The other day I opened my fridge door and stared blankly at my food for about two minutes. Nothing caught my eye. I thought about the recipes I could make with what I had, but was irked by the idea of going through the hassle and ending up with something unsatisfying. So, as one does, I shut my fridge door dramatically, exclaimed, “I have no food!” and stormed off to bed on an empty stomach. And while laying in my bed singing along to the sounds of my stomach growling, I realized that, as I approach graduation, I’ve found myself staring into the refrigerator of life decisions. I’m uninterested by what’s sitting there and also too afraid to pick up something new and try it.

So what happens when we are crippled with the burden of decision making? Personally, I choose to run from all big life decisions, which is easy for the first 20 or so years of our lives. When I was younger, I would simply not make a decision and go along begrudgingly with whatever my mom chose for me. But now at the ripe age of 22, I find myself backed into a corner. I’m graduating, leaving my home for the past four years, fighting the inevitability of moving into my parents’ basement, and still deciding what I want to do with my life. My parents and other adults constantly ask, “What are your plans next year?”, unknowingly sending me into a mental spiral of judgment and sadness. Some of my friends have already surged past this minefield of questions, looking for new apartments in their new cities that they’ll pay for with their new salaries. There is so much comparison and self-deprecation that boils to the surface upon graduation, and with this much going on in my head, I’ve been paralyzed by the pressure of deciding, leaving me with no plan at all.

When humans find ourselves in prolonged periods of intense decision making, we can experience a phenomenon known as decision fatigue. This is basically when the stress of having to constantly come to definitive conclusions leaves us drained of our willpower and energy. That’s why, if you’re graduating like me, you may realize that you and your friends are unusually tired lately. It’s why making little decisions, like what to eat for dinner or choosing a time to meet up with friends, can seem so overbearing and impossible right now. We’re being bombarded with the heavy responsibility of making decisions that seem to impact every aspect of our lives. How can we have the capacity for the other 35,000 decisions that the average adult makes in a day? That’s a lot for our minds to carry. When we face decision fatigue, we have a harder time saying yes or no, leaving us in no man’s land.

While I sit uncomfortably in my mental standstill, everyone else seems to be moving forward. They’re getting ready to up and leave for New York or Chicago or Europe while I decide if I should ever even leave the comfort of the Midwest. How do you compare something as big as a city? Or weigh the difference between job opportunities that you may not know exist? How are we supposed to know we’re making the right choice when our decisions could impact the rest of our lives?

There’s a famous study where a grocery store set up two jam sampling tables, one with only six jams, another with 24. Although the 24 jam table attracted more people, those customers were six times less likely to actually buy jam compared to the other table. This is because of choice overload, where we can’t compare such a large quantity of options so we don’t choose any. Just like moving to a new city; We can’t say no to decisions because we don’t want to pass up opportunities, and we can’t say yes because we’re too afraid to break out of the status quo, so instead we decide to leave empty handed. It’s an incapacitating paradox that a lot of us may be dealing with, whether its weighing job offers or college applications or even deciding what outfit to wear for the day. This kind of decision making is maddening and has no glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel.

So in my distraught state, I turn to the wisest tool at my disposal: Google. When I type in “How do I make big life decisions?”, the first thing that comes up is “question your choice.” Great. More doubt and uncertainty to plague my mind with. So I dug a little deeper and found an interview with Ruth Chang, an Oxford University professor who specializes in researching decision making. She said that when we look at big life choices, we need to distinguish between a big decision and a hard decision. Choosing what to eat for lunch may be a hard decision, but it certainly isn’t a big one. Getting a life-saving emergency operation is a big decision but isn’t a hard one. Hard decisions, Chang said, are that way because the two options are on par with one another. We can’t see the distinguishing factors between the two because they’re theoretical, not yet tangible.

Pros and cons lists may help, but Chang said the key to approaching this predicament is making a commitment that best aligns with your character. We have to think about who we want to make ourselves into–are you a doctor working in LA? Or a farmer in New Mexico? Do you find your values in teaching in a small town or traveling the world with nothing but the backpack on your back? We have to look forward to ourselves rather than to the situation we’ll find ourselves in.

Decisions, although difficult, can be a beautiful example of finding our own agency. We are given the opportunity to go anywhere, do anything, and that’s why it feels so big. It’s a wonderful mixture of sadness for leaving where we are, but excitement for building our future selves. Of course there will be indecisiveness and confusion and self-doubt, but that’s all a part of the process. So rather than continuing lamenting about the difficulty of deciding my future, I’m going to shift my mindset. I’m looking at the vast array of possibilities in front of me, some I can’t even begin to imagine are out there, and trusting myself to make the best of whatever path I choose.

As a kid, Wednesday nights were sacred in my household. My family would pop popcorn and gather on our family room couch to watch the newest episode of “Modern Family.” Tuesdays were reserved for “The Voice,” Thursdays for “The Office.” The weekly release of my family’s favorite television programming dictated how we spent our week. Getting excited to see what our beloved shows would surprise us with gave us an excuse to spend time together and bond. But as streaming services and binge-watching continue to prove themselves superior to broadcast television, I wonder: is my cherished tradition bound to go extinct?

