Full Circle in Carolina Blue: Five Years That Changed Everything

Five years ago, I walked onto UNC’s campus for the first time, a hopeful high schooler dreaming of the future. As graduation approaches, I reflect on the unforgettable memories that have defined my time at Carolina. UNC has been so much more than just a school—it’s been home.

Thank you, Carolina, for everything. I may be leaving soon, but a piece of my heart will always be in Chapel Hill.

Today, I opened my Snapchat memories, and a moment from five years ago appeared—a memory that felt like a message. On this day in 2019, I was visiting Chapel Hill for the first time, touring the University of North Carolina. It was the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, so the campus was eerily quiet, with barely any students around, and a strange stillness hung over everything. But somehow, that wasn't what I took away from the day.

That day, I found where I wanted to spend the next four years of my life. Even with a mask covering my smile and the muggy weather trying to dampen the experience, I knew UNC was where I belonged. It was an instant, unshakable feeling.

Over the following months, I tried to suppress that excitement, deflecting whenever someone asked me where I’d go to college. I toured Clemson, visited NC State, and kept searching. But none of them felt like UNC.

When my acceptance letter arrived, I remember the surreal rush of joy. Driving home from cheer practice that day, I felt like the sunset was a celebration just for me, glowing on the horizon as I let myself imagine a future in Carolina blue.

From then on, it was a rollercoaster. The summer before freshman year, I cycled through every emotion—anxiety, excitement, fear, joy. Arriving at Granville Towers on what felt like the hottest summer day, I was both thrilled and terrified. Would I make friends? Would I love it as much as I thought? What if I couldn’t handle being away from home?

But UNC found ways to ground me. I remember that first day of classes, wandering the paths with Apple Maps pulled up, and feeling lost and exactly where I needed to be. I remember my first football game, standing in a sea of Carolina blue, swept up in the energy and pride that seemed to pulse through every person there. I remember Halloween, late nights out, and my first basketball game, all these “firsts” that made UNC feel more like home with each memory.

Then there were the hard days—when I missed my family so much it hurt when I doubted I’d make it through a tough class, and the days my tiny dorm room felt more like a prison cell. But even then, when winter break rolled around, I couldn’t wait to return to school, to the life and independence I was beginning to build.

I finally found my rhythm, balancing classes, friendships, and fun that Spring. And then, just when I thought I couldn’t love UNC any more, our men’s basketball team made an unforgettable run to the NCAA Championship. I felt on top of the world. When my mom came to help me pack up my dorm room that spring, I cried as we drove back to Hickory, listening to James Taylor’s Carolina in My Mind and feeling so profoundly lucky to call this place home.

For the past three years, I’ve tried to convince everyone I know that UNC is the best school in the world, and every word was spoken from the heart. It’s in the little things: the smile you exchange with a friend on the quad, the laughter that fills Davis Library when late-night delirium sets in, the Bluesday cheers at He’s Not Here, lunch breaks in Lenoir, and the nervous jitters of Dey Hall (you know what I mean). It’s in those first warm spring days in front of Wilson Library, and the hopeful sip from the Old Well on the first day of classes. Each memory is part of why UNC feels like home.

In my final months here, I’ve found myself in a quiet denial about graduating and leaving this place. When someone asks what I’ll do after graduation, I wince, unable to picture a world that isn’t in Chapel Hill. But this morning, when I opened that Snapchat memory five years ago, I was reminded just how long this journey has been and how much UNC has given me since that first visit.

Five years ago, I stepped onto this campus for the first time, and something inside me knew it was home. It’s surreal to look back on everything that’s happened since then—the friendships, the challenges, and the memories that have shaped who I am. And while I can’t stop the clock from ticking toward graduation, I can choose to be grateful—for the moments of joy, struggle, and self-discovery that have defined my time here.

For the last time, I will sway back and forth with my friends to Hark the Sound in Kenan Stadium. I will join the last Swag Surf in the Dean Dome, laugh over my final blue cup as an undergrad, and take in every view and sound of this little town full of love. Then, I’ll pack up my car and say goodbye to Chapel Hill, knowing that Carolina will always carry on in me.

UNC, you have given me a community, memories, and a sense of purpose that will stay with me forever. Thank you for being everything I dreamed of and more. I may be leaving, but a piece of my heart will always be here, and Carolina will always be a part of who I am.

Listening to the Little Girl Who Loved Stories

After changing my major more times than I can count, I’ve finally found a path that feels like home. Sometimes, the journey isn’t about sticking to a plan; it’s about listening to the passions that have always been there. Here’s to finding joy in the unexpected and building an authentic future. Enjoy my second blog this week where I dive into my lengthy academic career.

It’s time to address the elephant in the room. Yes, I’ve changed my major—several times. Reflecting on my journey, it’s almost laughable to think I ever believed I would thrive in a STEM field. We need to rewind to the beginning to truly understand my decision-making process.

In the bustling days of college applications, I was determined to declare an engineering major at every school I considered. For Carolina, that meant choosing Biomedical Engineering, the only engineering program offered. I even explored other STEM-focused universities, thinking I might find my fit there if UNC didn’t resonate with me. Yet, none of those places felt quite right.

Looking back, I realize I was never truly convinced that Biomedical Engineering was the path for me. I admired being a woman in engineering, where females were still a minority. Graduating at the top of my class, I felt the weight of expectation—many of my high-achieving peers were heading off to become doctors or nurses, and I felt an unspoken pressure to follow suit.

The title sounded impressive. I can still picture that moment on my senior night for cheerleading, striding onto the field as my name, university, and major echoed through the air. When they announced “Biomedical Engineering,” I smiled, yet deep within, a voice whispered that I was not meant to tread that path. But I kept the mask on, convincing myself I could do this.

When I arrived at college, I began chipping away at my general education requirements, carefully avoiding biomedical engineering classes. Instead, I stumbled into a course that would change everything—PLCY 101: Introduction to Public Policy. As a first-year grappling with the challenges of college life, this class was my sanctuary. It was engaging, thought-provoking, and delved into topics I had longed to explore.

By the second semester, the act of maintaining my engineering façade became unbearable. I didn’t yet know where my journey would lead, but I knew I had to escape the confines of biomedical engineering. With a mix of apprehension and relief, I changed my major to Public Policy, knowing that this choice could evolve as I did.

This was my first glimpse into the depth and richness of majors at Carolina. There were so many subjects to explore, and so many paths to wander. I even contemplated applying to the Gillings School of Public Health, yet that too didn’t resonate with my heart.

What I rediscovered, instead, was my passion for connection and creativity—an undeniable thread that wove through my life, waiting for me to remember it. I enrolled in an Introduction to Advertising and Public Relations class, taught by the inspiring Gary Kayye. The moment I walked into that classroom, I felt a spark. The course became a highlight of my semester, igniting a joy I hadn’t felt in years.

In the quiet moments, memories of first grade resurfaced. Every week, we were challenged to write and illustrate our own stories. I still have those stories—my first characters, plots, and worlds I built with crayons and bound with staples. Even back then, I felt the thrill of crafting something uniquely mine. Reflecting on that time, I wondered, “Why did I wait so long to embrace this part of myself?” The little girl who loved stories never left; she was just waiting for me to catch up.

Creativity was always my companion—whether I was lost in the pages of a novel or painting my imagination onto a canvas. In this new academic landscape, I could feel my love for storytelling bubbling to the surface, vibrant and alive.

As I embraced this journey, it became clear: my path was unfolding gradually, yet it felt undeniably right. I decided to marry my Public Policy degree with Media and Journalism, a union that allowed me to weave together my interests in research, politics, and the art of storytelling.

In a world that often celebrates certainty, my journey of changing majors has taught me the beauty of flexibility and exploration. Each twist and turn has been a vital part of my story, guiding me toward a path that feels authentic and fulfilling. It’s a reminder that our dreams can evolve, and it’s okay to step away from expectations—whether from others or ourselves.

So, if you find yourself questioning your choices, remember: it’s not just about finding the perfect major or career; it’s about reconnecting with the passions that were always there, even if they were buried under the expectations of others. Embrace the journey, the unexpected turns, and the stories—your stories—that shape who you are. Because, as I’ve learned, sometimes the little girl with her stapled-together stories knows more about your future than any plan ever could.

A Story of Women (Fans) in Sports

Growing up, I never questioned my place as a sports fan, but over time, I realized that women’s voices are often sidelined in sports spaces—especially in football. For every woman who’s faced doubts in sports fandom, I’m here to say: We belong. More women in sports make the community stronger, louder, and more connected. Check out my latest blog, where I dive deeper into my journey as a fan and why representation matters.

Growing up, I never quite grasped that women were often sidelined as sports fans, especially in male-dominated spaces like football. I’ve always been outspoken at games—cheering at the top of my lungs, wearing my team’s colors with pride, and refusing to hold back my passion. I was a cheerleader in middle and high school, proudly the loudest one, determined to make sure our players felt supported.

Loving sports felt natural to me. I never saw myself as “lesser” for being a devoted fan. In 2015, when I was in 7th grade, my all-time favorite team, the Carolina Panthers, was having an unforgettable season. That year, we were undefeated until the Falcons broke our streak. It stung to lose, especially to a division rival, but somehow, it only solidified my loyalty.

I was there for those defining moments, like when Josh Norman went toe-to-toe with Odell Beckham Jr. in a memorable clash with the New York Giants. Seeing that fiery rivalry immortalized on TikTok and Instagram brings back so much pride—I stood behind Norman then, and I still do, even if the brawling was a bit much.

