February 2025

Isita Ghanta Tag(s): Perfectionism, Identity Hello, you “So, this is research for our new technology. You are giving us permission to see inside your head. Yes?” The man’s voice, low and steady, echoed in the sterile room. Emilia Chen sat in her chair, tapping her foot nervously. One- Fifty dollars for an hour of her time—it seemed simple. But the phrase “see inside your head” made her uneasy. She hesitated, her pen hovering over the consent form. She needed the money, so she signed. After all, it wasn’t like they could really see into her head, could they? They led her into a room where another girl sat, legs crossed, looking effortlessly cool. Her blonde hair cascaded in perfect beach waves, and her striking green eyes gleamed against the fluorescent lights.“Stephanie,” she said, offering a hand with a lazy smile. “Steph, if you want.” “Emilia,” she replied, taking it. The moment their hands touched; Emilia felt an immediate pang of insecurity. Steph looked like a model off-duty, with her low-rise jeans and casual beauty— something Emilia could never quite manage. “Which department are you in?” Emilia asked, desperate for something to feel superior about. She was at Yale, after all. Steph shrugged. “I don’t go here. Dropped out of high school. I work at the Applebee’s down the street. My uncle got me this gig.” Emilia blinked in surprise. “Oh.” The two sat down as the moderator entered, explaining the procedure. “We’ll ask a series of questions. You’ll answer, and the monitor will display the true thoughts inside your head.” The screen flickered ominously behind them, ready to expose their private selves. “First question: What are you doing with your life, and do you enjoy it?” Steph spoke first. “I work at Applebee’s and do side gigs. It’s cool. I have freedom, you know? I don’t have to follow anyone’s rules like all the girls here.” She nodded at Emilia, a subtle challenge in her eyes. The monitor flashed: Wrong. “I regret dropping out. I cried when my friends got their college acceptance letters.” Steph’s face turned crimson; her confidence shaken. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. All eyes turned to Emilia. “I’m working towards a bachelor’s in biomedical science at Yale. I plan to be a neurosurgeon, and yes, I enjoy it. I’ve always been fascinated by the brain.” The monitor buzzed: Partially true. “I also enjoy being the golden child. This major was chosen for me.” A lump formed in Emilia’s throat. She hated the words on the screen—hated how they made her feel exposed. She forced a smile and looked away from Steph, who was now staring at the floor.“What were your high school stats?” the moderator continued. Steph went first again. “I did workplace math. I was in special ed a lot. I didn’t take science after grade 10, and I mostly just hung out with my friends. We partied a lot, smoked sometimes.” She laughed awkwardly as if it were no big deal. True flashed on the monitor. Emilia’s turn. She rattled off her achievements like a resume. Emilia’s turn again. “I was in the IB program at Semiahmoo and maintained a strong GPA. In grade 10, I published a few articles online and played volleyball for the school team. I’ve also competed in some regional fencing tournaments, though I never reached the highest levels. I performed a few small cello recitals to raise money for dementia research, submitted a project about dementia care to a conference, and did volunteer work at Surrey Memorial, assisting with research on dementia, I have around 200 hours of volunteer experience, helping with animal care and hospital support.” The monitor lit up: True. Steph stared at her, wide-eyed, as if Emilia was some kind of alien. Emilia waited for the usual rush of satisfaction she felt after listing her accomplishments. But today, all she felt was… nothing. “Last question,” the moderator said. “Do you regret anything, Emilia?” Emilia’s heart raced. Why were they asking her this directly? She swallowed hard. “No… not really. I mean, I get tired sometimes. But it’s worth it.” The monitor paused before flickering again: False. “I am exhausted. I never stop. I don’t know who I am without my achievements.” The room fell silent. Emilia could feel the weight of Steph’s gaze but couldn’t bring herself to look up.As the session ended, they collected their money. Both girls walked out into the hall, where an awkward silence settled between them. Steph broke it first. “You know, you’re not as perfect as I thought.” There was no malice in her tone, just something akin to understanding. Emilia laughed bitterly. “Yeah, well, neither are you.” They stood there, two girls who had chosen opposite paths but were both weighed down by the same fear—the fear of mediocrity. Emilia had burned herself out trying to be the sun, the brightest in every room, the perfect daughter. She’d forgotten that it was okay to simply be… enough. And Steph, once the brightest flame in her high school days, had let her fire flicker out, caught up in chasing fleeting moments of freedom. She had forgotten that fireflies—small, imperfect, but still glowing—had their own light, too. They weren’t so different after all. Both had regrets. But standing there, for the first time, they felt seen, and understood in a way that needed no words. This was their life, shaped by their choices, and their mistakes. And despite the regrets, it was theirs and theirs alone.

