of its do-what-I-want-and-talk-to-whom-I-please glory. I can go out with many different people, drinking and dancing until after midnight, and I can come home, take off my makeup, and sleep diagonally in my giant bed until 2:00 the following afternoon. I can text and talk to whomever I please (or whomever I don't) and spend my money on nothing but new clothes for myself. I don't have to plan my weekends around anyone else and if someone flirts with me, I do not feel the least bit bad.

I am single, and I can make solo plans for myself months in advance (just like I did for Boston). When I eat out at a restaurant, I only ever have to worry about paying for myself. I don't shave my legs unless I really want to, and  I can wear the same ratty old clothes to bed for a week (not that this differs much from how I ever was in a relationship).

I am single, and if someone approaches me in a romantic way and I don't reciprocate at all, I don't feel bad for kindly telling them so. I don't need to use the patriarchy-appeasing excuse of "I have a boyfriend" to ward off the weirdos, because I can confidently say to them, "hey, I'm just doing my own thing right now, thanks." And strangely enough, that simple fact brings me much joy.

I am single, and I have learned so much more about myself during my singledom than I ever have while I have been one-half of a relationship. I have learned a lot about other people, too. All in all, being single has been a greater learning experience for me at this stage of my life, than anything else I've ever experienced. The way people (mis)treat a single woman, the confidence it takes to teach yourself to walk into a room and sit at a table by yourself, and the patience it requires to see others around you engrossed in their relationships, all come with time and experience in growing into being single. The single most defining, pivotal moment in singledom comes when you realize the significant difference between being lonely and being alone. You don't have to be single to be lonely. And you don't have to be lonely to be alone. I have seen some of the most lonely people, invested in marriage for decades, without even the smallest amount of love. I've seen people living their lives quite happily alone, with more friends and close confidants than the most social of relationship-prone butterflies.

I am single, and I am grateful. Grateful, for this time of great learning about myself, as well as others. Grateful, for this time of great learning about love; both the kind involving others, and the deeper kind involving only myself.

I am single, and there is not a doubt in my mind that my life is meant to be this way at this time for many reasons. I don't have regrets, and I don't pity myself or lament my being single. I have no "better half," because I am already one whole person. A fact many non-single people quickly forget.

I am single, and for the first time in my life, I have a crystal clear vision of what it really means to be happy, without the influence of anyone else.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 8 (A Book You Love and One You Didn't)

Day 8: A book you love and one you didn't

It is actually very hard for me to think of a book I didn't like, because I generally like all the books I have read. That's why I read them. Plus, if I don't like a book I'm reading, I will just stop reading it. Right where I am.

I guess I could talk about a book that I read (an entire series, in fact) and continued reading even though I would realize later the many reasons why it was terrible. When I was in eighth grade (circa 2007-08) Stephenie Meyer had just published Twilight. It was quite the commercial success with girls my age, all doe-eyed and swooning over Edward Cullen. (This was before Robert Pattinson had been cast in the role, ruining the appeal of Cedric Diggory forever.) I remember borrowing the book from a friend; its paperback cover had been torn up and bent back by many of our classmates as it circulated through the hands of most of the pubescent, love-struck teenage girls in our grade.

I read through it ravenously, consumed in the life of Bella Swan and her grand misfortune of falling in love with a centuries-old vampire, pale and dreamy as they come. I was 13. I don't think much else could have been expected of me with a book so powerful in my young, impressionable hands. I read New Moon and Eclipse next, and finished them both just in time to force myself to wait patiently for the release of Breaking Dawn.

It really wasn't until the movies came out years later and I was a little older, that I realized many of the problems with the storyline. To keep it brief, I will make a list of the most obvious issues with Bella alone: codependency, a major identity crisis, and dangerously low self-esteem. I think it took the media doing critical thinking for me at a time when I was just following the trend of all my middle school classmates, to make me realize that perhaps there was something about the message conveyed by this story that was terribly problematic. But that doesn't mean that reading about the birth of Renesmee wasn't wonderfully bizarre and captivating at the time. (Until Jacob imprinted on her, then it got weird again and totally ruined Taylor Lautner for me, as well.)

