I believe in the power of self-acceptance. Sometimes when life is going south, it really is going south, and there is nothing we can do about it. Growing up, I was always told to figure out a solution, and I would push myself to do so. This energetic pursuit of resolution used to be something I was so proud of, and I once believed that it defined who I am.

People would tell me to “think harder,” “try your best,” or that I’d “do better next time.” Although such advice seems comforting and motivating – it never alleviated my insecurities underneath. If I fail or make mistakes, then it means I’m simply not pushing myself hard enough. There’s always room for improvement, but there is no for my own comfort. It took me years to realize that the positivity floating around me was, instead, an unnecessary and burdensome disguise of unrealistic expectations.

 In the summer of 2019, my best friend – who I looked up to during my childhood – was having a hard time. I was shocked and overwhelmed because she was my go-to person for any advice. She was the kind of person who turned her test in first, who people went to if they needed help on their math homework, and someone who always seemed to know where her life was heading. 

 We had the longest conversation that summer. Even when I tried to deny it, I couldn’t ignore the subtle uneasiness in my heart as I was talking to her. I struggled to find the right emotions to face my best friend from kindergarten, someone who I thought did not have any weak spots and would never falter. I was deciding between compassion, which I assumed she did not need, and pure sadness, which would make things worse. I was faced with a person who was once composed, but now lost and seeking comfort in me. In the end, I said, “Don’t worry, you got this, and everything will be back to normal soon.”

When those words left my mouth, I suddenly realized that they could have been the last straw that she was hearing all this time. Even if things didn’t go back to the right track, she would still be my perfect best friend, the most fun and caring soul I know. Maybe there is a time when we realize that we are just not strong enough, not smart enough, or simply just lost in our lives. There is nothing else we can do, but what’s wrong with that?

In retrospect, the cause of my pressure was the self-imposed expectation of being good enough, as well as the fear of letting others down. However, when I’m in the shoes of someone else, I know deep down that I just want to hug the people I care for and let them know that whatever happens. The outcome doesn’t carry as much weight as we imagine. Through the events in our lives, good or bad, we learn who we are and what matters to us. It’s not about creating a happily ever after—it’s about taking it one step at a time and accepting that we’ll go through times when we won’t feel satisfied.

It’s fine to not have things figured out. It’s fine to make awkward silly mistakes, and even more than twice. I accept this fact, and I accept myself. I know I’m loved in many ways. 

Here you’ll find my own posts about rhetoric and writing. Most importantly, some of my students’ work are archived here and linked to from other parts of the site. All student work is posted by permission, and sometimes their names are withheld or changed by their requests.

by Idrees Musa

Idrees Musa is a student in his sophomore year at Emory University. He plans to concentrate in business while also pursuing studies in Arabic. Idrees is an avid member of his university’s Food Chain, Muslim Students Association, and the Pakistani Students Association.

“Do what’s right.”

It’s a pretty cliché statement. We’ve heard it so many times that it’s kinda lost its meaning. We all have different ideas of what’s right or wrong, but no matter what you believe in,

I believe that you should always do what you believe is right. It may be simple, but it isn’t easy, at least not for me.

As a Muslim, I have to pray five times a day. There is one prayer I have to complete approximately between 8 and 9 p.m. The other day I’m in my university’s student center, I check the time, it’s 8:45, and I have to pray by 9. There’s no time for me to go back to my dorm so that means I have to pray in the student center, which means that other people are going to see me prostrate with my forehead on the ground.

That thought makes me very uncomfortable to the point that I consider missing the prayer altogether, but then I ask myself the fundamental question: What do I believe is the right thing to do? I know what the right thing to do is; I just have to do it. So, I find an open space and pray there. Even though I initially felt awkward knowing that people were watching me, afterwards I got a sense of confidence and serene fulfillment that I honestly hadn’t felt in a while. Although I attribute some of this fulfillment to be a result of my spiritual state, the bulk of it came from me simply doing what I believe is right.

