Test
How I
explained my
gender dysphoria
to my parents
Mahala
Averill-Moffitt
Teens Speak
Zach Gottlieb
We can’t fix
what we don’t talk about
Tarek Anthony
I grew up
afraid of being shot at school
Zach Gottlieb
with Wolf Baker
A guide to
Gen Z slang — for when you want to be mother, not mid
We asked.
They delivered.
Peggy Chen
To my loving parents: Your expectations are crushing me
Addison Schmidt
"What do
you want to be?" What a terrible question.
Ifeoma Okwuka
Whatever happened to bedtime?
Zoya Ahmad
"Flying
High"
Angelina Agostini
Being an
introvert is my superpower
Neelan Krishna
The vanishing
smell and touch
of words
Anne Marie
Vaudo
Middle school heartbreak,
Bob Ross, and me
Charlotte Pinto
Learning to appreciate my
Indian heritage,
one bite at a time
Skip
to . . .
We can’t fix what we don’t talk about "What do you want to be?" What a terrible question.
A guide to Gen Z slang — for when you want to be mother, not mid
Middle school heartbreak, Bob Ross, and me I grew up afraid of being shot at school
What I was thinking How I explained my gender dysphoria to my parents
Poem: "Flying High" Whatever happened to bedtime? Being an introvert is my superpower
Graphic memoir: Learning to appreciate my Indian heritage, one bite at a time
A unicorn among horses To my loving parents: Your expectations are crushing me
The vanishing smell and touch of words
Top
BY KELLY HORAN
EDITOR
WHAT IS IT LIKE to be a teenager today?
We in Globe Ideas wanted to know. So we invited anyone between the ages of 13 and 19 to send us a dispatch from their lives: “Tell us what is on your mind.”
The prompt was simple. The responses were anything but.
In poured heartfelt, thought-provoking, illuminating, funny, sweet, and edifying submissions from across the country and even abroad. Confessionals and manifestos, investigations and ruminations, poems, graphic memoirs, and art.
A diverse bunch, our young correspondents revealed themselves to be pondering strikingly similar concerns: childhood in the age of social media; the tension between wanting to follow their hearts’ desires and to fulfill their parents’ hopes; friendship and identity and belonging. These teens are thinking deeply not only about their lives and their place in the world but about their roots and families, the planet, and democracy. They’re seeking their own definitions of happiness, success, and what it means to be a good person. They are eloquent, full of empathy, and fathoms deep.
“It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are,” the poet e.e. cummings said. These kids are proof.
We feel privileged to have had this glimpse into the lives of today’s teenagers. We hope you do, too.
—Kelly Horan, deputy editor, Globe Ideas
WE'RE SITTING AT A round table on the Stanford campus — 10 high school students I don’t know and me. I’m leading a weekend workshop on vulnerability. Jared shares that he often feels he can’t open up, even with close friends. He shifts in his seat, his eyes making intermittent contact with mine. I smile and nod.
“Yeah, I feel the same way,” says Annie. I survey the other teenagers around me, who shift uncomfortably on their folding chairs. Some look at their hands, others look away. We are students from schools in different states, but we’re here today to see what we have in common. Most of us aren’t used to talking about our lives in this way.
“Here’s something that’s worked for me,” I say. “I start with something small and turn to someone I feel close with.” They seem willing to try my strategy.
While sharing something that feels personal with one friend may seem like a small action, I know that if people my age model vulnerability, their friends will catch on, and, I hope, more teenagers will find value in having more authentic conversations.
I couldn’t have imagined this scene the year before, right before my sophomore year of high school. We were emerging from the pandemic, hoping to get back on campus in the fall. That summer, the media was encouraging teenagers to talk openly about what they were going through, which seemed like a normal and necessary idea. But whenever I heard this, I laughed. Even if teenagers want to open up, they don’t know how, I thought. Especially guys.
This June, the surgeon general declared what parents and teenagers already know: America is in the midst of a teen mental health crisis. Our lives are more stressful than ever. The pressure to get into a “good” college is at an all-time high. Social media dominates our lives and negatively affects our self-esteem. And relationships, especially in our digital age, feel complicated.
Well-meaning adults in our lives often sweep in, urging us to pay attention to our struggles. But even though we are aware of our challenges, we’re unlikely to talk about them, because to do so, we would have to be vulnerable, and my generation mistakenly equates vulnerability with weakness.
During the pandemic, I thought a lot about this paradox: We are being urged to talk about our struggles, but since so few of us are willing to acknowledge that we’re less than happy (just check social media), we mistakenly feel that we alone are struggling. Being honest about our challenges makes us feel we’re failing, like we can’t hack it.
But the more I thought about this, the more I wondered: Doesn’t it take courage to reveal our real selves rather than pretend we’re walking versions of our curated social media posts? And if so, isn’t being vulnerable a strength rather than something to be ashamed of?
There was one way to find out.
In an effort to create a positive space for our generation to have real conversations about our experiences, I started an Instagram account called Talk With Zach. I posted about my life, had conversations with other teens about their lives, and invited them to submit their stories or ask anonymous questions. I also added tools to help us learn about self-care (meditation really works), healthy relationships (communicate, don’t assume), and daily strategies to boost our emotional health (having balance in your life isn’t lazy, it’s necessary).
I thought maybe a few people would find my account, but I heard from teenagers all over the world who welcomed the opportunity to have these conversations with one another.
“I thought I was the only one,” wrote a Gen-Zer, who went on to share how relieved he was to see he wasn’t alone and that his feelings of confusion after a breakup were normal. Since then, I’ve noticed that no matter where people are from — whether it’s Los Angeles or London, Des Moines or Dallas — they echo the same themes. We all experience loneliness, peer pressure, academic stress, feelings of inadequacy, questions about who we are, and confusion about relationships with parents, friends, and romantic partners.
While there are a lot of communities centered around serious mental illness, our focus is on something most teenagers desperately seek: a place to connect on emotional wellness and how to be emotionally resilient. In the Talk With Zach blogs section, Brooke S. writes about that murky and often anxiety-provoking relationship status we call a “situationship”: “If the lack of clarity doesn’t work for you, make sure you find a relationship that does.” Aaliyah D. shares, “When I got deferred from my dream school, it felt like all my hard work and effort had gone to waste . . . but there are many amazing schools out there.”
It’s true that adults should check in with their teenagers and be a source of emotional support. But teenagers engaging with other teenagers is uniquely effective. The ability to be vulnerable connects us to one another in a meaningful way. It invites sharing and empathy. It’s not just a way to say "I know how you feel" but, even more important, “We’re in this together.”