First, let’s get familiar with some terms. We’ve all heard the term “binge watch,” which is to consume multiple hours of television in one sitting. For the majority of us, this method of TV watching was what we used during quarantine. We sat on our couches and devoured “Tiger King,” looking at our families at the end of each episode to shrug and say, “Maybe just one more?” If a streaming service decides to drop an entire season of a show in one day, that’s called the binge release model. It’s curated to allow audiences to soak up every minute of their favorite shows as soon as possible, therefore increasing customer satisfaction. Binge releases were originated by Netflix and a majority, if not all, of their shows continue to use it. Think of fan favorites like “Stranger Things,” “Squid Game” and “Bridgerton.” Binge releases capitalize on FOMO to get audiences to watch the entirety of the series as quickly as possible. If you don’t watch the full season within the week it’s released, you miss hopping on the bandwagon. You miss the Twitter memes and fan theories and gushing over newly-loved characters.

And this pressure works. In 2020 alone, Netflix gained over 37 million subscribers. Although it seems too fast, too chaotic, too much content to handle, the binge release method has effectively skyrocketed over the past few years.

On the other hand, we have ole faithful: the weekly release method. This was my childhood, your childhood and the staple format of broadcast television since its inception. Weekly releases mean exactly that, choosing one day of the week to drop episodes until the full season has been released. As an avid lover of television and mortal enemy of change, I adore weekly releases. Think of shows like “Euphoria,” “Ted Lasso,” “Only Murders in the Building” or “Succession.” They remind us all of the television experience: it’s not supposed to be hours of mind-numbing content; it’s supposed to be a reason for you and your friends to get together and laugh or cry for an hour or so. Streaming services like Hulu and HBO Max have stayed true to this traditional strategy and proved that Netflix is not the sole titan of the streaming industry.

The second season of “Euphoria” was one of the most successful releases in the past year. Its finale brought in 6.6 million viewers, a number HBO Max hasn’t seen since the “Game of Thrones” series finale. Think how annoyed you got with constantly hearing discourse about “Euphoria”; it was all anyone could talk about for what seemed like months. And that’s the beauty of the weekly release. It draws out the viewers’ experience, building suspense, maintaining connections to the characters and letting a larger conversation cultivate over weeks instead of just a few days.

Apple TV’s “Ted Lasso” caught on to this trend and rode it all the way to seven Emmy wins and 20 nominations. Television analysts believe that a substantial reason that “Ted Lasso” swept so many Emmy categories is because of the weeks of praise and conversation that it generated over its release period, a kind of success that is unheard of with binge releases. With its early episodes being released during the national lockdown, “Lasso” was the comic relief that we all needed, and its producers did a beautiful job of spreading that lightheartedness over several weeks rather than dropping a happiness bomb on us for only a few days. It’s the prime example that even if broadcast television may be dying, its fundamentals never will.

Clearly, I prefer weekly releases. But if we look at the question of release strategies objectively, what works best? Why would television bother to change its age-old, timeless and effective release strategy? If it isn’t broken, don’t fix it, right? I don’t think the emergence of the binge release was necessarily due to the lack of love for broadcast television, but instead to keep up with the evolving nature of streaming services. As audiences got accustomed to having any show available to us whenever we wanted, we got impatient. We don’t want to have to wait another week for another episode, we want to sit on our couch and watch it all now! Streaming services understood that and readjusted to meet the audience’s needs.

However, we don’t always have to choose for ourselves. There is a middle ground, some way to keep viewers invested in the story over a period of time while also letting them fully indulge themselves. This is a newer model of releasing, some refer to it as the “hybrid approach” or the “demi-binge”, or when a series releases its first three or so episodes all at once and then the remainder of the season on a weekly basis. Hulu’s “Only Murders in the Building” as well as Apple TV+’s “Physical” and “The Shrink Next Door” found major success with this hybrid model, proving that maybe audiences need to be hooked at first in order to become devoted fans. I watched all three of these series and loved them all.

As I await the inevitable season twos, I can’t help but feel a little tricked, as if the streaming services intricately designed these releases to capture my attention. But that’s not a bad thing, especially because I went on to tell my friends to watch each of those series. Other streaming services are also hearing the rave reviews and adjusting accordingly. Amazon Prime Video’s “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel” has changed its release strategy after three wildly successful seasons using the binge release method. For its upcoming fourth season, they will release two episodes a week over four weeks rather than dropping all eight episodes at once. So who knows, maybe streaming and broadcast television have found their happy medium.

Maybe my beloved Wednesday night television programming is not long gone. Television is still bringing us together, still creating conversation and generating laughs, no matter how it’s presented to us. We can still cuddle our loved ones on the couch and watch our favorite shows, just some nights we may be able to watch full seasons instead of just one episode. No matter how television continues to revamp, rework and remodel, I’ll still be cooped up in my living room, eagerly awaiting the next episode.

