In a time when so many people are facing disappointment and cancellations (at the least), it’s difficult to talk about something as privileged as a study abroad experience. Thousands have died from the novel coronavirus, even more face financial ruin, and I don’t think there’s a single person in an afflicted area who isn’t missing out on something right now. The loss of an opportunity to travel and study in Europe is, for many, a trivial issue right now; it’s not a necessity in the first place, and the focus should be on public health, not our emotions over trips to Italy.

While acknowledging that this is a privilege to begin with, I would like to shed a little light on what it was like for those of us who worked, planned and paid for a semester abroad—and then had it cut suddenly short in the wake of a global pandemic. There is much to be learned from the reactions of the people and the governments abroad when it comes to COVID-19, and we can not be careful or proactive enough.

Coronavirus seemed like a distant problem when I first boarded the plane to Madrid, Spain, where I had planned to be spending the next four and a half months studying at SLU’s satellite campus. I had worked hard to get where I was. It took years of financial, mental and physical planning to be able to seize the opportunity to go abroad; as the pieces finally fell into place, I felt untouchable. I had analyzed every possible outcome, played out every possible scenario and, finally, my dream semester was coming to fruition.

Except, as I would soon come to realize, there are certain situations which simply can not be predicted. COVID-19 was one of those situations. It was the very beginning of February when I heard that the first case had arrived in Spain, but, since it was on the Canary Islands, I brushed it off rather quickly. It felt so far away, like it could never invade the city that I had come to call home. I was sorry that it was happening, but I wasn’t actually worried for my own safety—not in the slightest.

As time wore on, it became clear that coronavirus was not just going to clear up and go away. One night, we received word that study abroad programs in Italy were being shut down, with all of their students being sent back home to the United States. That was our first wake up call, I think. It became evident that this wasn’t just going to affect some of us. This could very easily affect all of us. Chatter on campus began to louden, with rumors circulating like crazy about if and when we could possibly be forced to leave. SLU Madrid basically maintained that we wouldn’t. In an email sent by Student Life on March 2, the campus assured us that, “With over 400 resident students, SLU-Madrid will still be open. The city is safe; Spain is not in a state of emergency; Spain has an outstanding healthcare system for all. Indeed, we feel that the best option for the learning of all students would be to continue their studies onsite alongside with our resident students here in Spain.” Four days later, as cases continued to grow exponentially, we received an email that SLU Madrid was installing hand sanitizer wall dispensers.

I was on the London Underground for a weekend trip—something that I was looking forward to continuing in my time abroad—when I heard that Madrid was closing down all schools, public and private, primary and university, for two weeks. I called my mom to let her know what was happening, but assured her that Spain was still safe, and that I was not going to have to leave. That was the message being fed to us by our school, and that was the message that I so desperately wanted to believe. It was made clear by Student Life that if we wanted to leave, we could, and that the campus and faculty would support us in that personal decision. But I—along with most of my peers—was in such a state of denial that I couldn’t see the disasters unfolding around me logically. I didn’t want to leave. And so I told myself, over and over again, that I wouldn’t have to.

Just a few days later, I woke up to a state of panic when I learned that the United States was shutting down borders. The closing of airports and commercial flights was going to soon follow suit. Leaving was no longer a distant possibility. It was a reality. And it was one that I was incredibly fortunate to seize so quickly. Flight prices were rising by the minute, and entire airlines were selling out quickly. People were wondering if they were even going to be able to get home. It was absolute chaos, the kind that I never could have dreamed would mark the end of my experience in Spain.

I left the next morning, still in complete shock about what had happened. And, watching this all unfold in Spain and all of Europe, from a continent away, I am able to look back on my experience and realize that there were a few key places where we all could have done better.

No one wanted to cause a panic, but it is clear to me now that we could have prevented mass panic by taking mass precautions.

The first problem came with the media and government responses in Spain. I remember reading countless articles which guaranteed that the situation wouldn’t get as bad in Spain as it was in Italy, as Spain has an outstanding healthcare system and was “prepared” for what was to come. Even as things began to get more serious, any measures taken were declared as simply “precautionary.” The lack of urgency radiated through the country, and it was evident by the behavior of the people. My host mom insisted that we stay and went about her every-day business. Restaurants and bars stayed open. Permanent students and study abroad students alike were assured by everybody to trust the healthcare system. And the public response reflected more trust than was probably safe or necessary.