When I started Talk With Zach, I introduced my mission with this motto: “We can’t change what we don’t talk about.” Two years later, I have seen again and again how true that is.
Zach Gottlieb
We can't fix what we don't talk about
This is what you get wrong about people my age: You think that we chose a life immersed in our screens. You don’t know that so many of us want to live in a world with bike rides and books and campfires. You think we don’t understand what it’s like to live authentically.
Maybe we choose to go on our phones because it is easy, a quick dopamine hit. But did you ever think about what we actually wanted? Connection.
— Brynne O’Hare, 16, lives in Burr Ridge, Ill.
@globeopinion Instagram
Zach Gottlieb, 17, is the founder of Talk With Zach and speaks frequently across the country about Gen Z wellness. Learn more at talkwithzach.org and @talkwithzach on Instagram.
Zach Gottlieb, 17, lives in Los Angeles.
Wolf Baker, 18, lives in Palo Alto, Calif.
Zach Gottlieb
A guide to Gen Z slang — for when you want to be mother, not mid
bussin
adjective, AAVE origin
An expression of pleasure, particularly about food
WITH Wolf Baker
Example: “You can really cook, this food is bussin.”
I knew I was trans in seventh grade. My body has always felt off to me, and I noticed that the more masculine features made me happy. I chose the name Victor because I wanted to be the victor of my identity. I wanted control, and I feel like Victor represents that, and it makes me really happy just to think I go by the name that I chose.
— Victor Gamez-Mendez, 16, lives in Springfield.
Mahala Averill-Moffitt, 15, lives in Concord. They are an avid reader, writer, and human rights activist. They can’t pass up an indie bookstore or a political debate. Follow them on Instagram @mahala_the_bean.
Mahala Averill-Moffitt
I HAD BEEN OUT as nonbinary for about a year at the time. My parents and I hadn’t talked much about gender dysphoria. Assigned female at birth, I once asked my mom for a chest binder, and she said yes. Another time I told both of my parents that my period made my dysphoria worse. That was the extent of our conversations about my extreme discomfort in my body.
One day I was having an awful period and had pretty much confined myself to an armchair. I was watching TV, and my dad walked into the room and stared at me.
After a minute he said: “Not right now, but when you’re feeling better I’d love to talk more about dysphoria. I just wish I could understand.”
I nodded and went back to my show, but the question began brewing in my mind: How do I explain dysphoria to a cis person? I had never thought about it before, and I had absolutely no idea.
A few days later, 13-year-old me came up with what we’ll call a creative solution. I was at the dollar store with my mom and we were walking down every aisle because I love to browse. At the end of the last aisle, right near the checkout area, there was a big bin of cheap red plungers.
All of the sudden it hit me: This is how I can get my cis parents closer to understanding gender dysphoria. So I turned to my mom and said, “I need two of those plungers.” I asked for two in case one was defective because, again, it was the dollar store. She was very confused and I didn’t really want to tell her why I needed them right then, so I offered to pay, and she let me buy them.
As soon as I got home, I rushed up to my room and tested one of the plungers on my leg. It stuck. So I called downstairs to my dad, and he met me in my room. I was holding the plunger behind the door as I said, “Remember how you said you wanted to understand dysphoria better?”
He said yes.
I told him to lift his shirt up a little bit.
He was very hesitant, but he did what I asked, and I took the plunger and stuck it to his chest.
“I guess I brought this on myself,” he said, sort of chuckling. He went to take it off.
“You can’t take it off,” I told him. “You have to pay, a lot. And before you can do that, you have to talk to a doctor and a therapist and other people, and they might let you, or maybe they won’t. And even if they let you, your parents have to agree, too. And the government has to let you, which they don’t like to do lately.”
And he sort of nodded and went to take it off again, and I said, “No, Dad. You can’t take it off.” I didn’t know exactly where I was going with this, but feeling the need to make a point, I added, “Let’s pretend we’re in a red state, and taking it off is illegal. You have to leave it on for 1,825 days,” I said, expressing five years in exactly the way I was counting the days to my 18th birthday.
I told him, “You have to wear that in the car, when you’re brushing your teeth, going to sleep, everything. It’s part of your body now. You can’t take it off.”
We talked about it for a while. Eventually he got the point and took it off (because of course I wasn’t going to make him wear it all day).
After that I brought my mom upstairs and had her do the same thing. (I have two really awesome parents.) She got my point even more quickly than my dad had. Still, neither of them really “got it” fully — they were just better able to empathize with me.
I think this weird exercise deepened their compassion for my dysphoria, and although cis people will never fully be able to understand what trans people go through, the plunger metaphor definitely helps. Consider this thought experiment. Maybe you’ll learn something.
How I explained my gender dysphoria to my parents
Tarek Anthony
IF YOU ASK AN ADULT to recall the day when their childhood ended, they might not be able to answer. Growing up in the 2010s, however, I can answer that question with devastating ease: Dec. 14, 2012.
That is the day when 26 people were murdered inside an elementary school in Newtown, Conn. At just 7 years old, I could see the despair and fear in my parents’ eyes when I returned home from school that day. Despite their efforts to shield me from the news and to preserve my innocence, they failed. My view of a perfect world was gone. Twenty innocent children had been murdered at school, and I was left to wonder if my school could be next.
I grew up afraid of being shot at school
Children waited outside Sandy Hook Elementary School after a shooting in Newtown, Conn., on Dec. 14, 2012. (Michelle McLoughlin/Reuters)
A few days after that shooting, as part of student protests against gun violence that had spread across the country, I marched out of school with my classmates. But I didn’t return that day. Instead, I walked into the downtown of Evanston, Ill., and into State Representative Robyn Gabel’s office. I asked her what I could do to stop the violence.
Gabel encouraged me to write letters to other state representatives who had recently voted against Illinois State Senate Bill 1657, which would have prohibited the sale, lease, or transfer of firearms without a license issued by the state’s Department of Financial and Professional Regulation.
I returned home and wrote a letter to all 52 representatives who had voted against the bill’s passage. I implored them to take action, asking them why a 12-year-old boy like me should dread going to school for fear of being shot there. Of the 52, only six responded, each with a variation on the typical Second Amendment defense.
Over the years, I have learned to live without perpetual fear of something I can’t control, but I have also refused to become complacent about the constant threat of being gunned down in my own school. In December of my junior year, just weeks after three high school students were shot to death at their school in Oxford, Mich., multiple armed students were discovered to be roaming my school. I crouched in an anatomy closet alongside dead rats and 20 of my classmates for four hours. As the minutes ticked on, I remember thinking to myself, Is this the day an AR-15 hits Evanston Township High School?