As an avid movie buff, I am always sitting in front of my television on Oscar Sunday. I’ve been there through Matthew McConaughey’s “three things speech,” the infamous “Moonlight”/”La La Land” misread, “Parasite’s” groundbreaking win and sadly, through Anne Hathaway and James Franco’s horrendous hosting gig. Whether it be the good, the bad or the ugly at the Oscars, I’ve seen it. So when I coerced my roommates into an Oscar party last Sunday, I figured I would be the only one actually engaged in the ceremony. But then, by some miracle, the 94th Academy Awards provided us some of the most entertaining content we’ve seen since John Travolta hilariously mispronounced Idina Menzel’s name.

It would be a crime against Oscar recap articles if I didn’t acknowledge the slap seen around the world. When Chris Rock came on stage to present the award for best documentary picture, the world-renowned comedian joked that Jada Pinkett-Smith, who has publicly addressed her alopecia, looked like a bald Demi Moore in “G.I. Jane.” Pinkett-Smith’s husband, Will Smith, was seen laughing on screen at first, but then walked on stage and slapped Rock across the face. He returned to his seat and yelled to Rock, “Keep my wife’s name out of your fucking mouth,” which was muted on American stations.

My friends and I rewinded the broadcast three times to see if this was a scripted act, but viewers in Australia and Japan confirmed that it wasn’t as they posted the uncensored version of the altercation online. We all ran to social media as the conversation about the slap moved online. This incident took the true essence of the night away from the big winners, especially best documentary fan-favorite Questlove’s “Summer of Soul (…Or, When the Revolution Could Not Be Televised).”

I was surprised Smith wasn’t asked to leave the ceremony, especially because he was sitting less than five feet from the stage. But as the predicted best actor winner, it would have been nearly impossible to ask him to leave. As of now, the academy is considering what the repercussions of a public assault on live television should be, and they have condemned Smith’s actions. As predicted, Smith won his first Oscar for his performance as Richard Williams in “King Richard.” In his acceptance speech, Smith apologized to the academy and the Williams family, as well as many others, except for Rock. Smith noted that “Art imitates life. I look like the crazy father, just like they said about Richard Williams. But love will make you do crazy things.” As per what we saw on Oscar Sunday, we know this to be true.

The Oscars have been hostless since Jimmy Kimmel hosted in 2018. Honestly, when Amy Schumer, Regina Hall and Wanda Sykes were announced as the trio to reintroduce the coveted gig, I was disappointed. As much as I admire these powerhouse women, they were not the combination I wanted on my television for three hours. But once again, this year’s awards surprised me and had my friends and I audibly laughing. The only blip that the hostesses did face was Regina Hall objectifying several conventionally attractive actors. She brought them on stage for “a COVID test” that she would conduct “with her tongue,” which left my viewing party and I wondering how the joke would have played out with a male host and female participants.

The line of the night went to Schumer, who resurfaced after Smith and Rock’s debacle to diffuse the situation by saying, “I’ve been getting out of that Spider-Man costume, did I miss anything? There’s like, a different vibe in here.” She was the ideal person to acknowledge how Smith and Rock had overshadowed the triumphs of the ceremony. These women reminded us of why hosting the Oscars has become a beloved tradition: we need people to guide us through the night, to recognize the uncomfortable, to celebrate the worthy winners and to keep smiles on our faces.

This year’s awards were monumental for several groups. Ariana DeBose was the second Latina woman to win the award for best supporting actress, 60 years after Rita Morena won for the same role of Anita in “West Side Story.” DeBose gave an emotional speech about the power of finding your identity through the arts, which was sadly overshadowed by the infamous slap. “CODA” had historic wins, including Troy Kotsur securing the best supporting actor title, making him the first deaf man to win an Academy Award. He gave a powerful acceptance speech as he told the story of his deaf father’s accident, leaving him unable to sign. “CODA” also went on to win best adapted screenplay, as well as the prized possession of the night, best picture.

These groundbreaking accomplishments for underrepresented communities were beautifully emotional, but they were also tragically outshined by the altercation that audiences could not get out of their heads. There have been plenty of snubs in Oscar history, but last night’s refocusing on Smith and Rock was by far the most brutal.

Due to the chaos of the night, there were plenty of awkward moments that haven’t been properly addressed. During the “in memoriam” segment, in lieu of the typical melancholy instrumental symphony, the pictures of the passed titans of the industry rolled over an up-beat choral dance party. This felt uncomfortably inappropriate for the tone of the segment, especially as the academy omitted several monumental stars like Bob Saget and Ed Asner. The Oscars also tend to be a politically outspoken event, historically known for stars wearing pins like #MeToo and AIDS support ribbons, but they had surprisingly little to say about Ukraine. Although stars like Benedict Cumberbatch and Jason Momoa did bare blue and yellow pins and pocket squares to show their respect, the academy itself only included a short moment of silence for the turmoil in the country. Each award recipient had something general and vague to say about the state of the world, about the tragedy and indifference we face and so on and so forth. But for the most part, for such a prominent soapbox in our culture, the Oscars could have done more. There was a gaping hole in the ceremony that apparently could only be filled with an award-winning actor slapping a world-famous comedian.

Overall, the 94th Academy Awards provided the best of what it intends to: boundary-pushing jokes, well-deserved honorees and plenty of moments that will keep us talking until the next year’s ceremony rolls around.