As for a book I loved? I'm going to avoid being totally predictable and extra long-winded here, and not go with Harry Potter. Everybody knows I love Harry Potter, and I could go on and on and on about it forever. So instead, I will go with a classic of a little older age: To Kill A Mockingbird.

I remember reading that novel over spring break during sophomore year of high school. My classmates were all hacked off that our English teacher gave us any assigned reading homework over the break, but I was actually pretty excited about it. I was 16 and it wasn't like I had much else to do for a week. I'm a nerd, remember?

Anyway, I read the whole thing in just a few days. I can recall lying on the bed at my aunt's house, finishing up the last few chapters where Atticus goes to trial and presents his case that Bob Ewell was the one who actually raped his daughter, and that he was hiding beyond his own bigotry in accusing the innocent black man, Tom Robinson. I was totally engrossed in the literary genius that tied all the loose ends together. I can remember that I began reading aloud, like I always do when I get really sucked into a book, and the energy has nowhere else to go besides out of my mouth. My blood was boiling at the blatant racism of the characters and I got goosebumps from the empowering way Atticus didn't stand for any of it. I was enthralled by the valor and altruism of fictional characters, the same way I've been many times before.

When we returned to school on Monday, I was the only one who had finished the book over break. I was so in love with the work of Harper Lee that I didn't care one bit about being the only one in on the secret. In fact, I think I liked it more that nobody else knew how it ended. They had no idea what they were missing.

A person's favorite things say a lot about them. Especially those things like literature or music. I think it resonates with their experiences in life as well as the values they hold in regard to powerful cultural ideas. I once read an article online about how the Potter generation has been shown to be more understanding of differences, accepting of marginalized groups, and more likely to question authority rather than blindly accept it. I think that's totally true; and furthermore, it's representative of many other things to which I find myself drawn. Harry Potter and To Kill A Mockingbird are only two of the many powerful books that I love proudly and fiercely. They're some of my all-time favorites, and I like to think they're pretty good choices.

30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 3 (Your First Love & First Kiss)

Day 3: Your first love and first kiss; if separate, discuss both

They are separate, so I will discuss both, without naming any names.

What do I remember about my first kiss? Well, it was a terrible experience. Due in large part to the fact that I didn't really like the person it was with, and I had no real desire to kiss him anyway. I was fourteen and I certainly had no idea what feminism was or what active consent meant, and all I knew was that this was something I was supposed to do at some point in my life, and now seemed like as good a time as any. We were both simply playing out the roles we were socialized to believe were fit for us.

I remember his mom was waiting for him in the car and he walked me to my front door and I only had about three seconds to think to myself, "oh crap, this is it," and then it was over. I do, however, remember I was wearing a very strongly-flavored peppermint lip gloss from Bath and Body Works. You know, that really sticky, goopy, gel kind of lip gloss that your hair gets stuck in on a windy day, like a spider crawling across a glue trap? Yeah, it was a nightmare.

Looking back at it now, I laugh at how stupid the whole thing was. It was so anti-climactic. He never asked me if I wanted to kiss him, or if I thought it would be a good idea for him to kiss me. Nope. He just went for it. That actually kind of pisses me off now. But all in all, there was no real harm done to me. I'm pretty sure that "relationship" only lasted about two months' worth of ninth grade anyway; and if I'm being honest, I wasn't genuinely invested in it in the first place. I had my heart set on another boy, and as it would turn out, I would kiss him shortly after the peppermint lip gloss incident, anyway. And I did really want to kiss him.



My first love. That's a tough one. Hmmm. It began at a time in my life as it does for many others: high school. Funny how high school is responsible for some of the worst memories a person has, but it also gets to take credit for many of the experiences that mold a person into who they are. This is no different.

My first love was beautiful, emotional, clumsy, well-intentioned, painful, and tragically messy all at the same time. I rode the roller coaster up to the top of the highest drop with him, and we screamed in exhilarated unison in anger, confusion, hurt, and anticipation all the way down. When the ride was over, we departed the roller coaster and left the amusement park in separate ways, both heading in a better direction than where we were when we arrived.

It was the first relationship into which I invested so much of myself. That being the case, I invested too much and I learned just what over-investing yourself can do to you, the other person, and the relationship itself. Neither of us were perfect. But we both had the purest of intentions never to hurt the other, and that's what provided me with solace in the end. I can't speak for him, but I knew him pretty well at the time it all went down in flames, and I would wager a guess that he was comforted in a similar way by that notion.