Trembling and frantic for information, I texted my mom and scrolled through Twitter. I almost made peace with the fact that I had gone 16 years without a school shooting and that my luck was about to run out. We were fortunate that the kids were apprehended and no shots were fired, but while I sat in the closet shaking, I couldn’t stop thinking about the kids from Oxford who hadn’t been so lucky.
When I was in middle school, I tried to protect myself with a false sense of security, telling myself that if I could just make it through high school without being shot, I would be safe, and my anxiety would go away. How naive.
Just earlier this year, I sat in bed at 11 p.m. listening to a police scanner app in the aftermath of a shooting that killed three students and injured five others at Michigan State University. That slaying reminded me that no matter where I go or what I do after high school, there is no place in this country that is immune from gun violence.
As I approached my high school graduation this year, I thought often of all the kids who had the opportunity of graduating from high school stolen from them because of gun violence. They missed prom and senior prank. They couldn’t write a senior column or walk the stage.
It is up to my generation to give our children and grandchildren a childhood where they can sit in class free of fear. Maybe they worry about their homework or their sports tryouts, but not about being shot. School is a place for growth, not fear; learning, not terror; friendship, not violence; development, not death.
Medical personnel tended to a victim following a shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Fla., on Feb. 14, 2018. (John McCall/South Florida Sun-Sentinel via AP)
I dreaded every active shooter lockdown drill because it made the specter of a school shooting seem all too real. After a lockdown drill in fourth grade, I sat on the carpet during reading time daydreaming not about recess or a play date, but about where I would hide if a gunman entered my school. I wished to be in the classroom across the hallway because I thought it had better hiding places.
In the run-up to my high school graduation last spring, I realized that I remembered exactly where I was when I heard about every school shooting that followed the one in Newtown. Each one became a mini movie in my mind that left me grappling with American’s incomprehensible infatuation with guns, and each took another piece of my childhood.
I still find myself pondering the what-ifs of a childhood that was stolen shooting by shooting by an American society and political leaders incapable of protecting children from guns. I wonder if and how I might be different. Would I still struggle with crippling anxiety? Would I have enjoyed middle school and high school? Would I be less cynical?
Feb. 14, 2018, is another day seared into my memory. I had finished my seventh grade history work and had free time to use a school-issued iPad. I opened one just in time to see the news that hundreds of kids were fleeing for their lives from Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Fla., where 17 students and staff were shot dead.
Tarek Anthony, 18, is from Evanston, Ill. He is a freshman at the University of Oregon where he is double majoring in journalism and political science.
Halfway through my teen years, I still have no idea what it means to be a teenager.
I spend my days sorting through piles of schoolwork, worrying about SATs and college and whether or not I’m doing enough to get into a good school. Adults tell us to go out and enjoy life while we’re young, yet they add to our to-do lists. They encourage us to try new things and to stop stressing so much, but they don’t recognize the pressure that causes our shoulders to freeze up in a state of everlasting tension.
There are days when we feel burnt out, always a moment away from falling asleep in class, driven by the sheer force of the need to succeed.
Yet there are some moments of pure joy, core memories that do feel like a part of a romanticized version of teen life. Running into the freezing sea at night with friends or roaming around Boston with your closest friends as snow begins to fall. Those are the fulfilling, dreamlike moments of teenage life.
So I guess that’s what it means to be a teenager: to enjoy the sparkling moments fully and completely, to lose ourselves in the moment that will become memory. And I suppose it also means finding ourselves and learning to cope with pressures and challenges, which will be present for the rest of our lives.
— Mia Kakkar, 16, lives in Weston.
Zoya Ahmad, 16, lives in Winchester and is a student at Winchester High School.
Zoya Ahmad
I hate school —
Not my classes or the teachers
But the pressure.
I hate studying the night before a test.
The stress consumes me, causes me to heave.
I like to believe that the year will get less stressful as it moves on,
But oh, how naive I was, I couldn’t have been so wrong.
My hair falls out at the thought of a test.
My stress-induced acne won’t give it a rest.
My short, stubby fingers, always chewed and pruned,
My chipped white nails, at which I pick like a wound.
I want to go to college,
Expand my knowledge on the things that I love,
Free like a dove, flying high, soaring through the sky.
I want a dorm, on campus with people just like me.
All this hard work and effort
Is worth the fight, right?
My callused fingers are tired.
Where’s my will to be inspired?
All these weeks, days, hours —
Like picking petals off a flower, these years have eroded me.
But nothing will ever be enough.
I need to work harder,
Be smarter, do more and more.
As much as I can, I have a plan
To succeed, go big, play the game.
I need to aim, strike, score
In order to soar the skies, become the person I’ve always wanted to be.
But I’m losing motivation.
There’s no doubt that I’m burnt out.
I cry and I pout, I chose the wrong route.
Route (rowt)? Route (root)? I can’t even think.
The void in my heart expands, my stomach sinks.
I’m at the brink, at my limit, I tell my brain to quit it.
Let me push myself to boundaries that are far from tangible.
Like I’m an animal, I’ll pounce on opportunity like it’s running away from me.
I need to do this, I need to do it all
Is what I tell myself every upcoming fall.
As the leaves change from green to orange to red,
The wind howling around me on my walk as I dread
Walking back into the place that’s caused me so much pain —
But without it my future will be right down the drain.
There’s always a test, like Eve and her apple.
To the chapel I go to pray my fate into existence.
The distance between me and my perfect future
Grows by miles with each day that goes by
Where I take a break.
"Flying High"
@globeopinion Instagram
Sanna Gibbons
A unicorn
among horses
Ideas
Mahala Averill-Moffit
Zach Gottlieb
“Ce chaoi bhfuil tú?” my Gaelic tutor says. “How are you?”
My grandfather is from County Waterford, Ireland. My grandmother is from the Isle of Lewis, one of the Scottish Hebrides islands. Visits with our relatives are suffused with Gaelic — in animated conversations, during raucous card games — and I’d like to understand and participate instead of sitting on the sidelines. Out of FOMO, I have started taking Gaelic lessons. I am deeply concerned that this beautiful, unique language is in danger of disappearing, especially if our generation does not pay attention.
Language represents cultural soul and spirit. It is a vehicle that links generations to the lands of their origins, no matter how far families scatter. If we do not prioritize keeping languages alive, we will lose these vital components of our identities.
— Cameron Dunn, 17, lives in Melrose.
Peggy Chen, 16, lives in Raleigh, N.C. When she’s not writing, she tries to keep on top of her schoolwork, go mountain biking, and do crossword puzzles.
