I haven’t written since being here. In a place I knew  would inspire the hell out of me, I’ve been too caught up in the chaos to hold space for it. But today, I went on a walk in Central Park to clear my head and soak up some much-needed 80-degree air—and I started crying. In Central Park. In the grass. No towel. In biker shorts. A vulnerable moment, to say the least. And while we’re on the topic of honesty, adjusting hasn’t been all sunshines and rainbows, despite what my so

“Love is Us.” After 293 winding stairs, you reach these three words etched on the walls of the Sacré Coeur dome. The first time I saw these words, I was 15. Starry-eyed and standing with my Dad, I never knew the meaning these thre e words could hold. In the city of love, I am finally realizing why they call it that. Paris is magical, that goes without saying. From the unique French architecture that leaves you in awe, to corner cafes lined with flowers and Parisians enjoying

I always dreaded the day I would finally have the courage to sit down and write this. In denial of what I would say and patiently waiting for the moment I actually meant every word of it.  But, this morning, I was walking to class and realized that this fear I had was the whole damn point.  I remember with vivid detail the first time I decided I hated the way I looked. I was in the fourth grade and about to leave for a beach trip with my brother’s baseball team. Being only on