Andrew Miao Tag(s): Perspectives, Self Growth “Things are different now. You’re older. You won’t be treated the same, talked to the same, or listened to in the same way. You can’t remain the same anymore…” At that moment, a realisation struck me. You’ve probably read or heard something similar before. So, what insights do I have to offer? Transition– Change. Can you remember how much you grew from grade five to six? Or what your haircut looked like in your first year of high school? Can you remember your favourite pair of shoes from seven years ago? Maybe you think these minor changes are superficial– or perhaps insignificant in the grand scheme , and yet, humans love talking about themselves more than anything. When you travel somewhere new, you share your experiences with friends. When you ace a test, you tell your parents. But if we enjoy talking about ourselves so much, how come we struggle to recall such simple changes in our own lives? On the other hand, some changes are harder to ignore–moving to a new city, switching schools, getting rejected from your dream university, going through a divorce, or losing a parent . People dwell on these for weeks, months, even years. Yet, they are also just changes–life transitions, some of them are quite common. Still, accepting them can be difficult. Moving on can feel impossible, even when these changes are inevitable. The real question here isn’t whether these events are worth dwelling over, but: How much of my life am I going to spend upset or regretting past changes? Transition is an interesting thing. It happens every day, sometimes so subtly that you don’t even notice it.Other days, it’s so vivid you can feel it with your eyes closed, hear it in your sleep, or smell it in the air. Transition is inevitable; it’s essential for civilization–and for each individual. Perhaps we should pause and appreciate the transitions in our lives, no matter the emotions they stir: sadness, happiness, anger, fear or anxiety. After all, they shape our character. So consider this: Will you see the cup half empty, or half full?

Leon Zhang Tag(s): Personal opinion, Personal Experience It had just begun raining outside on the lowly distant streets; and Skylar Grace, making a quick note to ready an umbrella, sunk deeper into her toasted warm parka jacket. Upon looking outside the window, the late evening world presented itself as a black sea of speeding Christmas lights and neon snakes. Being on a sky train seemed, right now, to be the equivalent of being on a flying car, racing through a dark, high abyss. One could barely see the edges of the railing; only the moving, colourful city beneath it. Sky trains, Skylar decided, were one of the best ways to be transported. She couldn’t remember the first time she’d been on one; it was a fairly popular way of transit from the time she was a young child. It was always an adventure; a rollercoaster almost; the train could take you around towering skyscrapers and dive underground to the pitch black subways of Downtown. Skylar, though warm, felt avalanched in her many layers of clothes, and the cool metal frame of the train benches dug through to an uncomfortable spot on her spine. As she straightened up, a pleasant female voice filled the train car, “Next stop, Waterfront Station.” A tousled dark haired boy, sitting slumped across the width of the train from her, perked up slightly at the sound. He was sleeping soundly moments ago, his hands stuffed in his pockets and long legs sprawled in front him. Now, he drew his eyes over to Skylar and pointed up in the vague location of the speaker.“Is this where we get off?” he asked. Skylar nodded, then pointed her chin at the brown messenger bag resting next to him. “Get out your umbrella, Theo. It’s starting to pour,” she said. What seemed to foreshadow a light drizzle while they were walking to the train station was turning out more violent than she had anticipated. The raindrops hit the sides of the train with a pop, as if they were ping-pong balls instead of small water specks.Vancouver, They thought.