Peggy Chen
WHEN I WAS 5 and in the back seat of our car, I could hear my parents fantasizing aloud about my one day becoming a neurosurgeon. They meant the world to me then (and they still do), so I promised myself to be the perfect daughter. I would be the star athlete, the straight-A student they envisioned. I wanted so badly to make them proud.
By the time I was 9, I was enrolled in math classes two grade levels ahead of mine. My grades started to plummet. I was a nervous wreck. I got more than sweaty palms and butterflies before major tests; I had full-blown meltdowns. On the day of my Algebra II final, I threw up in the bathroom before the test. I didn’t bother to tell the teacher why I was 15 minutes late for class.
At 13, I was juggling the responsibility of being in five extracurricular clubs, competing in academic decathlon, and practicing piano for 45 minutes a day. I chewed my nail beds until they bled and cried myself to sleep. I lost out on making so many memories that year. I missed birthday parties and shopping trips and sleeping in on snow days in order to conquer the ever-growing pile of schoolwork on my desk.
Now, at 16, I am only beginning to understand the pressure that was — and remains — on my shoulders. Some teenagers are expected to maintain perfect grades, win national competitions, and figure out what we want to be for the rest of our lives in the span of several years. At the same time, we are grappling with feelings we’ve never had before — of existential angst? teenage heartache? Some of us are struggling to love our bodies. Others have to babysit siblings, cook dinner, and juggle multiple part-time jobs to supplement their families’ incomes; they are forced to grow up faster than their peers and manage more responsibilities than some 30-year-olds have.
According to a report from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, nearly 44 percent of teens felt “persistent feelings of sadness and hopelessness.” I think I know why. You’d think that reading about a genius 16-year-old who has a patent for an invention that can save the world is inspiring, but really, it just sends me into a spiral of self-deprecation. Why am I not good enough? Why can’t I do what they have done? Why am I struggling?
Self-deprecation is insidious. My friend group and I mercilessly tear ourselves apart for every grade that isn’t 100, for every sports competition whose trophy we fail to bring home.
The pressure and stress that have long been on middle-aged workers to stay late in the office have been transferred to my generation. Now, studying until the early hours of the morning for an upcoming exam is commonplace.
Don’t get me wrong: We’re still kids. We make jokes during math class and film TikToks in school hallways. We have love-hate relationships with our parents and siblings. But we feel less like kids than we should.
This isn’t a PSA about how we need to let teens fly loose and disregard our education, but it is a message to the adults reading this: No, we don’t have everything figured out — and that’s OK. Maybe we will change majors five times in college. Maybe we will fail to get that dream job. And maybe I won’t fulfill my parents’ dream that I become a doctor because I will instead choose to follow what I love: journalism. But we’re navigating the terrifying, unfamiliar path to adulthood, and we need all the support we can get.
Whatever happens, it isn’t for you, our parents, to decide. We’ll figure it out.
Just give us a chance and you’ll see.
To my loving parents: Your expectations are crushing me
@globeopinion Instagram
Just because you don’t get into the No. 1 college in the country doesn’t mean you’ll end up working a job you’re miserable in. Just because you don’t get an A doesn’t mean you are going to be a failure. While I know this deep down, it is still hard to accept and understand. I am working on putting myself first, making space for my social life, conserving energy, and thinking about my happiness, because each is as important as wealth and success.
— Riley Croteau, 16, lives in Barnstable.
Addison Schmidt, 19, is from Clinton, N.J., and is a sophomore at Boston University, where she runs cross country and track and is an opinion columnist for the university’s Daily Free Press.
Addison Schmidt
WHEN YOU’RE A KID, the most common question you get asked is “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
What once was meant to inspire the imagination has
become a question that feels intended to narrow the
scope of our future. People who are really aspiring to be astronauts respond “a business major” and mention
going to Wharton for their MBA. Passionate painters
profess a love for biology and begin to panic over
getting into medical school. It’s as if we are
all overriding what we really want to do
and be.
"What do you want to be?"
What a terrible question.
Emre Taner
What I
was thinking
With constant access to social media, teenagers are told how immense the world’s problems are. We assume that the solutions must be of equal proportion. I felt that way, and it made me feel pessimistic about my ability to effect change. Then I began volunteering with Mass Peace Action to address the twin threats of nuclear weapons and climate change. At first, I thought, This is impossible. How could I, a teenager, ever be able to help?
At my first meeting, I was one of the youngest and felt out of my depth and lost – but interested. I debated whether contributing my energy would lead to any real change. Timmon Wallis, a cofounder of NuclearBan.US, encouraged me to pursue my idea of hosting a dialogue with 20 other teenagers to discuss nuclear disarmament. Doing so taught me how crucial it is that my generation recognizes that we must have faith and patience in doing the little things. I had started with the goal of making change on a global scale, but I realized the importance of taking direct action at a local level.
— Leo Ansari, 18, lives in Brookline.
Ifeoma Okwuka, 18, lives in the Bronx. She’s a graduate of Bard High School in Queens and a former Girls Write Now mentee. Her hobbies include reading and writing short stories, exploring STEM content, and playing amateur sports. She is a student at The City College of New York and hopes to travel the world someday.
Ifeoma Okwuka
Whatever happened to bedtime?
Emre Taner, 17, lives in Manhattan Beach, Calif.
Emre Taner
I SIT IN THE cafe car of the southbound Amtrak train on a sunny Thursday morning. We have just left South Station, but it doesn’t feel like we are moving. Rather, it feels like the train glides through the outskirts of Boston. I am fighting inside me an anxiety regarding the whole college admissions process. Why does it have to be so structured and complex? Things will move forward smoothly, just like this train does, I keep saying to myself. Don’t make a huge deal out of it, Emre. Just do what you have been doing all along, and everything will be fine. I think, at that moment, that I am starting to sound like my parents.
What I was thinking
GRAPHIC
MEMOIR
POEM
For this reason, I was surprised — invigorated, even — by an exchange with a friend who was considering changing majors. “What do you want to be?” I asked her, expecting a response Iike “lawyer” or “banker.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “All I’ve ever really wanted to be is important.
And that made me wonder: What does it even mean to be important today?
I grew up with the belief that your value is equal to the accomplishments you can put on a resume. Good grades, awards, college degrees, titles — tangible achievements, steps that help you reach the next rung on what ends up being a never-ending ladder.
It’s a superficial perspective, and I’ve allowed it to curtail my dreams before I even attempt to breathe life into them.
But my generation is not comfortable with traditional definitions of success. Titles matter less to us than the substance of our work does.