Editor’s note: This article discusses domestic abuse and sexual violence. If you or anyone you know has experienced sexual harassment, the Aurora Center’s 24-hour helpline can be reached at (612) 626-9111. More resources can be found at the National Domestic Violence Hotline website.

In the world’s eyes, Kim Kardashian is a representation of unrealistic body standards, exploiting the female body for fame, undeserved wealth and so on. What can we learn from a woman who’s famous for a leaked sex tape and a 72-day marriage? Then there’s her ex, Kanye West, the infamous renegade of rap music, known more recently for absurdist social media rants and a botched presidential campaign. It’s hard to take them seriously as individuals and as a couple. How can these two possibly teach us something about intimacy?

For those who may not know, Kim filed for divorce from Kanye in January 2021 after eight years of marriage. Since then, Kanye has taken to social media in a series of tirades about Kim, their four children and Kim’s recent boyfriend Pete Davidson. Kanye has crossed the line several times within these rants, especially at one of his earlier political rallies, where he lamented to the crowd about how he and Kim almost decided to not have North, their first born child. More recently, Kanye released a music video for a recent collaboration, “Eazy”, in which a claymation version of Davidson is being tied up and buried by Kanye. Kim remains stoic in her reaction to a lot of what Kanye does, but lately she’s been pleading with him to leave their children (as well as Davidson) out of the messiness, with minimal success.

For years, Kanye has been a staple follow for any social media user. He has over 30 million followers on Twitter, and has been a source of entertainment since the platform’s genesis. I admit that I laugh at Kanye, just like anyone else, and didn’t think much of him berating Kim. I figured that this could be a typical Kardashian publicity stunt, that he is a much more composed human behind closed doors, though it’s also important to note that Kanye has been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and we shouldn’t be laughing at mental illness in the first place. But it wasn’t until tuning into The Daily Show a few weeks ago that I reframed my mindset.

Trevor Noah, host of The Daily Show, did a nine-minute testimonial about the recent events in Kim and Kanye’s divorce and compared them to the domestic abuse that his mother experienced when he was a child. He talked about how difficult it is for victims to leave abusive relationships, and made the point that Kim is attempting to do the same thing, but in the public eye. She is no different than any other woman who is trying to move on from a relationship while a partner attempts to berate her for doing so. “If Kim cannot escape this, what chance do normal women have?” Noah said.

Kim has support. She has millions of fans and billions of dollars behind her, yet she still cannot prevent or end the harassment she is facing. You may say, “Oh, it’s a publicity stunt! These are the Kardashians! This is different.” But as Noah says, these things aren’t mutually exclusive, they can both be true: “Kim likes publicity, Kim is being harassed.” Think of women, or anyone, who find themselves cornered in an abusive relationship. We tell them the same thing, “if your partner hurts you, then leave!” It seems so easy to tell them this, but look what happens when they do. Even after the most powerful woman in the world left, she still can’t escape the torment of her previous partner. If Kim Kardashian can’t disentangle herself from her harasser, how is your next door neighbor supposed to? Your best friend? How are you supposed to?

Due to the public nature of their intimate lives, Kim and Kanye reintroduce a topic that is continuously swept under the rug. “Domestic abuse” feels like a huge term. It’s taboo, similar to words like “harrassment,” “rape,” or “sexual assault.” They feel too complicated and heavy, so we don’t speak about them unless a situation has the arbitrary stamp of approval signifying that we have defined it correctly. But what happens when we don’t use these words in the contexts we should? When we leave people out of the conversation because their situation may not apply perfectly to our limited definition? When we’re too afraid to label something because we’re afraid to be wrong? If we do these things, if we limit the conversation around these topics, we’re invalidating survivors. We’re pulling out the chair from under them, leaving them deserted and stifled.

As college students, we may think that domestic abuse doesn’t apply to us. We’re not married, and most of us don’t live with our partners. It feels like we are outside the “domestic” category. But this is where we need to shift our mindset, because collegiate women, meaning ages 16-24, have the highest rates of domestic abuse per capita. A majority of these cases are not reported, and therefore not discussed. In fact, 70% of victims don’t even realize they are experiencing abuse. So here is where Kim holds her power: think of all of the women in this age range that idolize Kim. They wear her makeup, watch her shows and follow her on all social media platforms. Can you imagine the impact it would have on young women if Kim called attention to the dangers of harassment, similar to what she’s experiencing?

Obviously, there are a lot of moving parts here. We can’t expect victims to take on the responsibility of educating others. It’s insensitive to think that Kim, as a victim, should have to do anything. But as an A-list celebrity, there’s different expectations. I would hope that anyone with Kim’s kind of platform would use it for good, however that may look. Even as Kim and Kanye work their way through this situation, we as a public audience need to address the severity of it rather than laugh.

What can we learn from Kim and Kanye? We can learn not to laugh when we’re uncomfortable. Instead, we can check in on our friends. We can look deeper into a scary situation rather than run from it. We can support women and victims of sexual harrassment, domestic abuse, etc., by talking openly about it. Kim and Kanye may be the epitome of the infamous, insensitive celebrity, but they are increasingly fundamental in the conversation surrounding happy, healthy relationships.