Doing what you believe is right applies to small tasks just as much as it applies to big ones. We all have goals and hold fundamental values, but we may often lose sight of them in our day-to-day lives. And if you don’t, I know that I do.

I have the typical goals of wanting to do well in school so that I can attain a great career, and I strive to eventually lead a life where I enjoy both my work and leisure time. This is a fairly big goal, but one that is certainly attainable; unfortunately, I sometimes act as though it doesn’t exist. When I’m lying in bed on a Tuesday night and scrolling through Instagram knowing full well I have a paper due the next day, am I really following what I believe in? Do I even believe in my goals?

If I ask myself this question explicitly, I’ll say, “Of course I do.” But my actions certainly don’t reflect this belief. In order to act on what I believe, I have to continually ask myself the question, what do I believe is the right thing to do? Not once a year, or once a week, but every time I face a meaningful decision, big or small. This definitely isn’t an easy thing to do, and sometimes I may end up mentally straining myself. But if we can all strive to ask ourselves this question more often, there is no doubt we will bring ourselves closer to realizing our goals and maintaining our essential values

by <Name Withheld>

I am a third year college student and my major is Comparative Literature. I’m from Bethlehem, Georgia. The people in my life are the best part of it. 

I believe in being present. I believe that being present is complicated, and I realize this more than ever as I try to help my good friend find a job. I am sitting on the porch with him. He has been struggling over the past year to find a job, to properly eat, to live, to find a way to breathe. He is on his phone, as he mostly is when he isn’t engaging in people. He looks at the screen and pulls away from it to complain. Little else. 

Meanwhile, I remain completely distracted by my racing thoughts, and I can’t seem to focus on any branch on the tree in front of me. I can’t find it in me to relax. I look over to my buddy Pete, a morbidly obese kid of 21 with a sharp widow’s peak and icy blue eyes. He is lying back and smoking a cigarette next to me. He isn’t on his phone any longer, so his face and eyes are still and straight ahead. I ask him what he is thinking about, and he looks over at me. “Nothing,” he says.  He claims that he can keep his mind blank on pretty days like this. That he is looking at the tree in front of him and “that’s it.”

I ask him if he has ever tried meditating. He says he tried it when he was a kid, and he hated it. 

“Waste of time,” he crows. I tell him he should try again, and he goes on about how Instagram is good enough for him. 

We remain on the porch in silence for a little while, both looking at the same tree in front of the porch. Him: looking at the tree, counting its leaves, enjoying its shape. Me: trying as hard as I can to focus despite the rush of thoughts permeating my head. 

Pete spends almost all of his time inside on the computer. I do not spend my life that way at all. I struggle to remain present, but I wish for it desperately in the quietest and loudest of moments. He becomes present as he chooses, but rarely decides to unless he is connecting with others. 

Presence is hard to achieve for different people in different ways. Distinctions in desire and ability are two key ways of understanding one’s journey towards an ever-fleeting goal. Peter’s journey toward a present life could hold a change in will and desire for presence more so than a change in ability to obtain it, while mine could be the opposite. Both journeys contain stops and breaths, but neither will reach their ideal destinations because presence will never stay completely.

For a body to be totally absent, it must be dead. But just because a body is physically present does not mean it is living completely. Life is active. Living presently is not easy in the slightest, but I believe that to constantly redirect oneself to a state of presence is to reach for a colorful life fully lived. 

This is the kind of life I strive for every day, and the kind of life I wish for my buddy Pete.

by <Name Withheld>

I am a junior at Emory University studying economics. I am heavily involved with on campus extracurriculars, especially in the realms of student government. I believe in smiling, and the beauty of the life we have been blessed with.

I believe in smiles. Soft smiles, Cheesing, laughing, smirks. Full teeth and just the lips. Every smile of all shapes and sizes. Diagnosable by that upward tug at the corners of your mouth, the slight eye crinkle.