And in a time when anyone is capable of being known by virtue of fleeting internet celebrity, what it means to be “important” is really up for grabs. Whatever it means, it cannot be captured on a single sheet of paper that lists our accomplishments in 11-point type.
This is both terrifying and liberating. The familiar path toward success that I once clung to is disappearing. And it might just be the best thing that’s ever happened to my generation.
Social media can be a dark place, but one great thing is that it has changed what it means to matter. People engage with one another on the internet based on who they are, not based on what they do or what they make or what degree they have.
And this fact has revealed a truth to me: Anyone who exists for themself is someone who should be considered important. I wish I had grasped this when my friend said what she did about what she wanted to be. I wish I could have responded to her vulnerability in a more meaningful way.
Our accomplishments might seem like they fill up who we are, but rarely does anything we do matter more than how we do it.
I have no clue what I want for my future. I don’t know if I’m brave enough to figure out what a meaningful life means for me without the traditional measures of success guiding me through the haze of college and everything that follows.
But I still get asked the question, whether I like it or not. “What do you want to be?”
And now I have an answer: I want to be the kind of person who matters on their own terms.
I remember the dread I would feel as I sat on my twin-size bed when I didn’t receive any texts. I was 10. When my neighbor knocked on my door and asked me to play with her, I thought she was a loser. What 10-year-old still plays outside? I was much cooler because I sat inside all day anxiously awaiting a phone call or a like. I look back and can’t help but be jealous of that neighbor. She had a real childhood.
— Aryanna Paige, 16, lives in Quincy.
Anne Marie Vaudo, 19, is from Arlington. She is a sociology major at UMass Lowell.
Anne Marie Vaudo
I DISCOVERED Bob Ross after I realized my two middle school best
friends were hanging out without me. I knew this because they posted a selfie together on Snapchat. I was so hurt I turned to my next best friend, Netflix. I saw the calming old man and somehow his presence just seemed right for the moment I was in. I watched one episode — he was painting a blue-toned mountain landscape — and then I asked my mother to drive me to the store so I could get some watercolors.
I watched the episode again, this time wielding tools of my own, until I had something that resembled a mountain scene. I knew it was far from Ross’s creation, but I was taken with the way I learned to shade a side of the mountain to make it look real and how trees got darker in the foreground.
It would be a few more months until I was given my first acrylic set, and that was when I realized that what I loved most was painting people. I think unconsciously I drew girls I wanted to look like but was too shy to emulate. I wanted to capture something about the freedom of their femininity.
It was a relief to create art, a release. It was something so far away from everything else I knew — my friends, my school, my family. It was something just for me, a purpose for my beloved solitude. There was nothing I loved more than staying up on the weekends, listening to music, being under the influence of nothing but my imagination.
By the time I was applying for college, I had enough paintings to include them with a few applications. I scanned the canvases that could fit in my printer and uploaded them in a half-proud moment. Here it was, the material proof that I was a creative and well-rounded individual. Here is the product, bottled and packaged, of the jelly that floated in my head. Something I held so close was going out into the world.
Over time, my art has gotten better, more true to life. People have complimented my work. I have sold commissions. All of this has validated me, made me feel — if just for a moment — like a real artist, even if I am not entirely comfortable calling myself one.
Middle school heartbreak,
Bob Ross, and me
In order to keep improving, I made a conscious effort to make painting less of a hobby and more something I did often, even though painting had always been an escape from the day to day. I found myself adding it to my routine like some circadian morning run.
And that is when a shift happened that I didn’t like. I was trying too hard to make something good. What had happened to creating for the sake of creating? My mind was polluted by the thought that I had to prove something. So polluted, I sometimes didn’t want to pick up a pencil or paintbrush or write some bad poetry in my notes app about a fight with my mother.
I had gone from creating for pleasure to creating to prove my worth. Even in a place that offered me so much freedom, the principles of productivity had found me. I threw myself into an art minor for a semester and hated the rigidity.
I stopped making art for a while. I felt so far away from the pubescent girl who’d found comfort and joy in painting. Maybe, I wondered, she’d grown up and didn’t need art anymore.
But that can’t be true. Because I picked up a pen and a paintbrush again, not for an assignment but just because I wanted to. I let myself make bad art. I made friends with musicians who invited me to play along with them even though I don’t know a single note. I still write poems in my notes app. I make weird things out of clay for my friends. My camera roll is flooded with art that I find. I scribble with crayons alongside my nephew. It is not that art makes me money or makes me feel productive but that art leads me closer to the people I love — and I wouldn’t trade that for the world.
ABOVE: "Sonny and Auntie’s Creation," crayon on paper, 2023.
RIGHT: Untitled, acrylic on wood, 2018.
Anne Marie Vaudo
Ifeoma Okwuka
THE DROWSINESS WAS unbearable. It was 7 in the morning and the sun was dreadfully bright. As I watched the 2 train to Flatbush, Brooklyn, slither its way to the platform, I tried desperately to stay awake. The low hum of the engine was a tempting invitation to drift off into a nap. For a high school senior as I was at the time, this was nothing new.
The night before, I’d scrambled to submit an overdue lab assignment. In those days, incomplete homework seemed more detrimental to my existence than getting less than five hours of sleep. It wasn’t the first time I’d stayed up late finishing work. So, what was the big deal, right?
What I failed to realize then is that my unhealthy sleep habits had dangerous health implications. Research suggests that adolescents who do not get adequate sleep are at an increased risk for multiple health troubles, including type 2 diabetes, obesity, depression, anxiety, stress, and injuries.
Inadequate sleep is also linked to poor academic performance in school. Sufficient sleep aids memory and concentration — which is ironic given the overhyped value of all-nighters that dominate the high school experience. For the average student, late nights spent studying or completing papers too often seem conducive to success instead of harmful to it. That was certainly true for me. For most of my time in high school, I prioritized work over sleep. It didn’t help that I had sports and other extracurriculars competing for time that I might otherwise have spent resting.
I am older and perhaps wiser now, and one thing is clear to me: Sleep is a critical component of success.
Unfortunately, poor sleep hygiene is rampant among American teens. The American Academy of Sleep Medicine recommends eight to 10 hours of sleep a night for teenagers aged 13 to 18. However, a CDC National Youth Risk Behavior Survey found that the percentage of high school students not getting enough sleep jumped from 69 percent in 2009 to 78 percent in 2019. This is unsurprising to me. Teens today have become desensitized to unhealthy sleep routines. Academic responsibilities and shifting hormones are only part of the story. Technology, too, is a notorious thief of sleep.
For Alya Satchu, a recent high school graduate in Chicago, this is certainly the case. She says, “Recently, I have been staying up a lot on my phone and laptop. I enjoy texting friends or browsing social media, and sometimes I stay up too late.”