Getting over it hurt a lot, and it took some time and self-reflection, but all the best things do. The thing a lot of people fail to realize about the grandiose ideals of a first kiss and a first love is that the word "first" automatically implies there will be another. At a young age, going into relationships with no experience and very little foresight, a person has no way of knowing that. But after getting a few bumps and bruises from love, you start to realize that "first" is no guarantee of "last," and more importantly, you learn how to be okay with that. It takes time, forgiveness, and an incredible amount of growth, but being honest with yourself about the totality of your experiences -- good and bad -- is what catapults you to where you're meant to be in the future. In the right place, at the right time, so when the next person comes along... you're ready.

My Mother

Few things in this world do any of us need more than our mother. Few people know us so well or can comfort us the same.

There was a long time during my youth when the person I wanted to see least was my mother. I said awful things about her and to her. I slammed the door to my bedroom at least a dozen times. I back talked her and she slapped my face only a fraction of what she should have.

A child so unruly grew into an adult with an appreciation so deep. My mother made sacrifices for all of us: my father, my sister, my brother, and me. She went without many things that she desired so we could have what we wanted instead. There were undoubtedly tough times when we did go without, and I will always remember them well. But I will never forget that she always did her best.

My mother's life has not always been easy, and as an extension, neither has mine. That's not to say she is a victim or that she is a helpless pawn in the game of life. It's to say, instead, that she has a fighting spirit; one which I know I inherited from her. I've seen her in moments of strength and weakness, laughing with joy and with tears of pain rolling down her cheeks. I have heard her make declarations in indignant anger and I have heard her say nothing as she is faced with disappointment. Many times I have witnessed these types of interactions without her even knowing I was watching.

I have learned things from her which I may not realize for another ten years. Just the same, I have taught her things that she never expected to learn. We have learned from each other, both from the ways we are different and the ways in which we are entirely too much alike. I often hear her words in my own voice. Everyday, I see her face in my own reflection. She is with me forever, wherever I go, whether I like it or not.

I doubt if there is a thing in this world of which my mother is more proud than her children. Besides her grandchildren, perhaps. Her pride is fierce and constant, and no matter how hard I try, I know I could never lose her love. She created me, after all, and then she set me free out into the world. As the days go by and I grow older, I realize that in a number of ways, I am her in miniature, and sometimes it's not always so bad. Ten years ago, I would've cringed at the thought, but adulthood brings with it a certain appreciation for all that your parents have done.

I have seen what it takes to be a mother and I have decided that it is likely not for me. It requires a patient kind of selflessness that I do not possess. It demands momentous sacrifice again and again. It means allowing your heart to beat outside of your chest, and consequently, it means worry in your heart and wrinkles on your forehead. It means being there for your child, even as they turn their back to you and spread their wings in the opposite direction. It means being available for every late night call that may ever come, about school, relationships, or careers. It means dropping your toddler off at daycare and praying you don't get another call about their misbehavior. It means, that for better or worse, you are at least a little bit responsible for who this tiny, malleable person becomes in the future, and that outcome hinges on every single moment, both big and small. It means being both the good cop and the bad cop, and having your teenager's attitude toward you change accordingly. It means refraining from smacking the mouthy little brat's mouth when they disrespect you in the mean-spirited way that only kids can. It means that you have to keep this extremely dependent human being alive to adulthood, and not get yourself killed in the process.

It means doing all of this, day in and day out, with no sick leave and no paid vacation time, for a minimum of eighteen years but usually much longer, in the hopes that someday, just maybe, they will realize all of this and be grateful to you for all you have done to make them possible -- both figuratively and literally.

My mother is many things to me. She is my support system, my champion, and my rock. She is my number one fan and my biggest critic. She asks too many questions and she too often tells me what to do. She is, on occasion, my best friend; but more often, she drives me crazy. She is three text messages and seven missed calls within an hour. She is a love note packed away inside my suitcase the night before I leave. She is the voice inside my head when I really don't want to make a decision. She is my backbone, my strong-willed stubbornness, and my determination. She is my pants and my bra both immediately taken off upon coming home after work. She is the sinkful of dirty dishes and the laundry hamper piled high. She is the salty sweet combination of every small motherly habit and every curse word I've ever heard. She is the reason I know what it means to love someone with all of my heart, but not to like them one little bit.