And who could forget Thanksgiving Day? Our whole family, decked out in Panthers jerseys, gathered around the TV to watch us crush the Dallas Cowboys, my most despised team, advancing to 11-0. We yelled, screamed, and celebrated every play, believing in a win before it was certain. We might have even headbutted the walls in excitement, but that’s a story for another day.

These moments weren’t just fun; they were formative. Being a fan has always given me a profound sense of belonging, a feeling of being part of something bigger than myself. Football connects me to my family and friends, and it gives us this shared passion, something that unites us even when our team is struggling. I stayed up late to watch us win the NFC Championship, hosted in Charlotte and dragged my mom to Academy Sports afterward to get the Championship shirt. I remember us staying up past bedtime, buzzing with excitement. These memories are a testament to the kind of fan I’ve always been—committed, passionate, and hopeful.

But being a fan is as much about heartache as it is about joy. We lost that Super Bowl to the Denver Broncos, a loss that stung, especially given how close we were to glory. We were quiet on the drive home, the weight of a season’s worth of hope settling into silence. Even now, as the Panthers sit at 2-7, seemingly stripped of our best players (goodbye Christian McCaffrey, DJ Moore, Brian Burns, Frankie Luvu… and more), I keep cheering. It’s tough to hold onto optimism, but it’s the price of being a loyal fan.

Yet, what’s harder to stomach than losses is the dismissiveness that comes with being a female fan of football. For years, I've felt the unspoken judgment—the assumption that I don’t know the game, that my love for it is superficial or borrowed. I used to argue to prove my knowledge, but it felt futile against stereotypes cemented in people’s minds.

This disdain flared up even more when Taylor Swift started dating Travis Kelce. It’s as if her presence in the stadium became an excuse for some fans to undermine women’s place in the sport. Suddenly, the same people who mocked us for not caring about football were irritated because they thought we cared only because of Taylor. It felt like a double standard, a loud dismissal of the women who have been here all along. Seeing comments like, “She doesn’t even know what she’s clapping at,” is disheartening. This isn’t just criticism of Taylor; it’s an entire community of women fans being told they don’t belong.

As someone who’s been playing (and winning) fantasy football, who tunes into NFL RedZone religiously every Sunday, and who unapologetically yells for my team from the stands, Taylor’s presence feels like a beacon. She represents women like me who love this sport as much as anyone. Seeing her face criticism only reminds me of the resilience required to be here.

Since I was little, Erin Andrews has been one of my heroes—a woman who broke into sports media and thrived in it. She’s shown me that women can excel in this industry and that our voices matter and deserve to be heard. Watching her on the sidelines, calling games, and navigating challenges gracefully has always inspired me. I hope that one day, more girls see women like Erin and even Taylor and feel the same sense of belonging and representation they’ve given me.

Even as the world tries to sideline us, I’ll keep watching. Football is my passion, and I’m here to stay. I cheer for the women working in sports, for every female fan who knows this struggle, and for a future where we’re welcomed in this space, not questioned. Because we deserve to be here, just as much as anyone else. More women in sports media would strengthen the community, bringing new perspectives and deepening fans' connections with the game. It’s not just about seeing ourselves on the screen; it’s about ensuring every young girl who loves this sport knows that she, too, belongs.

Home is Where the Friends Are

As I prepare to graduate from UNC, I reflect on how my friendships have shaped my college journey in my blog. From navigating roommate life to forging meaningful connections, each experience has taught me the value of support and authenticity; here's to the best roommates and college experience.

One day, you're sitting on the couch in your first apartment, a place you and your friends—now roommates—are finally calling home. You're on the cusp of your sophomore year, and the air is filled with anticipation as you talk about classes, weekend plans, and new routines. You've just decorated your room, piecing it together thoughtfully instead of tossing items around as you did in your crowded freshman dorm. Something about it all feels real. Grown-up.

But in an instant, you're pulled back to the first time you were making decisions on your own: preschool. Without your mom by your side, you stood in a room full of kids, uncertain where to sit or who to talk to, wondering who might become your first friend. At that age, friendship was simple, even superficial. You spent just a few hours together each week, discussing favorite toys, the shows you watched, or what you had for lunch. Friendships were as easy as proximity.

As we grow, relationships deepen, and our worlds broaden. Friends become more integral to our daily lives, sharing our classes, weekends, and even our innermost thoughts. Navigating friendships in college, however, is unlike anything before. It’s an era of transformation. School isn’t just school; it’s your life—and the lives of everyone around you. You find yourself faced with new challenges and are surrounded by thousands of new people. Most importantly, you gain friendships that feel like family.

Oddly enough, amid this new life, you find pieces of that little girl from preschool. The one sitting down on the first day, wide-eyed, holding her heart in her hands. Now, you’re learning to trust, confide, and rely on others in ways that remind you of simpler days. But these conversations—about classes, heartbreaks, ambitions, and disappointments—are infinitely deeper than your four-year-old self could have imagined.

And now, here you are, sharing this new life with them—each one bringing something unique into your day-to-day.

There's Taylor, my roommate since day one at UNC. Though we didn’t know each other before college, it feels like we've been friends forever. Taylor is the kind of person who exudes kindness and wisdom beyond her years, with a heart as genuine as it is generous. She’s effortlessly talkative, authentic, and quietly one of the smartest people I know—though she’d never admit it. Taylor is a friend who always puts others first, listens without hesitation, and makes even the toughest days feel brighter. She’s shown me what it means to have someone you can truly rely on, someone who knows you in ways few others do. We began this journey as strangers, barely knowing a thing about each other, and now, as graduation approaches, I can’t imagine my college experience without her.

Then there's Madison, the roommate I've known the longest and a friend I’m grateful to have discovered more fully in college. Growing up just 20 minutes apart, our paths crossed a few times, but it wasn't until we became suitemates during freshman year that our friendship truly took root. From day one, I knew we had found something special. Madison is witty, driven, and fiercely loyal. She’s one of the hardest-working people I know, constantly pushing herself to reach new heights. Beneath her strong exterior lies a vulnerability she shares openly, reminding me of the power of authenticity. We've shared countless laughs over the silliest things, effortlessly strengthening our bond, and late-night study sessions have evolved into deep talks about everything from our ambitions to life’s biggest mysteries. Madison is a grounding force in my life, always encouraging me to step outside my comfort zone and pursue my passions. Watching her journey toward becoming an occupational therapist has been inspiring; her dedication to improving others' lives is a testament to her heart and determination.

Finally, there's Hillary—the unexpected gem who entered our lives through the most unlikely channel: a Facebook message. After months of searching for someone to fill that last room in our apartment, her message was a breath of relief. What started as a practical solution quickly blossomed into a friendship we now cherish deeply.

Hillary’s warmth and infectious laughter made it feel like she’d always belonged from the moment she moved in. She strikes this effortless balance: outgoing and bright in every room she enters, yet quietly attentive and supportive in moments that matter most. Her positive energy fills the apartment, and with every small gesture, and every thoughtful check-in, she makes each of us feel seen, loved, and appreciated. With Hillary, our apartment became more than just a shared space—it became a place where everyone was truly at home.

Living together has woven our lives together in ways that are hard to describe. As roommates, we’ve shared more than just a space; we’ve shared our day-to-day routines, late-night worries, small victories, and even unspoken moments that only happen when you spend so much time with someone. There’s a comfort in knowing someone so deeply that silence isn’t awkward—it’s peaceful. We've had our share of disagreements over dishes, laughed until we cried over the silliest things, and learned to respect each other’s quirks and boundaries. Being roommates has made our friendship stronger and more genuine, letting us see and love each other for exactly who we are, in all our chaos and calm. It’s a rare closeness that has defined my college experience and will always mean home to me.

These friendships, unique yet woven together by shared moments and mutual support, have shown me a new dimension of being a friend, an adult, and a woman. Taylor’s kindness, Madison’s authenticity, and Hillary’s warmth have each taught me to embrace my strengths and vulnerabilities. In them, I see different reflections of the friend and person I hope to become—compassionate, genuine, and steadfast.

When I think back to that little girl stepping into preschool, wide-eyed and eager, it’s clear how much has changed. Yet, the desire for connection, understanding, and a place to belong remains the same. These friendships have been pivotal to that journey, showing me how to grow into myself while learning from the incredible women around me.

Friendship evolves as you do. Interests change, passions deepen, and suddenly, the friends who once felt like home are thousands of miles away. One day, you're sitting on this couch, gearing up for sophomore year, and in what feels like an instant, you’re sitting on the same couch, clicking “confirm” on your graduation application. You’re not 19 anymore—you’re 21, looking for jobs, scouting apartments in new cities, preparing to make new connections.

Yet, no matter where life takes me, I know I’ll always come back to this feeling—right here, on this couch, in this town, with these friends. Nights that stretched till dawn, laughter that felt like the best medicine. As I grow into adulthood, into new friendships and the ever-evolving journey of womanhood, these memories will be my anchor—a reminder of the laughter, love, and lessons that have shaped who I am and who I’m becoming; I wouldn’t want to have it any other way.

Words That Shaped Me: My Favorite Reads

When I realized I have only a few blogs left in the semester, I knew I would have to write about my love for literature before too long. In my first blog this week for Gary Kayye's Branding of Me class, I navigate my journey with reading and do a short review on some of my favorite books.

I have spent the past several weeks blogging about the things I love—from football to music, sharing the parts of my personality that make me me. But as the semester quietly reached the halfway mark, I realized this blog wouldn’t be complete without one last love letter—to books.