Fabiha Khanam, age 16, echoes this. “Social media and Netflix [make] me want to stay up to be entertained instead of resting,” she says. For the rising junior in New York, it’s not just her phone that keeps her up late. She says that family responsibilities, like babysitting nieces and cleaning, take time away from her sleep, too. And then, “Sometimes, it’s just the feeling of how quiet the night is,” she says. “When everyone else is asleep, there seems to be so much peace, which makes me want to enjoy it more by staying up.”
Maria, who asked that I use only her first name, is a recent high school graduate in New York City. She says that nighttime was the “only time” she could relax without getting interrupted by family members.
There are ways to combat this silent epidemic of weary teens. Advocating for later school start times is one step, but that runs into an administrative hurdle that would require a critical mass of support and take time. What teens can do now is take our sleep more seriously. Fabiha Khanam suggests swapping out technology for reading or drawing before bed.
I’ve taken steps to better regulate my sleep, such as limiting electronics use near bedtime.
It’s taken a lot of mental rewiring to detach myself from toxic work and sleep habits, but I’m glad I have done so. I have learned the hard way that nothing is more important than a night of proper rest. The sooner young people realize this, the sooner sleep-deprived teens can become a thing of the past.
Angelina Agostini, 16, lives in Chelsea and enjoys anime, history, and her pet parakeets.
Angelina Agostini
FOR THE LONGEST TIME, my best friends were books and knowledge. While reading manga and novels, I got to know countless characters and new pieces of information, such as different norms in other cultures and the perceptions of women throughout time. I felt so connected to fictional worlds, reality started to feel a bit foreign to me.
During quarantine for the COVID-19 pandemic, the outside world started to feel as hard to reach as the fictional worlds I dove into. We all got used to being indoors, sitting around, and passing time. Many of us also felt extreme loneliness, anxiety, and isolation. What had started as an unplanned two-week vacation grew into a year without seeing friends.
I lost part of who I was.
Being an introvert
is my superpower
In middle school, talking to friends was always stressful for me, but I made things work by turning on my cheerful, eager personality. Sometimes it was exhausting. It was like putting on an act for people to enjoy. I did make sure never to stray far from my true self.
As soon as quarantine started, I saw an escape from that act. I didn’t find much comfort in friends online, so I turned to the many books scattered across my room.
In them, I saw character traits I never saw in the people around me. It was fascinating to see the power the characters had and to realize that the authors who created the worlds had a special power, too.
While I was immersing myself in new imagined realms, I didn’t realize quite how much my world was changing. I had always been an introvert, but staying indoors without real social interaction had made things even worse. After a year and a half of online school, the version of me that had shined in middle school was completely hidden away. I had forgotten who that person was. I was at a loss for how to get them back. Not that middle school me was perfect, but I wished I had kept some parts of them.
Without that version of myself, my outgoing middle school friends moved on without me. At times I hated myself and couldn’t bear the hole that had opened inside me. I didn’t know how to form new connections because the ambiverted part of me — the introvert who could be extroverted when she had to be — was lost.
Freshman year of high school was my first year back in person. It felt as if quarantine had never ended, because isolation and loneliness were still with me. I tried reaching out to adults, but none of them truly understood my struggles.
Nevertheless, I always had my true best friends with me: my books. They shined a light on me when I felt my whole world was going dark. Through them, I didn’t just imagine fictional places. I learned about worlds from the past, the history of people before me, the tragedies and the hardships that so many have faced.
Books and knowledge helped guide me to a version of myself that I grew to like. They helped me realize that being an introvert didn’t have to be a weakness. I could use the time I had to myself to learn amazing subjects and connect to many people and things I had never known existed.
I have found my vision for the future. I don’t want to just learn and read about other people through books. I want to go out into the world and experience things for myself. Reading gave me an introduction, but traveling will make what I’ve learned come to life. I see myself meeting people from all over the globe and experiencing what can’t be felt through books.
Despite me finding my vision, I know many still haven’t found theirs. So to them: Never forget you’re not alone. You are not useless. This period in life doesn’t last forever, and those who look down on you aren’t worthy of being your friend. You are your own person and you have the power to change your life.
And after everything I have been through, I’ve made a new best friend: myself.
Charlotte Pinto, 16, lives in Newton.
I come from a Spanish-speaking household and went to an English-speaking school. One of the primary challenges I faced was maintaining the skills and proficiency in both languages. I had a constant fear of losing fluency or mixing up words, resulting in self-doubt. Many times as a child I would walk into a room right after playing with my Hot Wheels to find that my parents needed help to figure out a government document in English. They would make me read it, and I would feel like I was lost at sea. I would read and read and read and feel the words slowly drown me. As I struggled to pronounce certain words, I felt my childhood innocence crushed under the weight of adult expectations.
— Dariel Medina, 15, lives in Chelsea.
English isn’t my first language. I eat arepas for lunch, not a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I play fútbol, not football. These details encapsulate the feeling of being a Latino in the United States. A peg that doesn’t quite fit any holes — sitting there shaving bits of wood to just fit. The never-ending quest to find what it is you call home.
— Juan Wulff, 16, was born in Venezuela and came to the United States in 2015. He lives in Needham.
Sanna Gibbons, 15, is passionate about speaking about neurodiversity. She enjoys reading, dancing, skiing, making art, and playing with her puppies. She lives in Dunstable.
Sanna Gibbons
I AM A UNICORN in a herd of horses. I’m Autistic with a capital A. It’s like having a VIP pass to a world where people make assumptions about me. When I do tell someone about my autism, they hit me with the classic question: “Are you high-functioning?” This doesn’t recognize the effort it takes to ignore the sensory onslaught to appear “normal.” Talk about a buzzkill!
One of my friends actually said, “That’s so cool. I wish I was autistic too.” Oh, bless her well-meaning heart. People unintentionally misunderstand me all the time because I don’t fit into their narrow idea of what autism should look like. It’s like they expect me to be some kind of autism Power Ranger or a math genius who can’t hold a regular conversation.
Spoiler: That’s not how it works.
Autism isn’t a one-size-fits-all deal. It’s more like a colorful pie chart with all sorts of unique slices. For example, one slice is about how comfortable a person is with eye contact. Another slice might be sensitivity to noise, touch, and taste.
I wasn’t officially diagnosed until I was 14. Looking back, I can now see that those “kid-isms” I had were actually signs of my autism. Like the way change freaked me out or how social situations turned into a real-life game of Twister. Don’t get me started on how I couldn’t tell if I was hungry due to mixed-up interoception — a sense that helps you understand what is going on in your body, like knowing when you’re hot or if you have to use the bathroom.