The public response to COVID-19 was practically non-existent in Madrid. Up until that very last week before the travel ban, life proceeded as normal. The Metro was always packed. The parks were bustling. Our walks to campus took place on sidewalks that were just as crowded as always. When one of us acts fearlessly, others are sure to follow suit, and that mass defiance can have serious consequences. We see everyone else carrying on and take it as a sign that we, too, can carry on. And that is simply not the case.

The university response is one that I understand, but one that was also somewhat frustrating to us SLU students. Other campuses, like Baylor and Clemson, continued to withdraw their students, insisting on their return home, but we never received a definitive answer. Of course, we are old enough and capable enough to make our own decisions. Of course, no one could have seen the travel ban coming. Yet, it was difficult to feel like we were always in a state of limbo, and were even being encouraged to stay while others were encouraged to go. It wasn’t until the absolute last minute that the administration “suggested” for students to return home, and by that point, airports—not to mention the entire world—were in a state of complete disarray and disaster.

Finally, our personal responses to the evolving pandemic were, to put it frankly, problematic. Many, myself included, refused to admit that there was a problem until that problem directly affected us and our own hopes and dreams. It’s easy to feel like the problem is a million miles away when it isn’t your own dying, struggling and suffering. But the reality is that we are all so, so intertwined as a global community. What affects one of us will eventually come around and affect all of us. I wish I had seen the legitimacy of this awful virus with open eyes, instead of staring through a lens of privilege and apathy simply because I didn’t think it would ever catch up to me.

In a situation that is constantly evolving and that spans such uncharted territory, no fault can be placed on anyone for responding the way that we did. We all could have done better, but perhaps we simply didn’t know any better. As we’re seeing by the increasing lockdown measures around the world, we do know better now. The first case to hit mainland Spain wasn’t even a month ago—and now, it’s right behind China and Italy. No matter what the government and university and everyone else told us, Spain was not ready. So if we can flatten this curve in the United States by something as simple as social distancing, we should be jumping at that chance. Not complaining. Not joking. Not trying to find a loophole.

It never seems possible until it’s happened. Let Europe serve as an example of the weight of this situation, and let us all take care now so that we aren’t sorry later.

Stay home and wash your hands. We’re lucky that here and now, we know what to do. It’s time to actually do it.

Chick-fil-A has been the source of a lot of conflict lately, finding its name among newspaper headlines, Twitter trends and on the tip of most food-lovers’ (and politics lovers’) tongues.

Who knew something as simple as chicken could cause so much controversy?

Unless, of course, it isn’t that simple.

Chick-fil-A has always been an openly Christian-based brand—this is most clear from its closure of all restaurants on Sundays, the Biblical day of rest. Yet, debate only really sparked when the company was found to be donating to other Christian organizations with openly anti-LGBTQIA+ platforms. Tax filings released earlier this year showed that in 2017, Chick-fil-A gave to Fellowship of Christian Athletes (which requires employees to “refrain from homosexual acts”), the Salvation Army (whose media relations director has said that gay people “deserve death”) and the Paul Anderson Youth Home (which teaches that same-sex marriage is a “rage against Jesus and his values”). 

After facing much scrutiny, Chick-fil-A made a post on their news blog, The Chicken Wire, on Nov. 18, 2019. The company stated that it would be “introducing a more focused giving approach to provide additional clarity and impact with the causes it supports”. This will be implemented by giving to organizations that work exclusively with education, homelessness and hunger. 

This decision led to even more public discontent—but this time, it was coming from the political right. Twitter users are coming for the company, writing statements like, “You caved to the extremists and are no longer a Christian company”, and, “When you bend a knee to the outrage mob they only ask for more and more. You sold your soul.” 

So here’s my unsolicited opinion: it doesn’t matter. 

It doesn’t matter where Chick-fil-A’s charitable arm is focusing their time and energy, because they have every single right to do whatever they choose. Where Chick-fil-A donates their money is entirely their choice. They’ve built a successful, booming business and have every right, as an American corporation, to spend their rewards however they please. But. It’s important that the public is always aware of this, so that we can make informed decisions about the organizations that we might be supporting indirectly. 