Numerous scientific studies have linked smiling to increased dopamine and serotonin levels in the brain, the neurotransmitters responsible for happiness and stress responses. The results: lower heart rates, decreased blood pressure, decreased muscle tension (the body relaxing), and even increased immune system responses. In other words, smiling is scientifically healthy for you.

That’s not why I believe in smiling.

I believe in smiling because of the way it connects us as humans.

I attribute almost all of the friends I have made though out life due to smiling. Even the most crotchety old man can be reached and softened with a nice smile and a simple hello.

I don’t have a particular story about one smile that changed my world because I’ve been blessed to see a variety of smiles, across all walks of life. Each of them has brightened my days. Each smile has made my life better.

Here’s a few from the past days that have been particularly impactful:

The smile of my best friend as he put his glasses back on after getting a haircut and could see himself, and his new haircut, clearly in the mirror. A self confident smile, content with life and proud of the moment.

The smile I exchanged with a random member of the Emory administration at the unveiling event for the new Student Center, as we both marveled at the beautiful space and fun ceremonies. A smile of camaraderie and shared experience.

The smile on my face, mirrored on the face of a good friend, as we recognized each other walking toward each other on the sidewalk. A smile of recognition, of friendship, of joy at our past experiences and potential future.

The smile of a girl as she held the door open for me at the library, and I said thank you. A smile of strangers, doing nice for each other.

When I smile at others I can see them, even if for just a moment, pick their chin up and put their shoulders back, and stand proud and smile back. It is, in my experience, a near universal response to an unexpected smile.

When others smile at me, it makes me feel valued and seen. It conveys a sense of happiness, and it makes me want to smile back.

Smiles are contagious and irresistible, communicating without words the abundant fun in our collective experience, the limitless bounds of happiness. Smiles are universal, the only currency accepted in any corner of the world, the only language spoken across every border. Like beams of moonlight, smiles illuminate what they touch, and, are by their very nature, a reflection of prior illumination.

I smile to pass on the light shown to me, to connect with others, and to remind myself of the simple joy of living. 

by <Name Withheld>

The speaker is a native Floridian and senior at Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia. She is an English and History major with aspiration of becoming an attorney, specializing in Education Law.

I grabbed another Lysol wipe, to wipe down the second cluster of tables. The teacher who I had been assigned to, Ms. Baker, had just left to walk the some of the first graders to the car-pickup spot. I had been coming to her classroom once a week in the afternoon to help her students with their math and word recognition skills.

On this particular day though, she did not have her usual stack of sticky papers for me to grade, so I decided to make myself useful elsewhere. I thought about what would please her, and what would make the next day a more enjoyable time for her and her students. So, I decided to tidy up the classroom. I borrowed a broom and dustpan from one of the teachers next door and swept the floor filled with broken crayons, scraps of paper, and a student’s homework assignment. After sweeping the floors, I moved on to clean the desks, trying to disinfect the tabletops where kids would sneeze, paying particular attention to the marker drawings on the surface.

I had just gotten to the next group of tables when one of the first graders spoke to me. She was the only student left in the room. She was waiting to be notified that her bus had arrived to the school.

She was sitting at her desk, which was pushed off to the farthest corners of the room, away from all other desks, not in a group, in an isolated corner, facing the wall. I hadn’t had the chance to work with her for entire time that I had been serving there as a tutor.

“Do you work here?” she asked. “No” I replied. I assumed she was asking me if I worked as a teacher or held if I held a staff position at the school full-time. “Then what do you do that people like?” she asked. I laughed a little to myself because of the way she equated “work” with “pleasing people.” I laughed because I thought that it was a cute thing that an adult, perhaps her parents, told her about what work was—an innocent explanation as to what “having a job” really means.

But who really seeks out a job with the intentions of pleasing people? Who chooses a career path based on what people want? I only know people who work to survive, make money, pay bills, or more commonly, do what pleases them. After all, it was wise man who once said, “If you do what you love, you’ll never work a day in your life.”