Throughout my childhood, I became a master of disguise, masking what I now know to be my autistic quirks. Picture a shy, quiet kid who’s secretly battling an internal whirlwind of anxiety and sensory overload. I should have won an award for that performance.
But all that pretending took its toll. I did this so that people in my life wouldn’t notice that I prefer communicating differently and that little things such as bright lights cause me anxiety and discomfort. I found myself trapped in a gloomy funk, dealing with depression and sensory overload. That’s what experts call “autistic burnout.”
These days, even as people are becoming more aware of autism, there are still some wacky misperceptions floating around. Some folks think we can’t function on our own or that the nonverbal among us are intellectually disabled. And let’s not forget the stereotype that all people with autism are socially awkward geniuses who can code an award-winning website in under 10 minutes.
News flash: You don’t have to be a train-obsessed white boy to have autism. Girls like me face our own unique challenges. We’re like the hidden gems of the autism world because researchers and scientists have mainly focused on the white middle-class boys. Thanks, guys!
I dream of a society that not only recognizes our quirks but also celebrates them. I dream of a society that accepts autistic people who are both verbal and nonverbal. I dream of a society that understands everyone’s individual needs.
Life’s too short to be anything but colorful, and autism adds more flair to the mix. Let’s make this world a place where every slice of the pie is cherished and celebrated. Cheers to a brighter, funnier, and more inclusive future.
A unicorn among horses
Sanna Gibbons
Neelan Krishna, 16, is a junior at Highland Park High School in Dallas.
Neelan Krishna
THERE’S A PICTURE of me as a baby lying on an expanse of Sunday newspaper — a child lying on a bed of words. This was before my family raced toward online newspapers and e-books.
I love physical books. When I’m immersed in the pages of one, turning the pages as I progress through the text feels to me like controlling the hands of a clock in a different universe. My e-book-loving parents chuckle about the 20th-century nostalgia that their 21st-century kid experiences.
The vanishing smell and touch of words
noun
The ability to have game; to attract romantic partners
Example:
verb
The act of attracting romantic partners
“Go rizz up that cute girl over there.”
Word
IF YOU'RE TALKING to a teenager, you will quickly discover that our vernacular doesn’t just consist of abbreviated words — a lot of our words can feel almost random, and others are borrowed from AAVE: African American Vernacular English. So whether you’re a high school teacher who desperately wants to understand your students when they exclaim “slay,” a confused youngest child who wants to understand what your older sister means when she “ships” you with that cute girl from school, or a parent trying to start a relatable convo with your kid about a “situationship,” you may find this list of our rapidly changing lexicon useful.
noun
A party thrown during the day
Example: “Are you going to that dayger this weekend? Let’s hope it’s better than the darty last month.”
dayger/
rhymes
with “rager”
darty
adverb
Used to emphasize strong feelings about someone or something
Example: “I highkey want to go to see that movie everyone’s been talking about.”
highkey
adverb
Used to signal an unexpected feeling
Example: “I’m lowkey upset that school is ending.”
lowkey
adjective
Unsatisfactory, doesn’t measure up to standards but not necessarily bad
“I can’t believe I bought those shoes — they’re so mid.”
mid
adjective
Praise for (usually) a woman who slays (see: Slay)
Example: “She crushed her monologue in the play. She’s mother.”
mother
adjective
An acknowledgment that something is relatable; an affirmation
Example: “Friend 1: ‘I always fall for guys with red flags.’ Friend 2: ‘Real.’”
real
The ability to have game; to attract romantic partners or to exert influence over someone
Example: “I called them a ‘rizz-ly bear’ because they could start a conversation with anyone they liked.”
rizz
short for “charisma”
noun
verb
The act of attracting a romantic partner or influencing someone
Example: “Go rizz up that cute kid over there.”
verb
To encourage a romantic relationship between two people
Example: “Jack and Samantha were flirting so much earlier, I totally ship them.”
ship
noun
A loose, not-committed romantic relationship that tends to be messy.
Example: “We’re not dating. He’s just my situationship.”
situationship
noun, import from drag culture
The act of accomplishing a task with panache or of demonstrating swagger; a person, place, or thing that satisfies and excites between two people
Example: “This new phone charges so fast. Such a slay.”
slay
verb, import from drag culture
To show off, succeed, or simply exist with vibrancy, generally with the implication of physical attractiveness
Example: “Did you see what she wore last night? She slayed.”
adjective
Used as a huge compliment for outfits, plans, a nice move in sports, etc.
Example: “She scored the winning goal with just seconds left on the clock. That’s so tough.”
tough/tuff
Addison Schmidt
To me, books are a combination of smells and feel. The paper of the Hardy Boys series feels like jute and smells like parchment. The Tintin comics I bought in India are glossy and cool to the touch, with the faint scent of paraffin. The National Geographic magazines in my grandparents’ house have featherweight pages and an aroma of cumin, the smell of my grandmother’s cooking.
I submit final drafts of my poetry homework online, with all the romance of a tax form. My least poetic homework, with a single correct answer to each question, is math, and it is the only one for which I use a pencil and paper. I submit pictures of my work, which often contains scratched-out mistakes, online. At least this, unlike my poetry homework, shows my work and thought process.
My great-grandfather’s 100-year-old report card from engineering college survives in its cardboard binding with its contents written in a beautiful cursive hand. My report card from high school is less substantial, its blocky print available only for online viewing.
We have an airmail letter my grandmother wrote to my grandfather on hotel stationery when she traveled to Brazil to perform Indian music 44 years ago. It’s written in a mixture of Tamil, with its loopy characters, Sanskrit, with its characters hanging down from the line, and English, in my grandmother’s beautifully distinct hand. I communicate almost exclusively via borderline ungrammatical, ethereal text messages tapped out on a virtual QWERTY keyboard.
My parents have held onto a book about the discovery of the tomb of Tutankhamun that they picked up at a used bookstore many decades ago. The feel and smell of its pages were the warp and weft of my imagined Egypt before we finally visited the pyramids.
In Egypt, I saw papyrus scrolls more than 3,000 years old that were recovered from the ancient tomb of Thuya and Yuya. The scrolls immortalize the lives of these parents of an ancient queen. In India, I’ve inhaled the scent of palm leaf rising up from a 19th-century composer’s manuscripts that have musical notes etched with a sharp instrument on narrow pages and highlighted with lampblack.