It is certainly the corporation’s right to do what they wish with their money, but equally, it is the consumer’s right to maintain the same authority over their own money. I personally don’t support businesses that use child labor in their manufacturing, or that test products on animals; for me, an avid supporter of the LGBTQIA+ community, this situation feels very similar. I would much rather get my food at one of the many establishments that supports my personal belief system and gives to charities that I align with. This way, I am contributing to the economy in a way that I feel is ethical, instead of shopping and swiping mindlessly. 

I do think that it’s a good thing that Chick-fil-A is seemingly moving in the right direction when it comes to progressivism and human rights. Whether or not this is a media ploy or if it’s going to be an actual, sustained brand change, only time will tell. But hey, progress is progress. 

And to the people who are upset that Chick-fil-A stopped funding openly homophobic organizations—it’s not like they stopped donating to charities altogether. They’ve just taken a more accepting, centered approach when it comes to their giving habits. They’ll still be closed on Sundays. Don’t ruffle your feathers.

Few movies this year have gotten as much buzz as Warner Bros.’ and D.C.’s “Joker.” The film, starring Joaquin Phoenix in the title role, follows the unknown backstory of the well-known comic book villain, the Joker. The movie is undeniably dark and graphic, showing multiple gory murders, dangerous and deadly protests and, most disturbingly, a sympathetic yet sinister man’s descent into the gnarled hands of mental illness.

   Many controversial articles have been written about the possible danger that the film could generate. Refinery 29’s Kathleen Newman-Bremang asks, “Did we really need a brutal movie about a white terrorist figure who uses gun violence to enact revenge on the society that rejects him? And did we need it now?” And in an article for The Globe and Mail, Sarah Hagi commented that the Joker “…only finds himself free when he begins killing those who’ve wronged him.” 

   When I walked into the theater to view the film, it was made very clear that it was going to be intense. Near the ticket kiosks were signs that warned viewers of the dark nature of the film, noting that it was not a typical comic book film and was intended for mature audiences. The woman who took our tickets was checking IDs to ensure that no one under 17 entered the movie without a guardian. 

   From the opening scenes of the movie, I was captivated, drawn into the dismal disarray of Gotham City—an eerie mirror image of New York City. Roaming the sullen streets seemed to be an endless number of antagonists to our protagonist, the deranged and rejected Arthur Fleck, who immediately demands the viewer’s commiseration. We follow Fleck through his attempts to make it through a life riddled with misfortune and watch his mental health degenerate before our eyes as society continues to stomp him down. Eventually, he snaps, finding liberation in his personification of the Joker and finding power in the chaos he causes. A man who spends most of his life in the shadows finally comes into the light—and he does so through spurring a political movement characterized by violence. 

   I can see the danger in this film. I can see why so many journalists, viewers and critics had their doubts about copycat crimes. “Joker” makes us feel for the villain and implies that harming others is a valid way of getting attention. After shooting three men on a subway, Fleck says, “For my whole life, I didn’t know if I even really existed. But I do, and people are starting to notice.” 

   Yet, I don’t think the danger outweighs the benefit.       

   Here’s why. 

   It is clear throughout the entire movie that Fleck struggles with mental illness. He sees a social worker. He takes seven different medications. It is later hinted that he suffers some sort of PTSD from abuse in his childhood, which is perhaps the cause of his maniacal, uncontrollable laughter. The viewers are constantly, sometimes painfully aware of this. 

   The film is not justifying his actions because of his mental illness—it’s acknowledging the impact of his mental illness on his actions. This is something that U.S. and Canadian courts do, declaring defendants unfit to stand trial due to mental illnesses that would prevent them from understanding the consequences of their crimes. What “Joker” does is no different. It clearly lays out mental health as a determining factor in Fleck’s descent into madness. This is not glorification; this man is clearly miserable throughout the entire film, only finding some semblance of joy when he’s reverted into a state of total dissociation and potential psychosis. 

   Today’s media has created a polarizing narrative surrounding gun violence, claiming that either guns are not the problem and mental illness is (conservative) or that mental illness is not the problem and guns are (liberal). I would argue that both are the problem, and this is something that “Joker” vocalizes very well. Yes, other countries have mental illness and not mass shooters—but rarely in this country do we see a mass shooter who doesn’t struggle with some sort of mental health complications. Fleck is given a gun early on in the film, and it is this convenient access that aids in his killing sprees. Yet, it is the combination of mental illnesses which have not received proper, attentive treatment which leads him to pull the trigger. It is not necessary to say that one or the other is the cause of the problem, when both are causing the problem, playing off of each other to enrapture American society in violence. 