I continued cleaning, but I thought back to the reason why I decided to tidy up the classroom in the first place, why I decided to tutor low-income students—because I wanted to please Ms. Baker. I wanted to please the students, their parents, the school, the teachers.  I wasn’t there to clean nor did Ms. Baker tell me to. I simply cleaned because I knew she would appreciate it. I enjoy doing things that people will like. But I think this is generally thought of as simply service work or volunteering, not actual work. I used to think that work takes into no account of the feelings of others. Ask anyone what they do for a living, and I’m pretty sure no one will begin by telling you how so many people like what they do.

But I am determined to work with people in mind. To one day explain to strangers that what I do for a living are things people like. What I do for a living is pleasing to others.

by Divyaansh Raj

I am a senior from Livingston, New Jersey. I am pre-med pursuing a double major in Neuroscience and Behavioral Biology and Economics. On-campus, I serve as the president of the Student Alliance for Health Involvement (SAHI) and of Suri, a Bollywood fusion a Cappella group. Additionally, I serve as a mentor and treasurer for the Emory Pipeline Collaborative, work as a TA for Organic Chemistry and Biology, as an editor for the Emory Undergraduate Medical Review, and serve as an RA in Raoul Hall.  

No time was scarier than lunchtime. I carefully unzipped my lunch box, but the intoxicating aroma of Indian masala and spices still spread through the room. My mouth watered, and my hunger grew. I couldn’t wait to dive into the lunch my mom had lovingly prepared.

I knew that my excitement wouldn’t be shared, however. As I slowly raised my eyes to look at my fellow first-graders, my stomach turned. I met their scrutinizing glares and scrunched noses and immediately knew that my food wasn’t welcome. It didn’t take long for someone to exclaim, “Who’s eating that stinky food?!” I quickly hid my lunch box, ashamed to let my friends find out that I was, in fact, the one eating “that stinky food.” 

Growing up, hiding my culture did not feel like a choice, but social survival. I begged my parents to stop giving me indian food at lunch. To get rid of my accented English, I even refused to speak Hindi with my family at home. To what avail? When I went back to India to visit my extended family, I was ridiculed for my broken, accented Hindi instead.

Dumbstruck, I wanted to belong in two different worlds but felt accepted in neither. In a world filled with vibrant geographical, intellectual, and cultural diversity I was struggling to find how my own identity and perspective fitted into the mix. 

My desire to figure out how I fit in with my peers manifested itself through music. Music has always been a huge part of my family’s culture and upbringing. I vividly remember my family reunions where all my cousins, uncles and aunts would sing and dance till our throats scratched and our feet hurt. As a classical violinist, I joined the New Jersey Youth Symphony and played with the group for over eight years. I realized the satisfaction I gained from music came from more than the notes on the page but from the interplay I had with fellow musicians.

Music eliminated cultural and ideological barriers and allowed me to build strong connections and relationships with my peers. In an ethnically and culturally diverse orchestra, I was able to use music as a medium to learn about different people’s backgrounds and to begin feeling comfortable sharing my own. Through the violin, I gained confidence in my identity and began to respect its complex, multi-dimensional nature. 

Ultimately, my experiences as a musician helped me grow past my fears of being judged, and I have gained confidence in my identity as a first-generation Indian American. Vestigial reminders of my insecurity have helped me understand how many of my peers may still be wary of sharing their background or, even worse, ashamed of their own perspectives. As a TA and RA, I am passionate about creating educational spaces that allow students of diverse backgrounds to feel comfortable sharing their points of view–even if their beliefs are in the minority. By interacting and listening to residents and students one-on-one, I have worked to foster self-confidence in sharing and believing in their own perspectives.

If it were not for music, I would never have known that I too had the power to fit in. I believe in music as the unifier of all people and the greatest teacher I have ever known.

by Shirley Zhang

I am a senior student majoring in Biology at Emory College. I aspire to pursue a career in healthcare, and I value and appreciate the differences between people.

