I can vividly remember the days of my childhood when hot air met cold air; the days when the night sky looked as dark as the smudged ink on my fingertips. A bolt of lightning flashed spectacularly across the night’s ruptured black abyss with thunder roaring its mighty approval.
April 23, 1994
I am trying to get used to this new jacket I was given: the year of 23. It seems a little big and roomy and it is not one that I have quickly clung to like I did the year of 22. 22 was a sparkly coat, fun and exciting with some swanky slacks to pair with it. Perhaps 22 was portrayed to be the “cool year” and Taylor Swift is to blame for it. My former 21-year-old self quickly embraced the twin digit number with open arms. But 23? 23 seems grown up, serious, has all its ducks in a row.
We’ve all been told at one point or another in our lives that college will be “the best four years of your life.”
So what happens when college is not like this? What happens when it rains 4 out of 7 days a week and you have to work weekend nights while everyone else goes out to party? What happens when you hate your roommate, you’re failing chemistry, or you simply feel you don’t belong?
I am Catholic.
I am a woman.
I am pro-life.
I am a feminist.
I would like to make it explicitly known that this is an opinion piece. What good is this blog if it’s not representative of who I am? I’ve shown triumph in all aspects of my life — personal and professional. My blog is largely about self care and regaining control and acceptance of your body. This post is about human life and the concept of how I define it. I do what I believe is right and in the interest of all human life. I hope this can be deduced from my blog that this is who I am – a life activist.