   I didn’t leave the movie feeling sorry for Fleck’s “victims” on the subway. They harassed a woman and Fleck before getting killed, and while no action justifies murder, their case certainly wasn’t helped by their blatant disregard for other humans and their willingness to make others’ lives difficult or uncomfortable for their own amusement. I did, however, leave feeling sorry for Fleck/Joker. I was sorry that the mental health system failed him by cutting funding. I was sorry that he was abused, both in his past and his present. I was sorry that he was so clearly so sick. And I think that these are perfectly sane, healthy things to feel. I think, in fact, that they reveal to us the message of the film.

   Instead of saying that we’re “justifying” crimes by sympathizing with criminals, let’s take a deeper look at the societal implications of this purposefully generated sympathy. Fleck goes from poverty to being handcuffed in a mental hospital. He doesn’t become a hero. His life does not improve because of his actions; arguably, his freedom is retracted, making it worse. It isn’t wrong to think that some crimes are preventable, or that there’s a trail of injustices that leads up to them. 

  Do I think the Joker’s choice (or anyone’s choice) to take another’s life is valid? Absolutely not. But, because of this film, do I think that we should view all criminals as humans and fight for the rights of all before it is too late? Absolutely.

It cleverly disguises itself as neighborhood “improvement,” but is it really improving life for the right crowd? Gentrification is one of the biggest issues facing St. Louis and cities around the country today, yet it’s one of the least talked about. Chances are you’ve never even heard the word before.

I hope to change that.

Gentrification is politely defined by the Webster Dictionary as, “The process of renovating and improving a house or district so that it conforms to middle-class taste.” So, to put it bluntly, it’s when white hipsters move into a neighborhood, drawn by its “fixer-upper” charm and historic buildings, and decide to make it their own. The issue is that it was never their own to begin with. These neighborhoods typically belong to people of color and those in poverty, and to take them over with cute coffee shops, trendy boutiques and luxury lofts is to systematically push out a vibrant culture.

Sure, there are “benefits” on the surface. At first glance, these areas are riddled with crime and poverty. It’s easy to look at them and think that they need a good revamping. By adding a new Shake Shack or an upscale clothing shop, or even a new set of apartments branded as “lavish,” we’re increasing the value of the area. And perhaps that’s exactly where the problem lies.

Most of the people living in these areas haven’t been granted the best circumstances in life, and therefore, the majority of them are living paycheck to paycheck and struggling to meet rent each month. They can’t afford a $6 drink at a new coffee shop or a $12 deluxe burger. The businesses being put in are not being put in for existing residents; rather, they’re being put in to push them out. The local businesses that have been around since the start now have to fight for their place on the block as newer, hotter places attempt to shove their way in. Even worse, as the area gentrifies and becomes “nicer” property values skyrocket. When rents go up and people can no longer afford to pay them, they’re forced to move out. Imagine leaving the only home you’ve ever known, and leaving it unrecognizable. It’s not fair. It’s not just.

This is happening all around us, and chances are, we don’t even realize the extent of the harm that we’re causing or the ways that we’re perpetuating it. Take, for example, the Shaw neighborhood, one of the most gentrified in the St. Louis area. You probably know it as home to quirky and eccentric eateries and shops, such as Lulu’s Local Eatery, a place for fairly high priced vegetarian and vegan options, or Found by the Pound, a resale store for vintage items where the average cost of a piece is $12. South Grand is full of cute, Instagrammable brunch locations like Rooster, and home to a variety of international cuisines. But once you hit Utah Street, you also hit reality and can truly see that this gentrification is covering up the real issues surrounding Shaw. In the aftermath of a police shooting in 2014, with food deserts and the impaired walkability that accompanies them and with crime rates and a fear of victimization, Shaw is struggling. We’re masquerading these issues with chai lattes and upscale avo-toast locations and, honestly, that’s not okay.