“Go back to China!” To this day, I remember the moment I was roared at for having a language barrier. I was eight years old, “fresh off the boat” from China, browsing through stacks of books in the public library when a teen boy approached me with a question.

I stood in silence, largely unaware of what was happening because I couldn’t comprehend him. Before my apologies could slip out of my mouth, I was verbally attacked. For a long period of time, I avoided conversation, knowing that the others would not understand me. I was careful not to look at anyone in the eye, nor impose myself on any groups. If I could return to that moment, I would have told him how such insults get to the bottom of an individual’s heart.

We often think of diversity in terms of race or ethnicity. When we speak of diversity, we usually refer to a concept of multiculturalism. But diversity can extend beyond this definition. I believe in diversity, in the form of culture, identity, socioeconomic background, as well as values, personality, and opinion. I believe in the diversification of anything that contributes to an individual’s unique experience of living. It can be surface-level differences that distinguish us, or deep-level attributes that are less observable but affect how we behave. Embracing cultural diversity will allow us to recognize and respect other ways of living, while exploring other ideas, beliefs, and opinions with an open mind will allow us to see the world through different lenses.

In 2016, my hometown in Vancouver gained an influx of refugees from the Syrian Civil War. I remember hearing opposing comments, and seeing protests against the admission of these migrants. Many people feared the intake of religious extremists, and even my parents were concerned about the safety of our community. Confused by the ongoing debates, I didn’t know how to take a stand. But not for long, my position about the issue quickly changed.

As a part of a school project, I helped a 17-year-old girl who came to Vancouver with her six sisters, two brothers, and parents settle down. In the face of hardships, rejection, and discrimination, she showed no cynicism but was determined to control her own future. Despite the language barrier, she wasn’t afraid to speak up in class and present her views. She openly shared her experiences and values, which shed a light on me and brought me new perspectives. We have been friends to this day, and she is now employed as a social worker helping others in positions she was once in. I believe that diversity is empowering. That it leads to productivity, perspective, and a richer life experience. Bringing thoughts from people of various backgrounds and life experiences can generate novel ideas. Thinking about problems from another person’s perspective can lead to changes in mindset and innovative solutions. To celebrate rather than just tolerate the differences will allow us to facilitate acceptance, and diminish the prejudice that fuel discrimination and violence. Together, our differences lead to productive innovations, solutions to problems from different perspectives, and stronger communities.

by Cleopatra Myrianthopoulos

Cleopatra is a junior at Emory University studying International Studies and English. She grew up with Greek parents who always took her to Greece to appreciate the history and its culture. She loves spending time with her family, reading, and being in the outdoors.

I believe in the pursuit of adventure in ways that touch the soul stemming from different kinds of joy. Whether that be through trying something new or allowing myself to feel in ways that go beyond surface level, I live to create memories that remind me that we are more than just humans and have souls that connect us to something bigger. I smile at the thought of many memories that I have experienced. My last year was full of moments that brought me pure joy. I was able to study abroad in Portugal last spring.

During my time abroad, I made an unexpected friend who also treasured special moments. One of my favorite days was on a program trip with thirty other American students driving through Northern Portugal to explore the sites via bus. We had stopped in Porto to see the waves coming in from the Atlantic Ocean—it looked never-ending. My friend and I decided to go to the end of the pier where the waves were crashing over. Instead of worrying about getting wet from the waves, we ran back and forth, laughing. Perhaps the best moment was when we found ourselves drenched from the waves crashing on top of us. There was a brief moment of panic because our clothes were now soaked, but then the quick realization that it did not matter. Nature had taken over, and we had no control over the size of the waves. I felt alive. I felt one with nature. It was a moment of pure bliss in which I was able to feel happy simply because of my surroundings.

Growing up, I was fortunate enough to have spent many summers in Greece. Every time I go back, I often feel right at home, eating lamb off the spit or spending time in the mountain villages. This past year I was able to celebrate Orthodox Easter in Greece with my extended family for the first time.