When I was little, I would read the required books for school, but I never felt quite connected to them. Instead, I’d constantly check out my own favorites from the library, reluctant to trade them for what I thought were much less interesting reads. I was drawn to stories that made me feel something. At the time, that was Mary Pope Osborne’s Magic Tree House series, a series that took me to worlds beyond my own.

As I grew older, my relationship with books changed as I tried to find stories that resonated with me as a young adult. But when the pandemic hit in 2020, books became my lifeline. With a newfound need for hobbies and ways to fill long, quiet days, I wandered into Barnes & Noble with no book in mind, but I knew I wouldn’t walk out empty-handed.

Since that day, I’ve come to proudly call myself a reader, discovering books that have changed me in ways big and small. Here, I’m excited to share my most beloved books—the ones I’ve rated 5 stars and can’t stop thinking about.

Love and Other Words by Christina Lauren

I discovered Christina Lauren’s Love and Other Words through TikTok, where her books had already started captivating hearts across my feed. This was one of the first novels I picked up when I was getting back into reading, and it’s lingered with me ever since in ways I never anticipated. Lauren’s storytelling alternates seamlessly between Macy and Elliot’s childhood and adulthood, tracing how love can evolve over the years, and how experiences—both joyful and painful—layer themselves into relationships and deepen even the simplest connections. Reading their story felt like growing up with them, navigating life’s complexities, and learning the beauty of quiet, enduring love.

Macy and Elliot’s relationship is a gentle, grounding force in the book that feels comforting and familiar. There’s nothing flashy about their love; it’s built on shared quirks, an admiration for words and stories, and small, everyday moments that carry a surprising intimacy. Their bond grows in whispered conversations and shared books, in moments that feel like secrets only they understand. Lauren crafts the narrative with a delicate, slow build, hinting at the depth of their friendship in the past and gradually revealing the history that binds them. When the pieces come together, their story feels as inevitable as it is heartwarming.

This book wraps you in warmth like a hug on a winter’s day, showing how love can be breathtaking and deeply familiar. For anyone who cherishes the slow burn of romance and the comfort of stories that feel like home, Love and Other Words will be a favorite that stays with you.

Daisy Jones & The Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid

Daisy Jones & The Six didn’t just rekindle my love for reading; it ignited a deep passion for writing, music, and Taylor Jenkins Reid’s incredible storytelling. Set against the gritty, electric backdrop of the 1960s rock scene, this novel unfolds in an interview-style format that pulls you into the lives of Daisy Jones and the band The Six as they navigate the exhilarating highs and devastating lows of fame, drugs, heartbreak, and self-discovery. Each character, from the enigmatic Daisy herself to the diverse and complex band, feels painfully real;  I forget they were mere figments of fiction sometimes.

The novel’s structure adds a unique dimension to the storytelling, making it feel like you’re eavesdropping on intimate conversations and confessions. You get a front-row seat to their struggles and triumphs, loves and losses, and the turbulent dynamics of their relationships. Reid’s writing is vivid and evocative, painting a picture of an era where the music was as much about the chaos of life as it was about the melodies. You can almost hear the chords of their songs resonating in your mind as you read.

If you’re a ‘watch first, read later’ person, the Amazon Prime adaptation of this book is fantastic, capturing the essence of the characters and the vibrant energy of the music scene. My mom even shared that the show helped her visualize the characters in a way that made their stories leap off the screen and feel alive. But for me, experiencing the book first made the journey unforgettable. Reid’s narrative is vulnerable and raw, diving unapologetically into the heart of rock and roll and reminding us that real art often emerges from the depths of pain and struggle. It’s a powerful exploration of creativity, relationships, and the relentless pursuit of authenticity. This is one you’ll want to add to the very top of your reading list.

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid

If Daisy Jones & The Six introduced me to Taylor Jenkins Reid’s talent, The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo showcased its full depth. Everyone I’d talked to about this book was obsessed, so I approached it with high expectations. Somehow, it managed to exceed every one of them. This novel isn’t just a love story; it’s an intricate exploration of identity, resilience, and the complex woman behind a dazzling public image.

As I delved into the story, it took me a few chapters to get hooked, but once I was in, I was all in. The last 200 pages were everything I’d hoped for and more. With her calculating mind and unapologetic heart, Evelyn Hugo is a remarkable protagonist. She defies expectations at every turn, navigating through Hollywood’s unforgiving landscape with a blend of shrewdness and vulnerability. Through her seven marriages, we catch glimpses of the ‘real’ Evelyn—the one hidden beneath glamor and public scrutiny. Her story unfolds like a cinematic masterpiece, filled with heartbreak, ambition, and a relentless pursuit of her truth.

One moment near the end struck a profound chord with me, as it encapsulated the weight of her story and the heavy choices she had to make. It’s a testament to Reid’s masterful storytelling that I felt such a deep connection to Evelyn. She embodies power and the fragility of womanhood in a world that often seeks to diminish it.

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo isn’t just a narrative about love and loss; it challenges societal norms and delves into the intricacies of what it means to be a woman in a patriarchal world. Celebrating resilience, self-discovery, and how women navigate their identities. This book is a stunning reminder that behind every public persona lies a complex and often untold story, waiting to be uncovered. It’s a must-read for anyone seeking a rich, multifaceted exploration of life and love, leaving you reflecting on the power of truth and the importance of owning one’s narrative.

Funny Story by Emily Henry

Switching up from Taylor Jenkins Reid, Funny Story by Emily Henry brings a fresh twist to my bookshelf. Henry has a rare gift for crafting characters who feel strikingly real, people you might meet at a coffee shop or pass on the street, with quirks and flaws that make them unforgettable. This book centers around Daphne and Miles, two delightfully unconventional characters who find themselves in an awkward, unexpected situation: after their respective partners leave them for each other, Daphne and Miles end up as roommates. What begins as a reluctant arrangement blossoms into a quirky, complex friendship with a laugh-out-loud funny and quietly touching chemistry.

Throughout the book, Daphne picks up the pieces of her life, discovering new layers of herself in a town she never anticipated living in and a home she didn’t expect to share with someone like Miles. Henry’s writing style brings a genuine authenticity to every page, pulling you into each character’s inner world with wit, warmth, and honesty. Daphne’s journey is humor in heartbreak, resilience in uncertainty, and hope in unexpected places. You feel her joys and setbacks as if they’re your own, and by the end, it’s impossible not to be moved.

If you’re a fan of romantic comedies, Funny Story—like all of Henry’s work—is an absolute treasure. It’s a beautifully layered story that proves laughter and love are often found in life’s messiest moments.

A Court of Mist and Fury by Sarah J. Maas

Here’s where I step out of my comfort zone: I’m not typically a fantasy reader, but A Court of Thorns and Roses series drew me in, especially with A Court of Mist and Fury. At first, I wasn’t entirely sold. Feyre, the protagonist, seemed like any other heroine in a fairy tale gone wrong. But by the second book, she emerges as a force all her own, and her journey is anything but predictable. I was engrossed in Maas’ world—where danger, romance, and magic collide on every page.

ACOMAF, as fans call it, expands Feyre’s world far beyond the initial love story. We see her struggling with trauma from the events in the first book, dealing with the weight of survival and the expectations placed upon her. She’s no longer just trying to stay alive; she’s learning to thrive, to take back control, and to protect those she loves in her way. Watching her come into her power as she learns about herself, her strengths, and the value of true partnership with those around her—especially with the complex and mysterious Rhysand—was immensely satisfying.

Maas doesn’t shy away from the darker, more painful sides of Feyre’s journey. She delves into what it means to confront your past and decide your future, no matter how broken you feel. While these books are lengthy, Maas keeps readers spellbound with fast-paced action, tender romantic moments, and a twisty plot that never lets up.

For anyone hesitant to dive into fantasy, this series is a revelation. It’s a story of love, redemption, and learning to rise from the ashes. A Court of Mist and Fury doesn’t just tell a tale of magic—it shows how one woman finds strength, heart, and fire within herself when everything else has burned away. This series is a transformative journey that I’m so glad I didn’t miss. I’m obsessed, I’m addicted, I could talk about these books for hours.

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

Last, but never least, is The Book Thief. Surprisingly, this was a required read for class, but I’ve revisited it many times since, finding new layers of meaning with each pass. The story follows Liesel, a young German girl navigating the harsh realities of Nazi Germany, and is uniquely narrated from Death’s perspective. This choice adds a hauntingly beautiful layer to the narrative, allowing readers to explore the fragility of life and the resilience of the human spirit in the face of unimaginable horrors.

Zusak’s writing is nothing short of vivid; it dances between poetic and stark, painting rich images of a world steeped in darkness yet illuminated by small acts of kindness and love. Each character is unforgettable, from Liesel’s fierce loyalty to her foster parents, Hans and Rosa Hubermann, to the friendship she develops with Max, the Jewish man hiding in their basement. Through their lives, Zusak skillfully weaves themes of friendship, sacrifice, and the power of words, reminding us how stories can provide solace and hope even in the bleakest of times.

This book not only deepened my understanding of the Holocaust but also made me feel the warmth of friendship and family, illuminating how bonds can endure despite the chaos surrounding them. It’s powerful and emotional, with moments that tug at your heartstrings and linger long after the last page. Each time I read it, I discover new insights that resonate deeply, reinforcing its place as a timeless classic. If you’re ready for a book that changes you, that challenges your perceptions of humanity and compassion, this one is essential.