Here are some ways you can support victims of domestic abuse:

• Donate to the National Network to End Domestic Violence.
• Make a safety plan with your support system.
• Learn the warning signs of domestic abuse.

It’s just past that time of the year: time for excessive alcohol consumption, third-degree midwestern sunburns, mothers laying awake at night worrying and plenty of poor decision making. Students hate to love it, parents love to hate it, it’s spring break.

How did this annual tradition of collegiates blacking out at four-star tropical resorts become culturally acceptable? Has college spring break mutated into such a beast that not even COVID-19 can slay it? Given college students’ notorious exhaustion, you would think that a week off from class would be spent catching up on lost sleep or heading back to their parent’s house for a home-cooked meal. But instead, bright, young scholars of our nation flock to the beaches of Florida and Mexico, only to deprive their bodies of the nutrients and rest that they direly need.

Initially, I thought the concept of college spring break started on MTV, when camera crews headed to Daytona Beach, Florida, to capture drunk party animals in their natural habitat. But actually, spring break started far before MTV. Apparently, in the mid to late 1930s, a collegiate swim coach from upstate New York decided to bring his team to Fort Lauderdale to train early in an Olympic standard-size pool, and after word spread to other coaches, the Easter-time migration became an annual event. Of course, with a week off of school in Florida, the college students dabbled in their fair share of parties. It wasn’t until the mid 1980s that MTV sent camera crews down to televise the event, and since then it’s grown into the spring break we know and love today.

There was never a time when spring break was intended for relaxation. From its origins, it meant students were using necessary time off to work on some other obligation or exert their livers past their physical limits. What happened to a relaxing spring break? Was there ever a possibility of sitting in a beach chair and reading a book, unbothered by EDM music and sugary cocktails?

As I sit here writing this column, I know I’m a hypocrite. I just got back from five days in the Dominican Republic, where my friend turned to me and said, “Why did we ever think we would read on this trip?” I spent my mornings hungover by the pool, the afternoons sweating my sunscreen off during beach volleyball, my evenings running rampant around the resort, all the staples of the tropical tourist lifestyle. I had the time of my life, until I landed back in the United States.

That’s when something infamously known as hanxiety, or hangover anxiety, set in. We hadn’t even left baggage claim when I felt the need to lay in my childhood bed and be hugged by my mother. Simply being on Minnesotan soil reminded me of the homework I had put off, the housekeeping tasks I needed to check off my list and the exams I had yet to study for. I started to sweat. Instead of coming back from my break feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, I found myself in a downward spiral, crippling under the pressure of the “work hard, play hard” collegiate lifestyle. How can a week dedicated to leisure and relief result in a panic attack?

Spring break has snowballed into a monstrosity of pressure and expectation. Not only is there an expectation to go somewhere lavish and expensive, but there’s the requirement that you must go with a large sum of people (who will see you in a swimsuit, so make sure you’re in shape!), the expectation to be constantly consuming alcohol, to sacrifice sleep for “the nights you won’t forget.” Now go and relax! This is fun! Right?

This “girls (and others) gone wild” type of break can be fun if done safely. I can personally attest that while every kid is out ripping shots at swim-up bars, their parents are restless, mulling over every possible scenario in which their child may not return home in one piece. We’ve all heard the stories of disasters while drunk. Spring break is all fun and games until this morbid truth demands to be acknowledged. These tragic accidents can happen in ways we don’t even know to prepare for; a study at the University of Miami found that fatal car accidents increase by 9.1% in popular spring break destinations and that the majority of drivers involved are under the age of 25. I heard plenty of reminders from my parents: “don’t take drinks from strangers, make sure to hydrate, share your location with friends.” When accounting for so many horrible possibilities, we forget about the other mundane safety measures like looking both ways when crossing the street. As unfortunate as these deaths and injuries are, we need to be aware of them in order to prevent them from happening.

If you’ve read this far and interpreted that I am anti-spring break, I’ve failed. College spring break is a ritual. It’s a monumental core memory that I can’t wait to tell my kids about as they’re packing for Cabo. I think everyone should experience it, at least once, if they so choose, because I’ve never been a part of something so hilariously chaotic in my life. Afterward, I found myself feeling closer and more connected to my friends. We’ve spent the days after reminiscing over comedic moments, getting riled up about other annoying hotel guests, longing for our once golden tans. So as I wrap up my college career, I’m thrilled to put spring break in my mental scrapbook. It’s a vacation that perfectly combines aspects of adult responsibility with collegiate carelessness, as long as safety is kept in mind. So I stand on my soapbox and yell to the world: Go! Drink and be merry! Wear sunscreen! Spend your money irresponsibly! Use the buddy system! Be safe, take care of yourself and your friends and go absolutely nuts.

I know that TikTok has shortened my attention span to roughly six seconds. I know that Instagram is a breeding ground for low self-esteem. I know that Snapchat fuels my obsession with taking selfies. I know that Twitter is negative — actually, Twitter is hilarious. No Twitter slander here. We understand that the tyrants of social media are basically parasites that live in us via our phones. They eat away at our confidence, send harmful ultraviolet rays into our eyes, keep us scrolling through our ex’s feed when we really should be moving on. The negative side effects are apparent, but these apps still find ways to weasel their way into our lives.