One particular night during Holy Week is the night before Easter, called Ανάσταση (Anastasi). This past year my older cousin took me to a village known for how they celebrate. The church service begins around 11 p.m., and midnight signifies that Christ has risen. While I am used to the candle lighting and singing that typically occurs when the clock strikes; this time, lanterns overtook the sky above the church, and the bells were ringing repeatedly. I was outside and exhausted, but I could not help but be mesmerized by the lights filling up the sky. I was brought to tears during this beautiful moment as I once again found myself connecting with something bigger than myself in a way that was humbling. I thought of the loved ones that I knew were and still are struggling. I felt a pull towards the divine, and while that is unknown to me, it made me feel as though there was something more.

Moments like these often give us a chance to feel beyond the norm and to be part of something bigger than us. We so often find ourselves busy writing papers, going to work, dealing with personal issues, and so much more that being able to experience joy in this way is magical. It is important to strive for moments like these so that we can be reminded that there is so much more to life than we often realize and pure joy is often not easy to come by.

by Kaleolani Laymon

My name is Kaleolani Laymon! I am 20 years old, a Sophomore in Emory’s College of Arts and Sciences, and from the beautiful San Diego, California. As a proud supporter of “trashy” 2000s music, I encourage you did dig out that old workout playlist from 2010, and reminisce on all the killer songs produced at that time. Enjoy! 

I believe in trashy 2000s music.

When I turned eight, I was introduced to the secret world of iTunes. I had big plans to dive deep into the depths of music but, as soon as I discovered the Top 100 Songs tab, I knew it was all I needed. I soaked up “Pocket full of sunshine,” “A thousand miles,” “Can’t be tamed”, “Club can’t handle me,” “Hot N Cold”, and “hips don’t lie,” and I fell in love with Jason Derulo, Ke$ha, Lady Gaga, Britney Spears, Usher, Pitbull, and Shakira.

When high school rolled and around everyone suddenly decided to use music as a determination of how cool you were, I was shown that my top 100 hits didn’t make the cut. People groaned when I reached for the Aux cord, and once, even tore it out of my hand. I remember I could feel my heart sink from the blatant dismissal. I felt overwhelmingly stupid for not growing up and moving on like everyone else. It crushed me that music that brought me such joy became a social liability. So, I buried it.  

But there was something about it that wouldn’t leave my body. In quiet classrooms, I’d hear myself drumming my fingers and tapping my feet to the nonexistent beats still blaring in my head. They were catchy. The sole message of all the songs screamed, “Get up on the floor and dance, who cares, leave everything else behind. Be. In. The moment.” The catchy lyrics were all made to be memorable, sing-able, accessible; everything was made to let you be present.

I first found solace, in my empty car. Every now and then I’d turn off the radio and play a song or two that I loved. Even alone in my car I would get embarrassed, but I slowly started to rekindle my love for the music. I remember hearing Miley Cyrus say, “I wanna fly, I wanna drive, I wanna go, I wanna be a part of something I don’t know, and if you try to hold me back I might explode,” and feeling a small part of me break open again.  I began to let my shoulders sway, my head bop, my arms groove. I let my whole face smile. It filled up every inch of me with joy.

Today, I turn the music up loud enough to drown my own thoughts. I can’t hear my voice crack or hear myself fumble over the words. I don’t criticize myself; I don’t think about anything else.

And I think that’s what it all comes to. I get to leave everything else behind and simply enjoy myself. I’ve felt the freedom so deeply; I’ve cried. The music is everything I’ve always needed it to be. I rarely get moments of such quiet peace. The music is blasting, and I’m singing so loudly, but on the inside, everything is finally quiet—finally suspended like a caught breath and the deepest exhale. 

I believe in trashy 2000s music. Because I believe in never burying parts of yourself from the world and treasuring the golden nuggets that were made for each person to enjoy.