So what can we do? We can support local businesses instead of commercial chains. We can vote for candidates that want what’s truly best for our organic populations, and do our due research to ensure our accuracy in these decisions. We can advocate on the issue and understand that there’s a line between the natural recycling of neighborhoods and the systematic oppression of certain demographics. Most of all, we can be aware and be honest.

We owe it to our city.

Arachnophobia is the fear of spiders. Mysophobia is the fear of germs. Hemophobia is the fear of blood. And homophobia is the fear of…gay people?

As an English major, I have lots of opinions when it comes to words, their roots, their meanings. I’m a total word geek, to be candid with you, and one word in particular has really been grinding my gears lately. Perhaps it’s because this word is used so often in today’s culture; it seems like I can’t go a day without hearing accusations of it.

That word is homophobia.

My no. 1 issue with the word is that we’re using it completely wrong. The term “homophobia” was first seen in the late 1960s, and was coined by psychologist George Weinberg. At this time, it was only used to describe the fear of heterosexual men that others might believe that they are gay. Over time, the word has evolved (as all words tend to do) as something different. Nowadays, we use “homophobic” to refer to people that act hateful or discriminatory towards members of the LGBTQA+ community.

I completely agree with the idea that we should have a word that refers to people that act this way. It’s a helpful political tool and makes it clear that this behavior is neither inherent nor warranted. However, the nuances of the word are not only problematic, they’re downright misleading. The suffix “-phobia” indicates a legitimate fear that a person might have. This fear is oftentimes irrational, however, it is deeply ingrained in the person’s psyche, and it is therefore valid. “Homophobia”, on the other hand, is not. There is nothing valid about hating an entire group of people for the way that they were born, the way that they feel, the way that they love. In the case of this word, the suffix “-phobia” seeks to justify unacceptance by labeling it as if it is something innate or scientific.

It is simply not.

The reasons for which a person might be “scared” of homosexuals are formed entirely by the society in which we live. Take, for example, religions such as Christianity, in which the holy book labels any sex other than that which is done heterosexually and in wedlock as “sinful.” Take, for example, the fairytales which we read to our children and the Disney movies which we show them from a very young age, which only represent a man and a woman together romantically and exclude any other possibility from the narrative. Take, for example, the complete lack of sexual education in most elementary and middle schools (the programs that do eventually come to fruition are rarely gender or orientation inclusive). It is a lack of conversation that sparks these “fears,” and even then, I use the term lightly.

A person cannot logically or rationally be afraid, much less phobic, of a group of people that has not once proven to be harmful. It is not LGBTQA+ community that is frequently shooting up nightclubs and elementary schools, or raping women and escaping conviction, or committing acts of terrorism against other groups.

We use the term “racism” to refer to discrimination towards certain groups of color. In a better universe, we would have a similar word to refer to discrimination towards homosexuals. The word “racist” evokes an aspect of a person’s personality rather than an aspect of their psychiatric health or state. It is rare that being a racist can be brushed aside as OK or fair. Perhaps this is because of the structure of the word. Nowhere does it imply that there is anything logical about it.

Of course, in a perfect universe, we wouldn’t need a word to describe these sorts of people at all, as they simply would not exist. Perhaps education and love can get us there, someday.

But for now, we must understand that homosexuality is natural. Homophobia, quite frankly, is not; it is not equivalent to arachnophobia or mysophobia or hemophobia. It is equivalent to hate and ignorance. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I’ve spent the majority of my life struggling with mental health issues, from anxiety and depression to eating disorders and PTSD. I’m pretty candid and open about what’s going on in my psyche nowadays (years of therapy sort of condition you to be this way), but it wasn’t always so easy for me to talk about my perceived “flaws.”

I spent years in a metaphorical closet, hiding with the blinds drawn and the lights turned out, doing everything in my power to prevent people from finding out that I was sick. I feared that “sick” translated to “defective” and, to be honest, this was a myth that the society around me seriously perpetuated.

I eventually reached my breaking point and was forced to confront the issues that were debilitating me to the core. This meant confiding in people—despite my fears of judgment and ridicule—and eventually going to see a psychiatrist.

I was, at first, very medication-resistant. I didn’t want to have my happiness injected into me. I wanted to create it for myself, form it with my own actions, maintain it upon the premise of independence. So I tried. I tried so hard, but it seemed like every “natural” remedy that was suggested to me was somehow contradictory to my healing or, even worse, didn’t take into account the serious limitations placed on me by my mental illnesses.