The never-ending mission to raise awareness about the effects of constant connection really hits home for me. I think people understand that these apps can be so detrimental to their happiness, but they don’t realize how innate mindless scrolling has become, and how their choice to log on every day is what’s contributing to their personal dissatisfaction. Documentaries like “The Social Dilemma” and “Jawline,” or even “The Tinder Swindler,” make me really worried about our culture and how it’s become so wrapped up in such a toxic habit, so much so that I try to detach myself from all of it. I don’t have the Instagram app on my phone anymore, the only person who uses my Facebook account is my mother, I keep a screen time widget on my home screen so I know when I need to put my phone down, and the social apps I do have have time limits set on them. I’m not trying to brag; I’m not the queen of confidence just because I don’t use Instagram as much as some others. I just do what I can to not lose my sense of self in a screen.

But as hard as I try, I really can’t escape these platforms. They’re everywhere. They’ve become TV shows! There was a movie based on Emojis! So what I’ll do sometimes is not allow myself to go on socials until I’ve done at least one productive thing for the day. It’s like a little reward (though that reward is more screen time with just a dash of insecurity) and encouragement to get stuff done. As of late, my productive action has been gearing myself up for the career world. I apply for jobs, write cover letters and update my LinkedIn. But there’s the trap: even as I send out job applications through the various online portals, which makes me feel like the independent businesswoman I am, I’m inadvertently exposing myself to others’ posts and updates and feeds. Even when I’m working on something distant from the realm of online comparison, like a job application, I have to go through social media. I fall headfirst into the trenches of the internet community and leave feeling far less self-assured than I came in.

The idea of networking is daunting to begin with. You may know a friend of your uncle’s that works at a corporation run by someone else, who you’ve never met, and now you cold-call them and ask for career help. Or you have a summer internship and find yourself surrounded by financially-secure adults and are expected to blend into their professionalism as if you’re not barely passing college courses and drinking a majority of the weekdays. So the geniuses behind LinkedIn took this incredibly confusing but all-important concept and added just a slight twist: now you can do this with anyone, from anywhere, but behind a screen. Additionally, when you do find success, you can rub it into everyone’s virtual faces. How wonderful!

In researching how LinkedIn affects its users’ mental health, I read this in a 2019 Slate article: “If the rest of social media is where we go to see that everyone is having more fun than us, LinkedIn is where we go to see that everyone is having more success than us.” I think that captures the idea beautifully. Is it even necessary to go on LinkedIn? Have that many people actually found success on it? Please, correct me if I’m wrong, but I think the platform has become more of a minefield for professional self-loathing than for professional connection-building. A study on cyberpsychology, behavior and social networking found that people who use LinkedIn at least once a week have a significantly higher chance of experiencing depression and anxiety. The study controlled their social media use in order to assure that this effect was solely due to LinkedIn and not a combination of multiple apps. They did mention, however, that those who actively engage in the app rather than mindlessly scroll don’t feel these effects as intensely. Social media does start with good intentions — to connect, discuss, support one another — but these can get lost when we use it to occupy our minds rather than utilize them.

So what needs to change here? Our mindset around LinkedIn? Our approach to using the app? Social media habits in general? Probably all of the above. But I think the key ingredient in this horrendous recipe of career comparison is expectations. The expectation to fund a lavish lifestyle and follow your passion, to be a free spirit but also “be on track” to make your parents proud even if that means sacrificing your sense of self. One of the problems I encounter on LinkedIn is the underlying expected timeline that I’m supposed to follow: figure out your exact career path freshman year, find a summer internship starting sophomore year, get a higher-level internship the following summer, accept job offers starting fall of senior year and get sucked into the corporate funnel just after graduation. I don’t even know what I want to major in and I’m a senior; how was I supposed to start a path to a single profession at 18? It’s a wild expectation that’s assimilating younger and younger victims. Of course, expectations are impossible to control.

We can’t change our culture’s expectations of jobs. How do you change millions of minds? You can’t, but you can start with one. You can reframe the way you look at your future. Make decisions now that feel like the correct next step, and if you’re wrong, come back to the beginning and find a new direction. It’s obviously easier said than done, but letting some of the pressure go and following your gut feeling will leave you exactly where you need to be. You’ll pave your own career path, no matter how unconventional it may look, and then one day you’ll post your CEO title on your LinkedIn and wonder why you ever worried in the first place.

I have always needed more sleep than the average person. On the weekends, I sleep in until noon, unbothered by the fact that I have quite literally slept my day away. I’m a bit of an insomniac, always waking up in the middle of the night to contemplate existential dilemmas or admire the paint strokes on my ceiling. So trust me, I know tired. I’ve lived tired. My middle name is tired.

So why am I now feeling so exhausted?

Am I just getting old? Maybe, but it’s more likely that I’m living through a global pandemic. And frankly, that will suck every ounce of energy right out of you.