She may not be much to anyone else. But she is my mother, and without her I would not exist. She is the very reason I am breathing, and as such, she is the air within my lungs. She is my mother, and she is very much the reason I know love, and all of the beautiful things which derive from it.

Welcome To New York (Boston).

I was driving to work last week, weaving through busy rush hour traffic on Rock Road. Taylor Swift's 1989 CD was absentmindedly playing as background noise in my stereo, as it has been since the album dropped last October. I was preparing to spend the next several hours begrudgingly earning $7.50 an hour around co-workers whom I didn't like, and customers whom I liked even less. I wasn't exactly in the brightest of moods. Then, through the haze of my own bad attitude, I heard good ol' T-Swift crooning to me the words I needed to hear, like she's done hundreds of times before.

You see, I have a dream. Many dreams, in fact. But the dream currently responsible for the high in my life is one about travel, one about adventure and freedom and finding myself. Like many young people before me, I yearn to leave my safe, familiar comfort zone and get wonderfully lost in a new, giant, mesmerizing place, eventually making it my own.

And since the day I bought it three months ago, I have been all too aware of that plane ticket to Boston with my name on it.

I'll be heading east on a grand, new exploit of my own, in as little as twenty-seven days from now. That's the dream that's been fueling my passion through the mundane activities of two summer jobs and three summer classes since the middle of May. What has filled my sails with wind as the days dwindle away is anticipating the joy I will experience during my short four-day caper in the city that will hopefully soon be my home.

So last week when I heard Taylor Swift's lyrics in the song she wrote about her love for New York City, even after hearing them and mindlessly humming along to them time and time again for months on end, I paused. I thought about the gravity of her words.

"Like any great love, it keeps you guessing

Like any real love, it's ever-changing

Like any true love, it drives you crazy

But you know you wouldn't change anything, anything, anything"

I have been a dedicated T-Swift fan since "Teardrops on My Guitar". I was there for Taylor when she was just a sixteen-year-old girl who lived in Nashville and wore cowboy boots and sundresses to the Academy of Country Music Awards. I remember when she said that Nashville was her home, furthermore, that country music was her home; and that she'd never dream of cutting her hair or moving to a big city like NYC or LA. Well, well... how things change.

"Welcome To New York" is Taylor's declaration about how she fearlessly fell in love with a city, with its people, and with the experience itself. And, like any Taylor Swift song, she is vividly painting a picture of it as one huge, beautiful love affair. Taylor Swift is in love with a city. And why not? A city is just as full of human emotion as the people who inhabit it.

These lyrics are the ones that spoke out to me last week on my drive to work. They were casual and commonplace, yet they were gently reminding me to keep pushing myself toward whatever it is that draws me in, to whatever feels right to me.

You see, love comes in many forms in this lifetime. And heaven knows I'm a sucker for falling in love with new places. It's been barely over a year since the Travel Bug bit me, and the virus has only been incubating and growing stronger within me this long; it has not been dormant or forgotten.

Travel will surely keep you guessing, much like life itself. How am I to know what lies around the corner for me? How am I supposed to find out, if I'm never brave enough to take the steps necessary to arrive at the corner in the first place?

Travel is certainly ever-changing, most obviously by the number of possible destinations one could choose to explore and make their own.

And travel is definitely enough to drive a person crazy, especially those of us who so quickly get emotionally attached to people and places, with little foresight for the consequences we will inevitably face when the time comes to leave.

But I wouldn't change anything. Not one single part of the delightful, possessive, magical beauty that is creating my own home in a place faraway from anywhere I've been before.

In the few seconds it took for my copy of 1989 to play those lines, my brain and my heart merged into the same wavelength. For one fleeting moment, my mind and soul were alive with the wondrously dangerous combination of adrenaline and oxytocin that only comes from love. To people who have ever traveled before to some other place and who have instantly fallen in love with the new scenery and the new perspective of life, no explanation of Taylor Swift's love affair with New York is needed. We already understand, because the feeling is pumping through our veins with every beat of our lustful, wandering hearts.