My generation’s memories are not inscribed on palm leaf or papyrus or captured in the handwritten word. I have never known a world without smartphones and tablets. My memories are rich with audio and video. There are short videos of me almost from the time I was born that can be pulled up on demand. Videos of my parents’ childhoods are scarce, trapped in tapes from another time, cloaked in video formats that are difficult to access. My parents’ videos are hostage to the obsolescence of the medium they’re in, the technology’s mortality slowly taking their memories with it.
I wonder if my memories stored in the cloud run by some tech company will be as durable as my great-grandfather’s report card, my grandmother’s letter, or the papyrus scrolls from Thuya and Yuya’s tomb. Or will they end up being even more ephemeral than the videos of my parents’ childhoods?
It would seem that we have unwittingly prioritized sound and sight over touch and smell, trading the ability to physically hold onto memories captured on paper for the ease of instant access on a device, even though we have no promise that our digital memories, too, will not disappear or fade into obsolescence.
Neelan Krishna
Connection
My happiness
It’s all about the bare minimum. You’ll most likely end up in a situationship where you don’t even acknowledge the other person in real life, avoiding eye contact when you pass in the hallway. It seems that high schoolers have outgrown the concept of getting to know one another the old-fashioned way — by talking. Romantic exchanges are likely to be conducted entirely over DMs or Snapchat, fluctuations in online status sending you into emotional turmoil.
Romance has become so virtual that it’s as easy as liking an Instagram story or sending a quick “heyy” (be sure to add an additional “y” for flirtatious effect) to start something. Forget about handwritten love letters. Forget about meet-cutes, soulmates, and forbidden love. Prepare to swoon at the merest rizz.
— Sienna Bevan, 16, lives in Santa Monica, Calif.
Ten things I hate about high school romance
Screen time
My grandparents were survivors of the civil war in El Salvador. They showed me their love for the land and its people. I am proud to be the descendant of a generation that, though hurt and injured, gave me the best values, principles, education, and traditions. I live the best life thanks to the efforts of my ancestors.
— Madelin Acosta, age 17, lives in East Boston.
Know —
and love — your roots
My name
What does it
even mean to
be a teenager?
Small actions,
big change
The quest
to find home
Keeping language alive
I believe in grandmas. I believe in getting up early on a Sunday morning to walk along the trails and paths of the woods, the dew on green plants of different shades, the anthill you’re warned not to step on. The trails that lead you to where you can pick wild berries to put on Eggos later.
I believe in getting up on a sunny August morning, bundling up in big coats and handmade hats and scarves to go walk along the ocean shores of the beach looking for agates or playing in the tidepools left while the ocean is going out, seeing how far your feet could get stuck in the quicksand-like sand and saltwater mixture.
I believe in going to the docks and chewing on saltwater taffy from Granny Hazel’s, with flavors like s’mores, root beer float, peppermint, cotton candy, banana split, caramel, and PB&J.
I believe in riding in grandma’s big red truck on the bumpy road to the woods while inhaling her potent coffee breath.
I believe in waiting in town with my mom for my grandma to pick me up and drive to the ocean while she talks about family drama.
I believe in listening to Elvis for an hour or so just to make her happy.
— Emma Gilman, 17, lives in Olympia, Wash.
I believe in boomers
Ideas editor: Brian Bergstein
Teens Speak editor: Kelly Horan
Teens Speak designer & project manager: Heather Hopp-Bruce
Illustrator: Juan Berrio
Social media: Deanna Schwartz and Amy MacKinnon
Developer: Andrew Nguyen
Copy editor: Barbara Wallraff
Navigating
two worlds
My hair is my Kingdom, with hills spiraling at every curve and valleys that reach beyond where the eye can see. It expands in the heat in search of an oasis to quench its thirst. My hair is a temple filled with memories of every shared moment inscribed in every strand. It recalls the joy of recess. It relives the fro-yo Fridays after ballet, when its natural buoyancy was no longer restricted. And it recalls those long hours in the swimming pool shower where a mom braids her daughter’s hair because it resembles a feeling of home and culture.
My grandmother came from the heat. An island of Bachata and Reggaeton, where the smell of fried plantains coats your skin like a perfume. She was a hairdresser. Her hair flowed behind her as she boarded the boat to America as she left her children in order to cultivate the life she had planned for them. But in America, the air was icy, poking at her skin and stealing her Caribbean heat.
Being first generation means bringing with me all the hopes and dreams of my family, and all the things they had to leave behind. This is just a part of the story. From a grandmother walking on soil that grows green in the summer, to a mother who never made it past high school but led a dignified life as a single mother of four, to a daughter who approaches every new milestone with gratitude.
—Genesis Mariano Gonzalez, 17, lives in Cambridge.
My Kingdom
Tarek Anthony
Illustrations by Juan Berrio
We can’t fix what we don’t talk about
"What do you want to be?" What a terrible question.
A guide to Gen Z slang —
for when you want to be mother, not mid
Middle school heartbreak, Bob Ross, and me
I grew up afraid of being shot at school
What I was thinking
How I explained my gender dysphoria to my parents
Poem: "Flying High"
Whatever happened to bedtime?
Being an introvert is my superpower
Graphic memoir: Learning to appreciate
my Indian heritage, one bite at a time
A unicorn among horses
To my loving parents:
Your expectations are crushing me
The vanishing smell and touch of words
Skip to ...
Illustrations by Juan Berrio
Connection
My happiness
Screen time
@globeopinion Instagram
Screen time
@globeopinion Instagram
My name
Know — and love —
your roots
Small actions,
big change
Small actions,
big change
The quest to find home
Ten things I hate about high school romance
If someone asked me, “What does your daily life consist of?” I would answer “School. Homework. Soccer. Sleep. Repeat.” I bet this rigid schedule sounds very familiar to many student-athletes. We are constantly thinking about our sports, whether that means focusing on a win, loss, or injury. But we fail to talk about the toll that takes on us, like the sleepless nights and the stress to the point of making ourselves sick. Every athlete today is required to take concussion training. Athletes should be required to take a mental health course, too, so that they have the tools to speak out about their struggles.
— Sophia Ryan, 16, lives in Winchester
My name
If someone asked me, “What does your daily life consist of?” I would answer “School. Homework. Soccer. Sleep. Repeat.” I bet this rigid schedule sounds very familiar to many student-athletes. We are constantly thinking about our sports, whether that means focusing on a win, loss, or injury. But we fail to talk about the toll that takes on us, like the sleepless nights and the stress to the point of making ourselves sick. Every athlete today is required to take concussion training. Athletes should be required to take a mental health course, too, so that they have the tools to speak out about their struggles.
— Sophia Ryan, 16, lives in Winchester
The struggles of sports