There’s a difference between tired and fatigued. Tired is having a bad night’s sleep. Fatigue is having a bad night’s sleep every night for a year (I’m speaking only of mental fatigue, not physical). Clinically, tiredness is the body’s response to doing a demanding task, meaning it’s short term. The term tiredness is pretty interchangeable with fatigue, but I’m differentiating both of those with chronic fatigue, which is much more drawn out. Chronic fatigue is a state of tiredness that continues long after we’ve separated from the demanding task, so we might not be able to make the connection between the cause and effect of our sleepiness. This is what a lot of us are experiencing in the wake of quarantine.

My favorite part of my yoga class is the savasana, or corpse pose (Yes, that is the only part of the class that isn’t physically demanding — I am aware of that, and like it for just that reason). It’s a time to self-reflect and wind-down, even if only for a minute or two. In one particular class, my instructor took the savasana time to talk about fatigue. She asked us to think about what our bodies tell us when we’re hungry, angry, stressed, or tired. If our stomach growls, we know to eat. If we’re sweating, we know to cool down. But if we’re fatigued, it feels like the natural reaction is to fall deeper into a state of sleepiness, self-deprecation and shame. I thought about how tired I feel after a workout class; I immediately think that I need to work out more, that I’m not in shape enough, that I don’t take care of my body. But I did just take care of my body. So what I’m feeling is the opposite of what my body is telling me.

My instructor continued on to say that we aren’t correctly interpreting our body’s signals. Fatigue isn’t telling us to get more sleep, or to start working out more, or that we’re doing something wrong. It’s a sign that we’ve done difficult work. It’s the mental equivalent of sweat, and we’re looking at it all wrong. We’re judging ourselves for feeling the appropriate, innate reaction.

So I decided to stop belittling myself for feeling this way. I set out to find a concrete answer to this fogginess that will seemingly be looming over me for all of eternity. And what I found was actually understandable and reassuring.

We all know about the fight or flight response: when we are faced with a threat, our body makes a decision to confront that threat or retreat from it. This has happened since the cavemen battled insanely large mammals or whatever used to happen in the Flintstones era: we see the threat, our body floods us with extra hormones such as adrenaline and ramps up our heart rate so we’re ready to do what’s necessary to survive. We then use that surge of energy to defeat said threat, and there ya have it, the human race lives to see another day. But what happens if we can’t see the threat? What happens to all those hormones and physiological responses if the threat is, say, an invisible virus that has spread across the world and can mutate into variants?

Ah, so here we have our explanation. We as humans have been in our automatic fight-or-flight response since 2020, and we don’t even realize it. Our bodies are under mental and emotional stress because we are preparing to fight a threat and, because this response is so natural to us, we don’t even comprehend that we’re doing it. We get worried about COVID, our body goes into arousal mode, and then we never have the chance to conquer our threat, so our bodies are left to deal with all these excess mechanisms that should’ve been released. This kind of stress is meant to dissipate after just a short period of time, but we’ve been experiencing it subliminally for years now. And where does this surplus of hormonal responses go? It begins to weigh on us physically, hence fatigue. We’re so wired from the perceived threat response that our bodies are telling us to shut everything down.

Maybe it’s time to listen to ourselves. Not just our thoughts, but our bodies. If our legs are tired, we don’t keep running. So, if our minds are so tired, we shouldn’t push them. We need to stop, breathe, give ourselves a second. I think, as a culture, we properly accommodated to people’s needs right after quarantine. I remember hearing that I could take all of my classes pass/fail and feeling the weight of the world off my shoulders. We enacted so many last minute actions in order for people to feel like they could properly take on the demands of everyday life. So even as we transition into a new normal, why should that stop?

I say, if you’re feeling the same fatigue that I am, stop running. Let yourself sleep for thirty more minutes. Order dinner if you can’t get to the grocery store. Text your friend instead of calling them. Read a book. Or don’t (reading’s exhausting)! Drink more water, skip class, chug a coffee, stay in on a Saturday night. Sit with yourself for just two minutes, listen to what you need (without judgment) and do exactly what you hear. You’ll thank yourself for it.

It’s hard not to look at “Euphoria.” HBO’s popular teen soap opera has enchanted audiences with its hypnotizing cinematography, trippy electronic soundtrack and lavish, coachella-esque wardrobe. It’s like a car accident filled with drug use and high school drama, and you can’t help but look at it.

With the release of the second season about a month ago, “Euphoria” has consumed the attention of social media, with “Euphoria Sunday” trending on Twitter, TikToks poking fun at everyday “Euphoria High” outfits and memes of the characters flooding Instagram. Quality television obviously captures our attention, especially in a time where aesthetic trumps thought-provoking content, but “Euphoria’s” impact seems to be more than the show anticipated, or even more than it can control.

For instance, Sydney Sweeney has become one of many breakout stars from the series, notably for her provocativeness and her acting chops as Cassie Howard, the high school “it-girl” who has spent the series battling her need for male validation. In episode four of season two, Cassie is seen wearing a hot pink swimsuit from Frankies Bikinis. Within 24 hours of the episode’s release, the $180 suit was completely sold out. As of now, it has a 500-plus person waitlist. Just one piece from “Euphoria’s” costume department seems to have Gen Z women up in arms, ready to follow the blueprint that problematic fictional characters have laid out for them.