I was told to get outside more, but on the days when I could probably use that the most, my depression made it impossible to move from my bed. I was told to exercise more and get my endorphins flowing, but my anorexia was already forcing me to work out an unhealthy amount— hearing that it could somehow “cure” me justified my overexertion and ill-intentioned behaviors. I was told to “just be happy!” or to “pray more,” as if my lack of motivation for anything other than self-destruction was my fault.

After trying yoga, and fruit-infused water, and fresh air, and meditation, I finally decided that I couldn’t continue to fight this battle on my own. I allowed my doctor to put me on a psychiatric medication, and my entire life changed.

For the first time in a long time, I felt like I could breathe.

Obviously, nothing was fixed, but I finally had the energy, both physical and mental, that was necessary to fight.

I see mental illness as a war, and medication is a weapon. It allows you to face your daily battles with a renewed sense of security, to equip yourself with the proper necessities to dive deep and dole out effort. Before I started taking meds, I literally didn’t have the proper amounts of certain chemicals in my brain. No physical action that I could make myself do would magically replete those diminished sources. Taking a pill that delivers those things to me is the only way for me to get them.

I agree that there are certain aspects of mental health that you have to take initiative for, but you wouldn’t expect a soldier to march onto the battlefield with a broken leg. Don’t expect those suffering with mental illness to go through their days without the things that everyone else is blessed to be born with.

We live in a world where happiness is seen as a choice, a conscious decision that you make for yourself. In reality, this couldn’t be further from the truth. No one chooses to be mentally ill; no one chooses to feel utterly miserable or worthless or hopeless. If choosing happiness was really that easy, everyone would do it.

We can’t choose to erase the things that burden us, but we can choose to make conscious efforts to relieve them just a tad. In my recovery, medication was absolutely the best decision for me. Today, I am living with a renewed and ever-present joy that I haven’t felt in years. And that’s not because of yoga. That’s not because of sunshine. That’s because of therapy and Prozac.

The stigma around psychiatric medications as an “easy way out” needs to dissipate. There is nothing easy about having a mental illness, and why shouldn’t we make it easier on ourselves if we can? Everyone deserves a full life, and if a little pill or two can help us to pave the way, so be it.

Coming to Saint Louis University was one of the best decisions that I’ve ever made, if not the best decision. When I first stepped foot on campus, I knew that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. There was something about the atmosphere that I found to be so warm and inviting; my tour guide waved to someone that she knew every few steps down West Pine, and I longed to be a part of such a familial atmosphere. I went through the orientation process and scholarship weekends with that general feeling of ecstasy that tends to stick around when you know that you’ve found your place in the world.

SLU is, without a doubt, my place.

Yet, I would be lying if I said that I didn’t have a decently sized swarm of butterflies in my stomach coming into an entirely new place with entirely new people. Who wouldn’t? The first few weeks of college are scary and uncertain, composed of blurred lines, confusion and anxiety. I knew this. I didn’t expect to have two entire floors full of friends, study partners and people that I could genuinely trust and turn to.

I didn’t expect it, but it’s exactly what I got.

This is what my learning community, Micah, gave to me. And I am so, so, so incredibly grateful for the experiences and relationships that living in a learning community has granted me.

During my first semester at SLU, I was taking two classes with others in my LC, which was so beneficial for multiple different reasons. Knowing everyone in the class made me feel more comfortable speaking up and voicing my opinion. Our level of comradery made us more likely to vocally explore and contradict each other’s opinions and share deeper, more critical parts of ourselves; this pushed us to new heights in our academic spheres. Furthermore, I always had people to study with. More than a few times, we continued the conversations that were started in the classroom once we dot back to our dorm, which added a new dimension of thoughtfulness to my educational experience.

Our professors also taught the classes in a way that incorporated our learning community activities, so that we could see the effects of what we were learning in the real world. Every week, as a part of our Micah requirements, we go out into the community and serve as tutors, baby-holders and friends to those that need us most. My professors asked me numerous times to write in reflection of my time spent at service, and to tie in our curriculum with the events happening in our everyday lives.