Alice Wang Tag(s): Personal Development, Philosophy It was when I sat down that I started to feel that it was overwhelming and after many seconds I began feeling like it was over. It was over, and I could eventually sit myself down on a dust-covered couch in my new condo and breathe. Breathing in the fresh air of the unfamiliar, strange city, and out every bit and piece that I somehow decided to leave behind. Friends and family, my lying friends and my unloving family, I was told by them that moving out to another city in another country on another continent was correct, was incorrect, was somewhere between correct and incorrect, “depends on the situation”, and was a “delicate intricacy of balance” uniting the “right” and the “wrong”. It was not as easy to determine whether one of your own life choices was correct or incorrect as pointing a meddling finger into someone else’s life, picking a stance, and stating your opinions so freely as if it weren’t a crime. I had no effort and mind left to try to budge the mattress onto my unassembled bed, which I’d had to assemble first. I let myself fall onto the soft, white mattress lying messily on the ground and closed my eyes, forcibly telling myself to have a sweet dream. In my dream, I was rehearsing a play. I was the teenage main character with no actor script, but a background of disconsolate infanthood and neglected childhood. I remember sitting backstage wishing to practice my lines a few thousand times beforehand but I had none; I remember standing under the spotlight hoping the director would tell me my ending but he couldn’t. I was completely bewildered and ran around like a headless chicken aggressively pecking at everyone. After improvising the main character’s stories many times, we compared the different versions of living through some deep analysis and prolonged discussions. We finally decided what the correct series of life choices were that the main character had to make, to live a happy life that we couldn’t even define. I woke up, feeling dreadful and wasted. My head was still foggy from the dream. Life is not a play, and you can’t decide if a choice is a “right” choice or a “wrong” choice because life has no rehearsals and so you have no comparisons. I don’t agree with Milan Kundera over the fact that if life is entirely improvised then it is a draft that ought to have no meaning, but I do accord that tyrannically dictating a “right” or a “wrong” label on a life decision is as meaningless as it can get because, again, you have no way to compare. I was told that the right life is a happy one; I was also told that only pain and struggle can bring me there. Where had I left my key?

Dharaneeswar Tag(s): Family, Festivity “Watch out! You’re going to spill it!” Ma called out to Aria from the corner as I dodged a puff of the bright pink rangoli powder Aria blew in my direction. “The rangoli has to be perfect,” Aria said with a mischievous grin. “Perfect? You just spilled half the pink!” I teased her, wiping a stray streak from my cheek. I watched her for a moment, remembering the way Dadi used to make us sit cross-legged by her side when we were younger, teaching us how to pour the powder just right so that the patterns would flow together. “Rangoli is like life,” she would say, “You start with a blank space, and with each stroke you add, it becomes something beautiful. Every color and every line has meaning.” Inside the house, I could already smell the warm aroma of Dadi’s ghee-laden treats–sweet golden ladoos, syrupy barfis, and the flaky, sugary decadence of jalebis–wafting through the air. My stomach growled, and I couldn’t help but feel a wave of nostalgia wash over me, reminding me of countless Diwali celebrations filled with laughter and sweets. The family had already gathered around the small shrine we set up in the living room. The idols of gods stood in the center, adorned with marigold garlands. Dadi led us in the aarti, embodying the very essence of the festival. We circled the flame around the gods, praying for prosperity, health, and happiness for the coming year. The clinking of bells signaled the end of the puja, and Ma handed out the small offerings of sweetened rice and fruit. “You’d better hurry! The fireworks will start soon!” Aria urged, tugging at my sleeve. “I know, I know!” I replied, dashing outside with her. As we stepped out onto the balcony, Ma began lighting the diyas one by one. The little clay lamps flickered to life, each flame fierce like the hot core of a star. It was said that these lamps had once guided Lord Rama home after defeating Ravana, following his long exile. I imagined the streets of Ayodhya lined with millions of diyas to welcome the hero’s return. The story, and many more like it, had been told for centuries through whispers and songs. But tonight, the tale came to life in the light. “Rama’s return wasn’t just about defeating Ravana,” Ma said, her voice as soft as the diya’s glow, “It was about the return of light and hope. That’s what the lamps symbolize. They weren’t just flames; they were promises.” Without warning, the first of the illuminations burst into the sky. Pa and Uncle were lighting them up downstairs. “Pa, light another one!” Aria called out with excitement. He smiled and set off another rocket, this one soaring over the skyline of Mumbai in dazzling streaks of gold and silver. More rockets followed, each one brighter and louder than the last, until the night was lit with joy. It was as if the world was on fire with blissfulness. Red, yellow, green, blue, and an occasional purple danced across the black vastness, merging into one another and cascading down on us like rain. I looked around at the small crowd gathered in the yard. Neighbors stood with their families, laughing and chatting as they passed around sparklers and small firecrackers. The noise was deafening enough to make everything else feel like it had melted away, leaving only this moment. The earth vibrated with a pulse that connected us to the celebration and to each other. I turned to Aria, who was gazing at the sky with a contented smile and widened eyes. Together, we stood beneath the quiet sky, with the dense air warm from the remnants of the firecrackers. As the last of the festivities fizzled into silence, a sense of tranquility washed over me. Even in darkness, I realized, there is always potential for light–hope for tomorrow, and the promise of love that binds us. I hold that light close.