I’m all for self-expression and looking to peer role models for inspiration, but how can a show that features heavy hard drug use, statutory rape and violence as a means for justice be a positive impact on the age group its supposedly reflecting?

I also worry about the body image aspect of the show. “Euphoria” has a rating of TV-MA, meaning intended for audiences over 18. But the characters depicted in the show are 17, and I know plenty of hooked fans younger than that. When I was 15, I was learning that I had to pluck my eyebrows to avoid a unibrow, that wearing your backpack with one strap isn’t cool and that Sketchers aren’t very stylish anymore. Now, 15 year-olds are indirectly learning that drugs can help you avoid your problems, beating someone unconscious will stop them from messing with you and that a certain body type will attract male attention. At 21, I can separate myself from what I see on my TV, even laugh at it maybe. But my 15 year-old self probably couldn’t say the same.

There’s been plenty of debate as to whether “Euphoria” glorifies addiction. When the protagonist, Zendaya’s Rue Bennett, uses (whatever she’s chosen that night: painkillers, cocaine, most recently heroin), the dynamic of the show changes: The lighting morphs into brighter hues of neon, the music intensifies and amplifies, sometimes the world actually spins. Frankly, these scenes are the most intriguing. It’s a beautiful cinematic representation of isolation, of tripping, of intoxication (if this show hits its stride in any department, it’s in visual art direction). To be even more frank: “Euphoria” makes drug use look cool. It seems like the allure of these scenes disregards the repercussions of drug use, but then showrunner Sam Levinson hits audiences with season two’s fifth episode.

This past Sunday, my roommates and I gathered on the couch for “Euphoria” Sunday and instead found something far beyond it. The episode “Stand Still Like the Hummingbird” was the cinematic equivalent of mundanely waiting for water to boil and then frantically trying to prevent an overflow of bubbles onto the burner below. Rue found herself backed into a corner, caught with a suitcase full of narcotics by her family and closest friends. Zendaya (who won an Emmy award for her performance in the first season) delivered a jaw-dropping performance as audiences watched Rue single-handedly desolate every aspect of her life. It’s hard to describe without the ability to portray the weight of emotions behind the actors: this is a much-watch episode. Rue literally takes people on a wild goose chase through the city in order to avoid going back to rehab. On her way, she burns bridges, both literally and figuratively. It’s easy to forget what “Euphoria” is about in the little scenes of catfights in high school hallways, but Zendaya always manages to bring the show full-circle and reminds us of the anguish and heartbreak that addiction can inflict on addicts and their loved ones. The horror of watching our protagonist go to these lengths because of her addiction erases any trace of glorification.

Prior to this episode, D.A.R.E. condemned “Euphoria” because of its “[glorification of] teen drug use and addiction”, to which Zendaya responded:

“Our show is in no way a moral tale to teach people how to live their life or what they should be doing. If anything, the feeling behind ‘Euphoria’, or whatever we have always been trying to do with it, is to hopefully help people feel a little bit less alone in their experience and their pain. And maybe feel like they’re not the only one going through or dealing with what they’re dealing with.”

Although that message may be blurred at times, episode five makes it crystal clear.

I know I sound like a parent from the 1950s, thinking that rock’ n’ roll is rotting my child’s brain or that Elvis’ hips are sent from the devil. Trust me, that’s not my point (but it is someone’s: the Parents Television/Media Council is outwardly campaigning against “Euphoria.” You can actually donate to stopping the production of the show). But it is a valid argument. Controversial, provocative shows like “Euphoria” can’t have the profound impact that they intend to without discussion or without collecting some backlash. In order to appreciate all that goes into a culturally significant piece of media like this show, we have to weigh what it’s doing right as well as what it’s doing wrong.

I actually think that “Euphoria” has done a lot of good for representation of LGBTQ+ people, for destigmatizing conversations around mental health and improving the artistry behind television. Take Hunter Schafer, for example. The model-turned-actress is one of the breakout stars as well as protagonists and main love interests of the series. Creator Sam Levinson and Schafer worked together to write and produce a special episode on her character, Jules Vaughn. Schafer has funnelled her life experience as a transgender woman into this character, and the show has done a beautiful job of incorporating that into the writing without having it be the only aspect of Jules. Jules also struggles with family issues, online dating and catfishing. She is a multi-dimensional character that speaks to and relates to all audiences while also honoring the difficulties of transitioning and homophobia, and I applaud Schafer and “Euphoria” for pushing television into a much-needed direction.

Regardless of what you think of “Euphoria,” you must acknowledge that it has mastered the art of the cultural snapshot: the show has tastefully embodied the trials and tribulations of Gen Z, even if with a few embellishments. It has changed the visual art game, presenting television as if it was a cinematic playground. It has encouraged critical conversation, whether that be between different communities, between family members or between friends, about a variety of crucial topics. “Euphoria” has confused us, absorbed our attention, pissed us off even, but among all of these things, it has cemented itself as an absolute must watch.