Through these five books, I hope I’ve given you a glimpse into the heart of my reading life: someone who loves a good romance thrives on heartfelt storytelling, and finds meaning in powerful narratives. Each story, in its way, holds a piece of me. If you’re curious to dive deeper, you can find my full reading list on Goodreads, where I explore all the stories that have brought me joy, comfort, and endless inspiration. Happy reading!

When Music Becomes Memories

Music leaves a lasting mark on us, shaping who we are and how we experience life. For my second blog post this week, I reflect on the loss of Liam Payne and the artists who defined my childhood, shaped my identity, and left me with memories that will last a lifetime.

Last Wednesday, I was sitting in my grandparents' home when I got a text from my friend that shattered me. “Liam Payne died,” it read. At first, I didn’t believe it. I had to Google it for myself, but before I could, another friend called, and my stomach dropped. It had to be true.

In an instant, I was transported back to 2011, to my cousin’s kitchen, where we spent countless afternoons watching YouTube videos. That was when we first stumbled upon What Makes You Beautiful. We played it over and over again, laughing and dancing. I had decided then that I was in love, not just with a band but with the entire experience of being a fan.

But if I’m going to talk about my love for musicians, it starts earlier—before One Direction, before Justin Bieber. It starts with Taylor Swift.

I was three when Taylor’s first album came out, but my older sisters had made her a staple in our home. I’d follow them around, singing along to “Our Song” and trying to keep up with their makeshift karaoke performances. When Speak Now came out, I was convinced I could sing just like her, choreographing dances in our dining room as if I were performing on stage. That was my first taste of truly loving an artist—of feeling connected to someone through their music.

As much as I loved Taylor, my heart soon shifted elsewhere—to Justin Bieber. My obsession with him was unmatched. I remember crying when my oldest sister got to see him on tour, then crying again when my other sister saw him on his Believe Tour. I would’ve given anything to be there. My room was a shrine to him: posters covering every wall, his albums memorized, and his face on everything from pillows to my iPod screen. In 2015, I finally saw him in concert, and at the time, it was the best night of my life.

But my fangirl journey reached its peak with One Direction. If you thought my Justin Bieber obsession was extreme, this was on another level. My mom’s car was filled with their CDs, and I played them constantly. I had bedsheets with their faces, bracelets, posters—anything I could get my hands on. My 10th birthday was spent at their concert in Charlotte, all five boys still together. The blurry iPod videos I have from that night might be my most prized possession.

I remember the heartbreak when Zayn left the band and the day they announced their “break.” It felt like mourning a loss. Their music had been the soundtrack to my childhood, and suddenly, that chapter was closing.

When One Direction’s 10th anniversary came around in 2020, I stayed up late, listening to their music and watching their documentary, reliving those moments one last time. Even now, when my friends and I sing along to old songs, it feels like we’re reconnecting with a part of ourselves we thought was gone.

In many ways, that’s what being a fangirl has always been for me: a way to hold on to the little girl I used to be, the one who believed so wholeheartedly in these artists and the joy they brought into her life. Today, I’ve been lucky enough to see Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour twice, singing along to my favorite songs from when I was five and the ones I love now. There’s something magical about growing older, but still carrying pieces of your childhood.

But being a fangirl isn’t always easy. People love to criticize the things you’re passionate about, to roll their eyes at the music you love or the posters you hang. Yet, there’s nothing more empowering than holding on to those memories and knowing they’ll always be a part of who you are.

I always imagined that when a member of One Direction passed away, I would be old, maybe with children of my own, and I would tell them all the stories of my childhood. I thought I would have the comfort of knowing that these artists had lived long, fulfilling lives.

But that’s not the case with Liam Payne.

This past week, I’ve struggled with the reality of his loss. It sounds silly, but Liam was a part of my life. I spent countless hours listening to his voice, following his updates, and watching him perform from afar. He wasn’t just an artist; he was a constant during some of my most formative years.

Liam was the outspoken, charismatic one—the heart of the band in so many ways. You could feel his warmth and love even from the nosebleeds at PNC Music Pavillion. Losing him feels like losing a piece of my history, a part of my childhood that I wasn’t ready to let go of yet.

Liam’s death has reminded me of life’s fragility, of how we often take for granted the people and the moments that shape us. It feels like a punch to the gut, knowing that the voices and faces who carried me through so many phases of my life are not invincible. But, I’ve also found a renewed sense of gratitude in this loss.

Gratitude for the artists who were there when I needed them most. For the concerts that felt like the best nights of my life, the songs I played on repeat, and the memories that will last a lifetime. I’m thankful these musicians helped me grow, gave me confidence, and made me feel understood when nothing else did. Every note, every lyric, and every moment spent at those concerts has been woven into the fabric of who I am today.

The magic of music is that it never really leaves you. I’ll always carry those memories—the car rides filled with One Direction songs, the iPod videos from my first concert, and the friendships forged over a shared love for the artists who shaped us. Liam’s voice, and all the others who have been a part of my journey, will live on in the soundtrack of my life, echoing through every phase and every change.

No matter where life takes me, music will continue to be my constant, just as it always has been.

A Vote for Every Version of Me

Today, I cast my first presidential ballot, and it was a moment that’s been years in the making. In this week's blog for Gary Kayye's Branding of Me class, I challenge you to make your voice heard. Research, vote, and take part in shaping the future.

I was five years old when President Obama was elected, and I remember that day as clearly as if it were yesterday. I remember what I wore to school, what I ate for dinner, and how my parents let me stay up late to see the election results. Our living room looked different back then, but the memory is vivid.

In typical five-year-old fashion, I was upset that I couldn’t vote. My kindergarten class held its election—mostly based on the fun of red vs. blue and elephants vs. donkeys—but that wasn’t enough for me. I knew my parents were heading to the local church to cast their ballots, and I felt ready to decide. After all, I had just learned which colors each candidate represented!

By 4th grade, I had another taste of political involvement. President Obama was running for re-election, and we held another mock election in class. Being the vocal kid I was, I stood in front of the room to tell my classmates how important it was to use our voices—at least in our classroom vote. My parents laughed when I told them later, but I was completely serious. Once again, I wished I could cast a real vote.

In 8th grade, I believed I finally understood what politics meant and how it affected daily life. Looking back, I still had so much to learn, but my history teacher made it all seem clear. He taught us that being a good citizen means understanding candidates' positions and voting. We watched CNN 10 every day, and during an election year, Carl Azuz seemed to talk about nothing but the first Tuesday in November. I cast my ballot in the class election, frustrated once again that I couldn’t go to the polls.

By my senior year of high school, the landscape had changed. COVID-19 meant no in-person classes, and, thankfully, no class election. But I was more politically aware than ever, thanks to the news I was consuming and the classes I was taking. I was just six months shy of being able to vote, and if you thought 8th-grade me was frustrated, you should have seen me then.

I stayed up late watching election results, in our state and across the country. I was a bored yet passionate teenager, deeply invested in the outcome of each race.

Today, I’ve finally cast my first vote in a presidential election. As I left the polling location with my "I Voted" sticker in hand, I couldn’t help but think back on all those phases of my life—the five-year-old who pitched a fit, the politically vocal 4th grader, the history-loving 8th grader glued to CNN 10, and the high school senior frustrated by being just a few months too young. Each of those phases led me here.

Voting isn’t just for me today. It’s for every version of me that wanted so badly to make my voice heard. It’s for all the women who fought relentlessly for the right to vote, and because of them, I can stand here today and cast my ballot with pride and purpose.

This vote carries the weight of those who came before me, shaping the future of those who will come after. I’ve carefully researched each candidate, thinking about the impact their leadership will have on my community, my state, and my country. This moment matters.

Now, I challenge you: if you’re on the fence about voting, I hear you. Democracy can be messy and frustrating—but that’s why it’s so important. Voting is how we hold our leaders accountable and demand better. It’s our chance to shape the world we want to live in, and that’s worth every bit of effort.

So, do what you can. Go cast your ballot.

If you still need to register to vote, visit vote.gov.

To find your polling place, head to vote.org.

For early voting or Election Day info, check out vote.org's early voting calendar.

To preview your ballot, visit vote.org's ballot information tool.

Need a reminder to vote? Sign up here.

And if you’re like that little five-year-old who stayed up late to watch the election results, pledge to register, so you’re ready to vote as soon as you turn 18.

Thank you, Mom and Dad, for letting me stay up late all those years ago. You created a core memory for me—one that makes voting something I’ll always look forward to.

Love, Rivalry, and the Shot That Changed Everything

Carolina Basketball changed everything for me on April 2nd, 2022. Watching the rivalry unfold on the biggest stage was a moment I’ll never forget. Check out my latest blog, ‘Love, Rivalry, and the Shot that Changed Everything,’ where I share the emotional rollercoaster of that unforgettable Final Four game between UNC and Duke.

In contrast to most North Carolina native students, I didn’t grow up a die-hard Carolina basketball fan. Sure, we’d tune in sometimes for the big games, and of course, we’d cheer for them when they were up against anyone else, but we didn’t follow the team closely.

One game we always seemed to watch, though, was the Carolina vs. Duke matchup. I remember the time Zion Williamson famously tore his shoe in half—it’s wild to think about now—and how I’d casually engage in conversation with my classmates about the “big game.” But at the time, I didn’t understand just how much this rivalry meant to both schools and their fans. That’s something I wouldn’t come to fully appreciate until my freshman year of college, on April 2nd, 2022.

The night before the game, I couldn’t sleep. My mind raced, playing through endless scenarios for what the next day would hold. UNC was one win away from the National Championship. One win away from ending Coach Mike Krzyzewski’s legendary career. If you haven’t gathered already—or you’re not a Carolina fan—this was the day UNC and Duke would face each other in the Final Four, a first in the history of the rivalry.

