I have always been a planner. My notes app is filled with to-do lists, reminders, and anecdotes—a tangible, terrifyingly disorganized snapshot of the inside of my brain. I came to college with a set plan—a political science major on a pre-medical track, setting myself up to go to medical school.
Freshman year, it felt almost impossible not to compare everything about my college life to the college lives of my friends at other schools. From classes to dining halls and dorm decor to social life, I found myself constantly comparing and contrasting my experiences with the experiences of others, trying to anxiously convince myself that I lived a life just as fun and fulfilling as my friends’.
As a kid, being called a “copycat” felt like the most hurtful insult I could receive. Well-meaning adults would attempt to offer consolation, saying “Imitation is the highest form of flattery,” but this adage was no match for my crushed 10-year-old ego.
As effective as my camouflage tactics were, two jarring words eventually reached my ears: “Where’s Jenny?” That simple phrase forced me to muster up just enough courage to allow myself to be hugged (though never hugging back), before seeking a new safe haven.
Whether I am critiquing, discussing, photographing, preparing, or passionately consuming it, I am unapologetically obsessed with food.
When I think of my goals for the future, my mind runs wild with ideas. As a young child, I wrote in my preschool journal that I wanted to be a firetruck. Slowly, my goals became more realistic—I wanted to be a chef, a teacher, a lawyer.
Growing up as an only child, I was constantly asked, “Do you like it?”—almost always with a dismissive tone, as if it were impossible that I could enjoy being the only child in my family.
Like many others, I have found myself enthralled with TikTok “day in the life” videos. And it’s not a good habit.