My favorite part of being in a learning community, honestly, is the “community” aspect. Members of Micah have gone to the farmer’s market, the City Museum and the apple orchard together. We drive each other to the grocery store and have game nights in the lounge. We appreciate and push each other in ways that no high school friendships have demonstrated.

The love that fills our learning community can best be described through a story. I had to finish my semester and go home early for personal reasons, but on my birthday, I had to pick up a few things from my dorm room. I expected to grab what I needed and maybe say a quick “hello,” but right when I stepped out of the elevator, I was greeted with a human tunnel, and members of my LC singing “Happy Birthday” to me as I walked through them. Hugs and tears naturally ensued when I saw that they had decorated my room. I have never felt so loved, so treasured, so important as I do in my Micah community.

The opinions on learning communities are mixed. Some people are against them, claiming that they restrict your social circle and place you in a bubble. But, I disagree. Without Micah, I never would have come out of my shell both in and out of the classroom and never would have developed such a vast support system so quickly after coming to college. Highs and lows, peaks and valleys, good times and bad, Micah has been there for me, reminding me that my voice is a voice among many, a voice that matters, a voice that can make a difference.

Living in a learning community has given me a home within a home.

To anyone considering living in a learning community next year: do it. You will find your people, and through them, you will find yourself. It will be the best decision that you’ve ever made.

Nothing makes me cringe more than the phrase, “New year, new me!” It rings loud and clear across every social media platform, gym and organic superfood store each January, and—to be quite honest—it’s giving me a bit of a headache.

Opinions are rather polarized on this topic. Some people swear by resolutions, as having an actual designated “restart” like the one granted by the start of a new calendar year can be just the kick they need to get going on their goals. Others, myself included, tend to shy away from them.

Let me be clear on one thing: I’m all for self betterment. Seriously. I run my own blog where I talk about transforming into the best, most authentic version of yourself, and I write on this topic every single day. I just don’t think that New Year’s resolutions set us up for genuine success in our desired endeavors.

We’re very lucky to live in a world of seasons, of constant change, of cyclical essence. Each and every second is a renewed opportunity to alter our paths and reevaluate our directions. By confining our personal growth to one day a year instead of utilizing the hundreds of other options that we are given, we are stunting our ability to fully take advantage of our lives. We become passengers instead of drivers, readers instead of writers, stagnant beings simply waiting for the turn of the clock to allow us to start anew. The reality of our mortality is that it is not immobile, and that is such a massive blessing that resolutions tend to undermine and overlook.

It shouldn’t take a new year to formulate a new person, a new identity, a new potential. Every day, we should be perfecting the constant art of becoming. Our evolution is essential to our eventual emancipation from the confines of self and society. We should never stop growing, and therefore, there should never be a need to start again. In the ideal world, we would be continuously submerged in the process of metamorphosis.

Furthermore, New Year’s resolutions tend to minimize the amount of work that it can take to reach a goal. The truth of the matter is, if you couldn’t gather the gumption to make a change back in April, you’re not going to be able to do it in January (and quite frankly, it’s unreasonable to expect yourself to do so). The only thing that actually changes between Dec. 31 and Jan. 1 is the date.

As aforementioned, change is a constant process, and one that requires daily effort and unconditional dedication. To achieve a resolution, you have to be content with failing, and can’t let setbacks pull you down. For example, if my resolution is to go to the gym six days a week, and I miss a day or two during the first week of the year, I can’t let my excitement and motivation flat line.

Yet, this is the pattern that I see in many resolution-makers. Things go swimmingly for a week or two before the drive wears out, and goals are forfeited far too soon because they were simply too lofty. We can’t expect ourselves to make the sort of character change required for a revolutionary life change in the course of one night. Resolutions aren’t gentle enough with us and don’t allow us the space that we need to make mistakes. Instead, they give us the false idea that we can change our lives in a day.

We can’t. But we can change our lives every day.

Another hard-to-face resolutions reality is that if we really, really wanted something, we wouldn’t wait for the next year to go after it. A lot of people make resolutions based on what they think that they should do, not what they actually want to do. If you’re passionate about a cause, you won’t let time constraints stop you (and the only things in life worth doing are the things that make your heart skip a beat).

Perhaps it is time to move away from New Year’s resolutions and, instead, to make new day’s resolutions. Rome wasn’t built overnight, and friend, neither are you.