Just weeks earlier, an unranked Carolina team, known for its grit and determination than its rankings, went into Cameron Indoor Stadium and pulled off the unthinkable: beating a high-ranked Duke team on Coach K’s last game at Cameron. That win planted a seed of belief in me—it was the first time I truly felt the joy and triumph of the Duke rivalry. Yet, it still hadn’t reached its full potential.

Carolina had struggled through the regular season. We lost several games at home and even making the NCAA tournament seemed out of reach. I was unmotivated, skipping games, and tuning out. But then, something clicked. The team went on a hot streak, cruising through the tournament with a momentum I couldn’t ignore.

Suddenly, basketball was everything. My friends and I gathered for every game, partying, dancing, and chanting to DJ Khaled’s “All I Do Is Win.” I was sick with the flu, recovering from wisdom teeth surgery, but none of it mattered. I was having the most fun I’ve ever had at Carolina (and this still stands true today).

When the Elite Eight rolled around, UNC was up against a gritty, determined St. Peter’s team. But Carolina shut them down. Before we knew it, we were headed to the Final Four. And our next opponent? Duke.

The emotions that flooded me were enormous. We were about to face Duke in what could be Coach K’s final game (hehe), and we had a shot at the National Championship. It didn’t feel real. UNC was playing the best basketball of the season, defying all expectations, and it felt like something magical was happening.

I could hardly focus on schoolwork; all I could think about was that Saturday. The day came, and I had barely slept the night before. I was excited, anxious, and honestly, a little angry—why did we have to face our biggest rival on the biggest stage in sports?

That morning, I dressed, did my hair and makeup, and told myself I was ready. But the game was hours away, giving me all day to stew in nervous anticipation. So, we danced, tailgated, and ate, trying to fill the time until tip-off.

When game time finally came, I was locked in. Every shot and every foul had me on edge. The score stayed tight, and my anxiety only grew. As the last five minutes of the game approached, I knew it was now or never. I felt like I needed to teleport to New Orleans and start coaching the team myself.

My palms were sweaty, my arms itchy, yet when the game clock hit 30 seconds, time seemed to stand still. UNC had possession, up by two, and one more play would seal the game. Then came the words that would become legendary: “Love, top of the key.”

In those two seconds, everything froze. The sweat rolled down my forehead, my heart pounded, and for a moment, the fate of the game hung in the air. Then, Caleb Love’s shot soared through the air, and when it hit nothing but net, Franklin Street erupted.

The final score: was 81-77. Coach K was done (hehe). I could hardly believe it. People ran from every direction to get to Franklin Street, and I lost track of my friends, but it didn’t matter. My dad called. My grandma called. All I could do was scream and cry (what was left of my voice, anyway).

I eventually found my friends, and we spent the next two hours watching couches burn and chanting, “Go to Hell, Duke.” It was perfect.

I realized something profound as I stood amidst the sea of Carolina blue, fireworks bursting over Franklin Street. It wasn’t just the final score, the last-second shot, or even sending Coach K into retirement (although that’s still a sweet cherry on top). It was about the way this moment united us. Strangers became friends, arms slung around shoulders, tears of joy mixing with laughter and chants. In that moment, it wasn’t about rivalry, it was about family.

Before that day, I didn’t truly grasp the Carolina spirit. Sure, I cheered for the team but it wasn’t my identity. That night changed everything. This wasn’t just a game—it was a chapter in a story I didn’t even know I was part of. It was a legacy, shared through generations of students who felt the same pulse of energy in the pit of their stomachs when the score was tight, and the stakes were higher than ever.

Now, when asked, “Why Carolina?” or “Why is this rivalry so important?” I’ll think back to that night, to the energy I felt radiating through me, through the town, through every Carolina fan watching. It’s hard to put into words, but impossible to forget.

And maybe that’s the magic of Carolina basketball—it’s not just a sport, it’s a feeling that lingers long after the last whistle blows.

Why I Live for Fall

Happy fall, everyone! Today, I’m inviting you to dive into my favorite seasonal rituals that make autumn truly special. I hope you enjoy this reflection on how the crisp air and changing leaves inspire me amid the chaos of midterms.

If you haven’t already, check out my other blogs for Gary Kayye and ‘MEJO 577: The Branding of Me’ on my profile!

This week, I’ve felt particularly uninspired to write. Midterms and papers have consumed my thoughts, leaving little room for much else. But this morning, something shifted. As I checked the weather, my next post’s idea clicked. It was crisp outside—the first real cool front of the season in Chapel Hill—and I knew it was finally fall.

Sliding into my favorite sweatshirt, I smiled as I walked to class, embracing the change. While many crave the endless warmth of summer, I’ve always felt more alive in the cooler months. Summer is sticky and oppressive like you’re constantly battling the air around you. Fall feels like freedom—the kind that sneaks in quietly and settles in your bones. It’s the season of transitions, not just in the weather but in life itself.

This season isn’t just about the weather; it’s about the little rituals that come with it. Finally, I can wear my favorite sweaters without sweating five minutes after stepping outside. There’s something comforting about wrapping yourself in a soft knit like you’re reclaiming a piece of yourself that’s been tucked away since last year.

And of course, with fall comes Gilmore Girls season. Something about the show fits perfectly with the autumn air—the quirky charm of Stars Hollow, the endless cups of coffee, and the way the characters navigate their seasons of change. Every year, as soon as I feel that first crisp breeze, it’s time to rewatch the show. It feels like coming home, like everything is a little more manageable with Rory and Lorelai bantering in the background.

But fall also means sports. College football Saturdays and NFL Sundays set the rhythm for weekends, with the thrill of watching your favorite teams, especially my UNC Tar Heels, taking the field. There’s nothing like the roar of the crowd at Kenan Stadium, the leaves turning on campus, and the air thick with anticipation for football and basketball. And as we inch closer to basketball season, it gets even better. The excitement of knowing that soon the Tar Heels will be back on the court brings a new energy to fall. The combination of sweaters, Gilmore Girls, football, and the promise of basketball makes this season perfect.

Today’s weather transported me back to childhood when this time of year marked the highlight of the school calendar. Fall meant Halloween parties with orange and black streamers, Thanksgiving plays where we’d shuffle awkwardly in paper pilgrim hats, and the thrill of knowing Christmas was just around the corner. And then, two glorious weeks off to spend time with family, making new traditions, and reveling in the season.

It’s funny how something as simple as a cool breeze can anchor you, reminding you of who you are amidst the chaos of daily life. As an adult, I still feel that pull—the urge to slow down, to be present, to savor every moment like I used to. Fall brings with it a sense of nostalgia, yes, but also renewal.

This season reminds me that even when we feel stuck—whether in writing or life—there’s always a shift coming, something to look forward to. Today, that shift was the weather, nudging me out of my haze and bringing me back to myself.

The Stolen Future of Western North Carolina

This is a blog that I never envisioned writing or one I ever really wanted to write. However, I sit here today with tear-stained cheeks, pouring out my love and condolences to those in the western part of the state. While I have never lived there, I have always felt the sheer amount of warmth that radiates from these mountains.

To those looking to support the state after the devastation of Hurricane Helene, check out my blog post or go to: https://www.vpm.org/news/2024-10-01/hurricane-helene-donations-relief-western-north-carolina-blue-ridge-public-radio

I woke up on Friday to an eerie quiet in Chapel Hill. The hurricane had been brewing for days, and as it finally made landfall, I couldn’t stop thinking about my family in western North Carolina. Morganton, Boone, Asheville—these places feel like home, and now they are in the storm’s direct path.

As I made my coffee, alarms blared from every device I owned. The rain started, and soon after, messages flooded in from friends and family—until, abruptly, they stopped. The storm knocked out power and the internet, leaving them cut off. Helpless, I sat scrolling through photos and videos of homes drowning in floodwaters, cars floating away, and people struggling to find shelter. Everything was happening so fast, and it felt impossible to wrap my mind around the scale of the devastation.

Boone, central to my family’s story for decades, was one of the hardest-hit areas. For nearly 30 years, we’ve spent every Thanksgiving there. It’s not just a holiday tradition; it’s part of who we are. From my mom to my cousins, everyone in my family went to Appalachian State. Even my oldest sister got married in the area. Boone is where we’ve always felt grounded, where we return year after year.

All smiles as we take our newly annual hike around Boone over the Thanksgiving holiday.

But now, as I watched the storm surge through its streets, it didn’t feel like the place we’ve always known. I imagined the homes we drive past during Thanksgiving looking nothing like they used to, the familiar streets and shops submerged in water.

Chimney Rock, another place that has always felt timeless, was nearly washed away. The town, once a fortress of nature, was no match for the storm. Watching video after video of water tearing through the town felt like witnessing a piece of our state’s history disappear.

It wasn’t just buildings or roads being destroyed—it was stories. The people who built their lives there, whose children grew up in these communities, now saw everything they worked for taken away.

The loss isn’t just personal; entire rural communities feel it. For many in Weaverville, Brevard, and Canton, these stories are painfully familiar. These aren’t just names on a map—they’re homes where generations have lived, worked, and built their lives. People who know the land intimately have seen everything uprooted in an instant.

I think about the people we’ve met during our Thanksgiving trips—the shopkeepers, neighbors, and families who gather just like ours. I wonder what their lives look like now. How many have lost everything? How many won’t be able to rebuild? One might assume these small towns will recover quickly, but the truth is, some won’t. People in these rural communities have lost everything, and for many, they’ll never get it back. This storm didn’t just wash away homes—it took livelihoods, futures, and irreplaceable memories.