Jisara Wuttikreekiat Tag(s): Expository Fear is a universal response that plays a critical role in human survival for millennia. Whether it’s a primal reaction to predators or the anxiety caused by modern-day stressors, fear triggers a cascade of physical and psychological reactions that prepare the body to confront or escape danger. But what exactly happens when we experience fear, and how do our bodies and minds react? Psychologically, the four fear responses are fight, flight, freeze, and fawn. The experience of fear begins in the amygdala, a part of the brain, that when activated by possible danger, elicits a fear response. The moment we experience fear, our brain re-routes our energy to the amygdala, slowing down processing in other areas. This can make it difficult to speak or make rational decisions when we are afraid. When we experience the fight response, our brain is trying to ward off danger by defeating it. If the danger is real and can be overcome with physical strength, this can be an effective tool to keep us safe. If our brain does not feel that it can successfully fight off danger, it may decide to try to escape, triggering a flight response. Another fear response is to freeze or to try to remain very still and quiet until the danger passes. “Fawning” is a fear response where the brain decides to try to please whoever is triggering the fear to prevent them from causing harm. Other than our reaction to fear, some behavioural symptoms caused by fear include increased heart rate, rapid breathing, sweating, trembling, and dilated pupils. This is because when we face fear, the heart pumps faster to circulate more oxygen-rich blood to the muscles and brain. This prepares the body for quick action, whether it’s fighting the threat or fleeing from it. In the same manner, breathing accelerates to deliver more oxygen to the bloodstream. This oxygen is critical for muscles to perform at peak efficiency during potential physical exertion. However, a common misconception is that feeling anxious means that a person has a mental health condition. Many people occasionally feel anxious from time to time. But when anxiety becomes frequent, out of proportion to a situation, or persists after the situation is over, it can be a sign of an anxiety disorder. When an individual has severe anxiety, they may experience a panic attack, which causes an intense feeling of dread or panic that reaches a peak before subsiding, differentiating it from the common feelings of being anxious. In conclusion, fear has been an essential part of human survival for millennia, shaping our psychological and physiological responses to threats, whether real or perceived. Although fear is a form of human nature, it can sometimes become overwhelming, leading to conditions like anxiety disorder. As Halloween approaches and we embrace the thrill of fear for entertainment, it’s important to recognize the value of fear while also understanding its impact on our minds and bodies.

Sophia Xia Tag(s): Grief You move slowly, feet brushing the earth beneath you, where marigolds have scattered like golden echoes. The night is full of flickering altars, flames dancing on the edge of darkness, each one a beacon for those beyond the veil. You stop, staring at the photographs—frozen moments, a smile that no longer warms. It’s there, their faces, but you can’t touch them.Can’t reach them. Grief is a hand outstretchedto an empty room. The air, though rich scented with burning sage and copal, sharpens the ache. You walk through it, a ghost in the crowd, tethered not to the joy, but to the hollow where joy used to live. Voices rise in song, and still, you feel the weight, the pull of memories too deep to carry without breaking. You pause by the altar. Candles flicker like heartbeats, fragile against the wind. You wonder if they’re close tonight, if they hear your steps on the earth, feel the crack in your chest widening. The marigolds glow, too bright, and the offerings lie in abundance, but it’s never enough to fill the absence. I light a candle for you, but the flameonly reminds me of all the thingsI cannot hold. The night grows colder, but the world burns on in celebration. The streets hum with life, but you feel like you’re walking through water, every sound muffled by the rush of memory. It’s not the images of them that ache, but the spaces between—the places where they should be, but aren’t. Absence is not silence;it hums, it pulses,a song with no melody. You look up. Stars scatter like ashes across the sky. The laughter of strangers fills the space where their voices should have been. You close your eyes, and the weight shifts again, heavy and hollow all at once. You breathe, but it feels like holding on too tight. I wear your absencelike a second skin.I breathe, but you are the air I cannot catch.I live, but you are the shadow I cannot leave. The marigolds tremble in the breeze, petals falling one by one. You pick one up, hold it between your fingers—soft, alive, but wilting even as you watch. Do the dead miss the living, as you miss them? Do they feel the distance stretching like an unbridgeable river? You are everywhere tonight,but nowhere I can reach.Still, I wait for the sound of your name,a whisper against the wind.