What breaks my heart is knowing these towns will never be the same. The mountains might still stand, but everything has changed for the families who’ve built their lives there. There’s a shared loss that goes beyond physical destruction. It’s the weight of knowing life won’t return to what it was. So many of the people of Boone, Chimney Rock, and Asheville will never have the chance to rebuild the way they once lived. It’s a loss that’s hard to measure and one that many are now grappling with.

As I sit here, safe in Chapel Hill, I can’t help but think about the pain and uncertainty these communities face. Boone has always been more than just a town for my family—it’s been a symbol of home, warmth, and tradition. Now, as we prepare to return this Thanksgiving, I know it won’t feel the same. For so many others in these rural areas, “going back” is no longer an option.

The girls and their grandpa are in Blowing Rock for their annual Christmas parade in 2011.

We’ll go back to Boone, but it will be different. For the families who can’t go back at all, who’ve seen everything they own swept away, there’s no easy path forward. What’s left behind is the question of what comes next, and for many, there are no clear answers.

For those of us who can’t be there physically, there are ways to support these communities:

• DONATE: Consider contributing to the Western North Carolina Disaster Relief Fund. Your donations provide emergency housing, food, and rebuilding efforts.

• VOLUNTEER: If you’re nearby, volunteer with local organizations like the Appalachian Community Fund, which works directly with those impacted to address immediate needs and long-term recovery.

• SUPPORT LOCAL FOOD BANKS: Local food banks like MANNA FoodBank are in desperate need of donations to ensure that families aren’t going hungry as they rebuild their lives.

Your help can make a big difference. Together, we can offer a light in these dark times. Consider donating or volunteering to aid the recovery efforts.

For many families in rural North Carolina, the future feels uncertain, but through our support, we can offer hope and help them rebuild.

It’s with a heavy heart that I write this blog, reflecting on a loss I never could have imagined. To those who have lost loved ones, homes, and everything they’ve known: we see you, we stand with you, and we are here for you. From Manteo to Murphy, North Carolina’s strength lies in our ability to come together.

Building Home, One Glass at a Time

Have you ever worked at a place that just feels like home? This week, I will be reminiscing on the past five years at one of my favorite places: Hickory Wine Shoppe. You can read about it in my blog for Gary Kayye’s ‘MEJO 577: The Branding of Me’ class!

It was a freezing December day in 2018. My dad had just picked me up from a friend’s house, and as we sped down the highway, I casually asked him what he had been up to. He paused before saying, “I want to tell you something, but keep it under wraps for now.” My heart skipped. What could this possibly be about?

“We might be buying the wine shop.”

There it was—a sentence that would change the trajectory of my life. As a 15-year-old, I was bewildered. What wine shop? Who is “we”? And, most importantly, why?

In that car ride, I learned my parents were about to buy a long-standing wine shop right in the heart of Downtown Hickory. They weren’t doing this alone either—my uncle and a close family friend would also join the venture, forming a team of four. Suddenly, the entire family mobilized, from me to my grandpa. Cleaning the three-story building from top to bottom became a collective effort. They were redesigning it, brainstorming at the dinner table, crumpling paper, and sketching plans. This wasn’t just a business—it was becoming something personal.

Then came the opening day. I was nervous, and rightly so. None of them had experience running a serving-style establishment. My parents, juggling full-time jobs, had poured every spare minute into making it work, but would it? And, as if that wasn’t enough, a few months later, COVID-19 hit. The shop had to pivot to bottle sales and to-go orders. All the hours they had spent renovating and building something warm and welcoming suddenly felt fragile like it could slip away.

Through it all, the family kept going. My sisters, cousins and I cycled in and out, working as our schedules allowed. The minute I turned 16, I was in the kitchen, earning my keep and soaking in the experience. My middle sister was serving, and there was rarely a day when my parents weren’t there. Even in the toughest times, the late nights when we locked the doors and turned the “open” sign around, there was a sense of calm—a sense of family.

At 18, I started serving, and that’s when I truly understood what the wine shop was about. It wasn’t just about business; it was about people. I met customers from all across the state, and sometimes from across the country. Everyone knew all the owners—they were the heart of it all—and I got to work with some of the best people I’d ever met. Even when my immediate family wasn’t around, I felt surrounded by another kind of family.

When I think back to the frustration of a wrong order or an unhappy customer, I smile now. Those nights spent working alongside my family made everything worth it. The wine shop wasn’t just a shop—it was where we celebrated birthdays, engagement parties, baby showers, and milestones. My 21st birthday? Spent right there. It became our home.

Of course, it came at a cost. Over the past five years, my parents missed a lot—football games, award ceremonies—but I’ve grown to understand why. While I was in high school, committing to friends and sports, they were building a space where everyone could feel welcome.

Now, every time I go home, I can’t wait to step through the doors of Hickory Wine Shoppe. Sometimes I even work a shift—not just for the extra cash, though that’s always helpful—but because I love the place. It’s more than a job or a business; it’s where I reconnect with my family, where our history is written across every wine glass and every late-night laugh. It’s where I feel the heartbeat of our community—customers who’ve become familiar faces, people who stop in just to chat, and the incredible staff who are truly at the heart of it all. They’re not just employees; they’re family too. They’re the ones who kept things going when the rest of us were juggling everything else, always with a smile, always welcoming every person as they belong.

And in a way, everyone does belong at Hickory Wine Shoppe. It’s a place where no one is a stranger for long. Whether it’s a local who’s been coming for years or someone passing through, they’re met with the same warmth and connection. There’s something special about a space like that, where people gather, celebrate, and, sometimes, just escape the chaos of life for a little while.

When I think about all the moments—the birthday parties, the engagement celebrations, the late nights when the shop felt like the only place that mattered—I realize it’s not just a wine shop. It’s our home. It’s where we’ve laughed, cried, and worked together through thick and thin. It’s a piece of who we are.

So if you ever find yourself in Hickory, stop by Hickory Wine Shoppe. Not just for the wine (though trust me, it’s great), but for the people. For the moments that feel like home. And who knows—you might just see me there, pouring a glass and smiling because, deep down, I know this place will always be a part of me.

Scrolling, Sipping and Surviving

Happy Monday, everyone! Today I am taking you on a journey throughout a typical day in the life of a 21-year-old girl. I hope you enjoy this lighthearted and cheesy blog where I relish in my simple, basic pleasures. If you haven’t already, check out my other blogs I have written for Gary Kayye’s and my ‘MEJO 577: The Branding of Me’ class on my profile.

I’ve spent the last few weeks using my blog as an outlet for my creative writing—letting everyone get to know a different side of me that’s vulnerable and real. I’ve poured my heart out about some pretty personal stuff, from my experiences with OCD to my thoughts on womanhood. It’s been deep, reflective, and maybe a little too much overthinking for my own good. But today? Today, I’m hitting pause on the introspection. I want to show you another side of me—one that’s just as real and vulnerable, but, let’s face it—way more fun.

Because here’s the thing: most of the time, I’m not pondering life’s big questions or breaking down societal norms. I’m just a basic 21-year-old girl, living my best life. I love reading books (the more rom-com, the better), I’m obsessed with music (and by “music,” I mean Taylor Swift, Harry Styles, and anyone TikTok tells me to love), and I watch the kind of cheesy TV shows that would make film critics break out in hives. (Gilmore Girls, Dancing with the Stars, I’m looking at you.)

And just like every other 21-year-old girl, I am going to prove my basicness by walking you through a typical day in my life. Spoiler alert: It’s filled with iced coffee, social media, and TikTok trends.

As soon as I wake up, the first thing I do—naturally—is shove my phone in my face to catch up on all the notifications and social media I might have missed overnight. Did I miss anything life-changing? Of course not. But that doesn’t stop me from scrolling through Instagram, and TikTok and checking a hundred group chats just to make sure.

Once I’m convinced the world didn’t fall apart without me, I roll out of bed and start getting ready for work or class. Step one: clip my hair back using the latest TikTok Shop hair clips (which may or may not actually do anything). Then, it’s time for my trendy skincare routine, because apparently slathering overpriced serums on my face is the key to adulthood. Do I fully understand what these products do? Not at all. But they look cute on my bathroom shelf, so who cares?

After spending too much time on my face, it’s on to my curated makeup routine—brought to you by my favorite influencers. While I’m doing this, I’ve usually got a sitcom running in the background, because why not? This week’s pick: Seinfeld. Before heading out the door, I whip up my non-negotiable iced coffee and grab a bagel. Oh, and let’s not forget my goodbye ritual with my cat, Mr. Milo—because who else is going to take care of this household while I’m gone?

Now, onto the commute. Some days, I like to feel productive and tune into Morning Brew Daily so I can pretend I’m up to date on the news. You know, for those times when I want to feel like a responsible, informed adult. But let’s be real—most mornings, I need something to distract me from the fact that I have to function like a human, which means I’m usually listening to Brooke and Connor Make a Podcast to laugh off my anxiety about all the tasks I’m about to do.

By the time the work or school day is over, I’m ready to decompress with the most important ritual of all: TikTok. Sure, this is technically the first time I’m opening the app today (a little self-restraint during the day goes a long way), but once I’m home, all bets are off. I light my Bath & Body Works candle (because ambiance is everything), get comfy, and scroll through TikTok until my thumb is sore, or until I’ve seen enough weird conspiracy theories to keep me entertained for the next 24 hours.

After a solid TikTok session, I eventually get back to being productive—schoolwork, side projects, cleaning, whatever needs doing. But when it’s time to wind down for the night, it’s back to the classics. My roommate and I settle in for some quality TV time, usually involving The Bachelor, Dancing With The Stars, or whatever ridiculous reality show is on that week. We bond over snarky commentary and snacks, because what’s better than that?

To end the night, I crack open whatever book I’m currently reading, usually something light and fun to balance out the chaos of the day. Right now, I am in the middle of reading the A Court of Thorns and Roses Series (stay tuned for a book review). It’s always a rom-com or a silly fiction read—nothing too serious because seriously, I’ve had enough deep thinking for the week. I do my wind-down skin routine and crawl in bed with my cat—a great end to the day.

So there you have it—my unapologetically basic day in life. Is it predictable? Maybe. Am I living for every iced coffee, TikTok trend, and cheesy reality TV show? Absolutely. Being basic doesn’t mean being boring. It just means I know what I like, and I’m fully embracing it. Because at the end of the day, why complicate life when the little things can make you happy?

I’m not going to pretend I’m above the trends, because I’m definitely not. Being basic is comfortable, it’s fun, and it’s not as serious as people make it out to be.

So yeah, maybe my life looks like a montage from a TikTok “Day in the Life” video. And maybe that makes me basic, but I’m okay with that. I’ve embraced it. There’s something freeing about leaning into the things you love without trying to prove that you’re more unique or different than anyone else. Sometimes, the most ordinary things are what make life extraordinary. So here’s to more podcasts, more Taylor Swift, more TikTok trends, and more moments of just being unapologetically me.

Resilience, Radiance and Redefining Womanhood

I am writing this week’s blog as a tribute to the strong women in my life. Join me as I explore how these influences have helped me navigate the expectations of womanhood and carve out my own space in the world.

If you haven’t already, check out the other blog posts I have made for Gary Kayye’s ‘MEJO 577: The Branding of Me’ class on my profile to keep up with my journey as I tell my story.

I was four when I first noticed there were different rules for boys and girls. That morning, I dressed myself, proudly choosing my long, plaid shorts and a blue shirt—one of my favorite outfits. I felt so good about my choice.

When I arrived at preschool, a boy looked at me, confused. “What are you wearing?” he asked. I stared at him, unsure of what he meant. I looked down, double-checking for a stain or tear. Before I could respond, he blurted, “Girls can’t wear blue.”

His words struck me like a bolt of lightning. I didn’t understand. Why couldn’t I wear something just because I was a girl? That confusion has stayed with me, marking one of the first times I realized the world had expectations for girls that didn’t make sense to me.

As I grew up, these subtle reminders of what was “appropriate” for girls continued. However, my understanding of womanhood was shaped more by the strong women in my family than by societal expectations.

My mom is the first and clearest example of strength in my life. I remember one night waking up to find her still working at the kitchen table long after she had put us to bed. She was raising three daughters, balancing work and family life, and getting a Master’s degree all at once. Watching her juggle all these responsibilities taught me that being a woman means being resilient. I remember countless nights when she stayed up late working on her assignments. She never let anything shake her, not even when times were hard. I felt a mix of awe and comfort, knowing she was the backbone of our family.

Whether managing our household or standing up for what she believed in, she faced challenges with determination and calm that made me feel everything would always be okay. Watching her, I learned that strength isn’t just about power or force; it’s about persistence, love, and leadership. My mom’s quiet strength grounded our family, and her ability to handle everything with grace is something I aspire to every day.

Then there were my sisters, both much older than me—one ten years older, the other six years. As the baby of the family, I spent a lot of time watching them navigate their paths to womanhood. It felt like I had a guidebook just by observing them.

My older sister, a teenager when I was still in elementary school, seemed to have everything figured out. She always knew who she was and never let the world change that. I remember sneaking into her room just to watch her get ready for school, marveling at how sure of herself she seemed.

Her independence was something I admired from a young age. She taught me that being a woman means owning who you are unapologetically and standing by your decisions. As I grew older, we became closer, sharing secrets and dreams. The lessons she unknowingly taught me have stayed with me throughout my life and on my path to womanhood.

My other sister, just a few years younger than her, brought a different kind of strength to my life. She was always there, balancing her teenage years with being a role model for me. I vividly remember her helping me with a school project late into the night, even though she had her homework to finish.

She showed me that strength also comes from vulnerability. She wasn’t afraid to show her emotions, to ask for help when she needed it, and to care deeply about the people in her life.

Her strength lay in her openness and empathy—qualities that society sometimes underestimates but that are truly powerful. Growing up with her guidance helped me realize that strength isn’t always about being tough; sometimes, it’s about being true to yourself, even when that means embracing your softer side. I know she wanted to bite my head off sometimes when I was younger, but she always let me tag along–and I continuously admire her courage for putting up with my annoying, childish self.

Having much older sisters gave me a unique perspective. I watched them move through life stages before I reached them, learning from their experiences, successes, and struggles. They shaped how I understood womanhood—not just in terms of what society expects, but in how each of us can define it for ourselves.

Even my dad played a role in shaping my understanding of womanhood. Outnumbered 4 to 1 in our household, he embraced the strength of the women around him. I remember him cheering the loudest as I cheered for the football team, always telling me, “You can do anything you set your mind to.” He encouraged us to be who we were and never made us feel like being girls was a limitation. He celebrated it.

My dad always told us that we could achieve anything we wanted, and his belief in us reinforced the lessons we were learning from our mom and sisters—that being a woman wasn’t about fitting into a mold but about creating your path.

Together, these strong influences in my family helped me realize that womanhood is multifaceted. It’s about resilience, confidence, and compassion. It’s about standing tall in the face of challenges but also about nurturing relationships and showing love. Each woman in my life taught me that strength doesn’t look the same for everyone, but it’s there in all of us.

Looking back, I realize that the boy in my preschool class wasn’t trying to harm me. He was simply reflecting the ideas society had already instilled in him at such a young age. His words, though simple, represented the unspoken rules society tries to place on women—rules I’ve spent my life learning to break. I’m grateful to have had the women in my life to show me how.

As I reflect on what it means to be a woman today, I’m filled with gratitude for the women in my family who showed me that there’s no one way to define strength or womanhood. They taught me that no matter what expectations society places on us, we have the power to define who we are.

Thank you to my mom for teaching me the power of resilience, to my older sisters for showing me the importance of confidence and vulnerability, and to the women around the world who continue to break barriers and rewrite the rules—thank you. Because of you, the next generation of girls will know they can wear whatever color they want, and they’ll know their strength isn’t limited by what the world expects of them.

Overthinking, Overcoming and Owning My Story

This week, I am taking a different approach to my blog for Gary Kayye’s ‘MEJO 577: The Branding of Me’ class. In this blog, I share my journey with anxiety and OCD, from childhood fears to eventual diagnosis and growth. Whether you’re navigating your mental health journey or supporting someone who is, this blog is a reminder that you’re not alone and that kindness and understanding can make all the difference.

When I was younger, I lived with debilitating anxiety, though I never thought much of it. I was too young to recognize that what I was experiencing wasn’t normal. At night, I would lie in bed, and my mind would race with dark thoughts, usually about my family and me meeting the worst possible fate I could imagine—death. It wasn’t just once in a while; this was nightly, a ritual where I would pray over and over until I finally drifted off to sleep, hoping that nothing bad would happen.

As I grew older, these thoughts started to evolve into something more consuming. It wasn’t just about my family anymore. My thoughts turned inward, becoming fixated on myself and my body. I developed obsessive fears about getting sick and dying. For months, I couldn’t eat without counting each chew, making sure I chewed my food the “right” number of times. Somehow, in my young mind, that was the only way I could avoid choking, an embarrassing fate that terrified me. I believed everyone had strange thoughts like this, so I didn’t question it too much. But while I stayed active and social, there was always this background noise in my head—these intrusive thoughts that followed me everywhere.

In 8th grade, I had an allergic reaction that came out of nowhere, causing my body to swell and break out in hives. To this day, I still don’t know what triggered it. But what came after was even more disorienting. For weeks, I lived in constant fear that every piece of food I ate might cause another reaction. I scrutinized every meal, feeling like I was walking on eggshells around my own body. And yet, like all the other bouts of anxiety I had faced, this one eventually faded.

But the relief never lasted. These episodes followed me throughout my life, some more severe than others. When I was a freshman in high school, a deep-seated fear of nausea took over my mind. It became a constant companion, filling me with relentless anxiety. My fear of getting sick was so intense that I ended up throwing up almost daily, morning and night. The anxiety fed into itself, and it spiraled out of control. I went to the doctor and found out I had lost around 30 pounds. My weight had dropped to an unhealthy level, below the target for my age and height. I was an active member of my school’s cheerleading team, but the constant light-headedness made practice unbearable, and, of course, it only fueled my anxiety even more.

Yet, like the other instances, this fear eventually faded. It came and went, leaving me to believe that I just had waves of generalized anxiety. For years, I ignored the other little things—my compulsion to arrange certain objects in a very specific way, my strange fear of getting too close to electrical sockets, and the nagging urge to check that the doors were locked multiple times before I could go to sleep.

Up until my senior year of high school, I lived with all of these behaviors and anxieties, thinking they were just a normal part of life. But that year, something shifted. During spring break, I started feeling more anxious than I had in a long time, with no real explanation for why. It was overwhelming, and suddenly, my biggest fear became my anxiety itself. My OCD latched onto that fear, amplifying it. Even the simple act of getting out of bed felt like a monumental task. I was terrified of having a panic attack in public, convinced that anxiety would swallow me whole if I left the house. Every normal activity turned into a battleground for my biggest fears. What if I had a panic attack while driving and crashed my car? What if these feelings never went away?

As time went on, the intensity of my anxiety cooled, but I still didn’t fully understand what was happening. I went through talk therapy and filled my days with distractions as high school graduation approached. My anxiety still loomed, but I managed to push through and function, even if I wasn’t entirely okay. I had spent most of my life ignoring my mental health issues, hoping they would go away if I pretended they didn’t exist. But mental health doesn’t work like that. You can only push it down for so long before it comes back stronger than ever.

It wasn’t until my sophomore year of college that things started to become clearer. One of my best friends from childhood began opening up to me about her recent struggles with OCD. As she described her experience, I realized that what she was saying felt oddly familiar. The way her thoughts spiraled, the rituals she felt compelled to follow—it was like she was describing me. I had heard of OCD before, but I never thought it applied to me. Yet as my friend talked more about her struggles, and as I saw more about OCD on social media, I started connecting the dots. Everything I had experienced, from my obsessive thoughts to my compulsive behaviors, suddenly made sense. But because I had ignored my symptoms for so long, they came back with a vengeance.

That summer after my sophomore year felt eerily similar to my senior year of high school. I could feel myself sinking under the weight of my anxiety. At that point, it felt like there was nothing that didn’t trigger my OCD. I often told my mom that I wished I could unzip my skin and crawl out of it—anything to escape the constant feeling of unease. It was exhausting. I saw therapists and doctors, and they finally confirmed what I had come to suspect: I had OCD.

When I hear people casually say, “Oh, I’m so OCD about that,” I struggle with it. It’s hard to explain to people that while, yes, my OCD might make me neat or particular about certain things, it also brings me an immense amount of discomfort. Although I know I’m in control of my mind and body, it often feels like someone else is driving the car, and I’m just along for the ride.

With the help of my family, doctors, and therapists, I’ve reached a place of acceptance. OCD is a part of me, but it doesn’t define me. I’m incredibly thankful for my best friend, who shares these struggles and knows exactly what I’m going through. I’ve also found outlets that help me quiet my mind—meditation, yoga, medication, and leaning on my friends. Through all of this, I’ve learned to face OCD head-on and remind myself that this is my life and that I’m the one in control.

I’m not writing this blog to gain sympathy. I’m writing it to give others hope. Almost two years ago, my friend shared her experience with me, and it helped me find clarity. Now, I’m here to share my story with all of you. No matter what you’re going through, no matter what your diagnosis is or isn’t, you are not alone. You are represented somewhere in the world.

As Suicide Prevention Month comes to a close, I’m reminded of the importance of kindness. Throughout my journey, I met people who brightened my day with small gestures, showing me that I am more than my mental health struggles. So, I challenge you today: tell someone you love them, reach out to someone who might need it, and offer kindness to a stranger. You never know what someone might be going through, and sometimes, the smallest act can make all the difference.

Football, Family and the Feeling of Fall

Today, I am writing my blog for UNC Hussman School of Journalism and Media and Gary Kayye’s ‘MEJO 577: The Branding of Me’ class about the game of American football. From Panthers touchdowns to family fun, join me as I share the stories and warmth of fall weekends that bring us all together.

Sundays in the fall have always been more than just a day of rest for me—they’re a ritual. Every Sunday afternoon, I curl up on the couch, remote in hand, ready for a full day of the National Football League. This routine, this love for football, has been with me since childhood, a small tradition passed down from my dad. Even as a little girl, I knew the start of fall by the unmistakable sound of roaring fans on the TV, a signal that football season had arrived.

In our house in Hickory, North Carolina, surrounded by a family full of girls, my dad was on a mission: make us Panthers fans, through and through. And it worked. We had no other option, actually. The Carolina Panthers were in our blood. Every Sunday, my sisters and I would put on our pink Jake Delhomme jerseys—if you’re a Panthers fan, you know that’s a throwback—and we’d run around the house, belting out the Sunday Night Football theme song. There was a certain magic in the air, especially when the Panthers secured a win.

Sundays weren’t just about football, though. They were about family. My mom’s cornbread, my dad’s chili (strictly reserved for post-kickoff), and the collective excitement that filled our living room made each Sunday feel like the best day of the week. Football Sundays were cozy, like a warm hug, your grandma’s cookies, or the first sip of a perfect pumpkin spice latte. They were the bouquet of fresh flowers on the kitchen table that signaled the start of fall—my favorite season.

Now, as a college student, Sundays bring a different energy. There’s the looming cloud of Monday and the inevitable stress it carries. Homework to finish. Papers to submit. Projects to coordinate. But this past Sunday marked the first NFL Sunday of the year, and with it, all the magic of those childhood weekends came rushing back.

I woke up to the rarest of things in my poorly air-conditioned apartment this past Sunday—a cool breeze. The weather app confirmed it was the coolest day of the year yet. It was as if the weight of summer had lifted, and fall was just within reach. With that crisp air came memories. I could feel my dad’s cheers echoing in my ears, the warmth of my family crowded around the TV, and the smile that always spread across my face.

Though I’m now 130 miles from home, football Sundays still tether me to those memories. The moment NFL RedZone hums through my TV, I’m transported back to my parents’ couch, where all the best Sundays live.

So, here’s to Sundays filled with football, couch lounging, and the sweet taste of nostalgia. And yes, we can all agree, that NFL RedZone should definitely be cheaper.

Lattes, London, and Learning to Embrace Change

As a part of my Mejo 577: The branding of me class here at the Hussman School of Journalism and media, professor gary kayye has challenged us to write blog posts every week. This week, we were told to write about whatever we felt inspireD us. Keep reading to see how iced coffee changed my life. I have always wanted to write blog posts, so thank you gary for pushing us to do these assignments each week. I look forward to doing this the rest of the semester and beyond!

The year was 2016. The air was crisp as my sister and I sped down familiar roads in our little red car, the sun dipping just enough to cast that golden afternoon glow. We were on a mission, a simple one—an afternoon pick-me-up. “Let’s go to Dunkin’ Donuts,” my sister suggested. At the time, I didn’t really know much about Dunkin’, but I trusted her judgment.

This is where I met my first iced vanilla latte.

As I took that initial sip, expecting some life-altering epiphany or at least a rush of joy, I was hit with disappointment. My face crinkled in displeasure, the flavor not matching the hype. From that day, I swore off coffee, certain it wasn’t for me. Little did I know, coffee had other plans.

Fast forward to 2019—New York City at Christmastime. The air was cool, the kind of cold that nips at your cheeks just enough to make you feel alive. My family and I were exploring the city, tired from a long bus ride, and suddenly, I felt something I’d never experienced before: the craving for caffeine. We ducked into a cozy coffee shop, and this time, something shifted. A hot latte in hand, strolling through the bustling streets of Manhattan, it clicked. There was a rhythm to it—the city, the coffee, the energy of people. I finally understood the allure.

Then came the summer after my sophomore year, and with it, an office job. Every day I’d wake up, head to work, and spend eight hours in a small, stuffy office. The monotony was draining. I felt like a hollow version of myself, mentally burned out, aching for something more. I spent days curled up in bed, frustration and uncertainty weighing me down. Why wasn’t this the life I had imagined? Where was the fulfillment?

In that haze of confusion, I knew I needed change—something drastic, something new. That’s when I stumbled upon a study abroad program in London. The thought of it tugged at me, a gentle nudge from somewhere deep within. I could feel the pull of the city before I even stepped foot there. And so, it was decided: London would be my fresh start.

My parents joined me as we ventured through the UK, the landscapes and cities as enchanting as I’d dreamed. But as their trip neared its end and my solo adventure was just beginning, panic set in. I had never lived alone in a foreign city, let alone one as vast as London. What if this wasn’t what I was supposed to do? What if I failed?

But London had a way of grounding me, and so did the simple ritual I found each morning: an iced latte. There was a coffee shop near my flat, the kind of place that feels like a self-sanctuary. And in a city where ice is a rare commodity, this shop never let me down. Each morning and afternoon, I’d order the same thing, savoring the comfort in the consistency of that cool drink as I navigated unfamiliar streets and challenges.

Weeks went by. The classes were tough, and while I made friends from around the world, my mind often drifted back home. Were my friends and family okay without me? Did they miss me as much as I missed them? The time difference didn’t make things easier, and anxiety ebbed and flowed. Was I making the right choices? Was London really where I was meant to be?

And yet, every morning, like clockwork, the coffee was there.

Each day as I commuted to class, latte in hand, I couldn’t help but think back to that moment in New York. Something about it—about the caffeine, the city, the sense of purpose—made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I was on the right path.

Over time, I found ways to ground myself. Yoga, meditation, journaling, and yes, coffee. London became not just a place of study, but a place of self-discovery. I learned to cope with being thousands of miles away from the people I loved, with only my inner strength—and an occasional iced latte—to guide me.

Change has always terrified me, but London taught me to embrace it. It’s constant, after all, and resisting it only makes life harder. So now, I let change come and go. I try new things—a haircut, a different workout, and yes, new flavors of coffee. And I’ve realized that sometimes, the smallest things can lead to the most profound shifts.

So, thank you, London, for your endless cups of iced lattes and for showing me that comfort can come from the unexpected. I’ll never forget how damn good that latte tasted after a morning on the Underground, a reminder that sometimes, all we need is a little caffeine and a lot of courage.