As finals are right around the corner, the idea of dropping everything and fleeing to a dream destination becomes harder and harder to resist. After having most of my friends going abroad throughout my junior year, I get asked a lot where I would have gone if I studied abroad. My immediate answer is always Italy.

I am so lucky to have such a culture that I have received from my Dad’s side of the family. We are a huge Italian family who keeps the traditions of our ancestors alive and well in our family. My dad, the youngest of his siblings, was the only child of my grandparents who was born in the United States. My other Uncles and Aunt were all born in a small town in Italy named Ripabottoni. My aunt and uncles stayed in Ripabottoni, Italy with my grandmother while my grandfather immigrated to the U.S. and worked for five years before being able to bring the rest of his family to the U.S. Although my aunts and uncles were in their teens or younger when they arrived in the U.S., they had a hard life. My family worked their asses off to support themselves and chase the American dream that they left their hometown for.

This family history is why I would give anything to up and run for Ripabottoni at the first chance I have. I want to experience the poor town where my roots are. I want to see the street where my family grew up, loved, and ultimately had to leave for the chance at a better life.

As I am stressed out of my mind and sleep deprived, I try to focus on the important things in life like my family and my culture instead of fixating on test grades and GPA. Especially after losing my Uncle six months ago, I have realized how important family and the little things in life are. I would love to escape the finals, RA duties, and talk of grad school for a chance to see Italy and all of the culture and significance it holds for me.

I hope that I get to run away to this amazing town one day, and I hope that everyone finds a place that they feel connected to and that you are willing to drop everything and go to. PS if anyone wants to pay for my trip to Italy, I wouldn’t mind 😊

I have never seen a therapist for my depression, but I do take medicine prescribed by my general practitioner for what she deemed “anxiety with depressive symptoms”.  The further I advance in my college career, the further it seems that my depression advances as well.

Some days I just have an underlying sadness that I can’t quite figure out why it is there. Other days, it is hard for me to get out of bed. I feel like I am worthless, that none of my friends truly love me, and that all the hard work and dedication I put into my passions to make the world a better place does absolutely nothing.

Some days, hanging out with my friends is enough to pull me out of the rut, at least temporarily. But some days, or even weeks, I seclude myself and lay in bed most days feeling depressed and lonely. During these times, it takes a lot more willpower to pull me out of my depressive episodes.

Even though it doesn’t always feel that way, what brings me out of even my worst rut is the incredible support network and love that I have from the people in my life.

I have an extremely close family where I can call them up anytime and just hear their voices, instantly improving my mood. I am lucky to have sisters that go out of their way to make me feel better when they know I am feeling down, like when my mom and sisters delivered a bag of gifts to me after I broke up with my first serious boyfriend. Not only do I have my family (and my pets), but I have an amazing small group of friends that I know I could tell anything to. They understand more so than my family that I can be sad or depressed and have no “reason” for the sadness. They know when I need my space, or when I need a girl’s night or a dinner off campus to lift my spirits.

One thing that really helps me out of my depressive ruts is involving myself with the most incredible group of individuals at my school that I have the privilege of knowing. As the president of Active Minds at Loyola University, I get the opportunity to meet so many stigma fighters and mental health advocates on my campus that work to eliminate the stigma surrounding mental health. Specifically, my leadership team for active minds are the kindness, most thoughtful, loving, and understanding people at my school.

They instantly lift my mood with their positive affect and heartwarming commitment to making the world a better place for those with mental illness. When I am in the deepest of ruts because of my depression, these are the people that remind me of why I was put on this earth, what my passion is, and what I was destined to do.

Giving a voice to those around me who don’t have the strength or courage to find theirs is the greatest coping mechanisms I have found for my depression.

My advice to my fellow stigma fighters who struggle with depression is to talk to others about it. Let them know what you need and when you need it. Tell them how you feel so that when you are feeling that way, they can help you out of your rut.

But most importantly, find your passion. Find what gives you the greatest joy and purpose in the world, and hold on to that in the deepest moments of your depression. Remember why you are here, and all the people you are helping by just living. And remember, fight like hell.

It’s a cliché for Lifetime movies and B-list HBO short series everywhere: realizing that a family member has been affected by your actions, or lack thereof, is the epiphany a person needs to shape up.

You likely don’t have to think very hard for incidences of parents quitting smoking to extend their lifespans to increase the probability of seeing their kids grow up, or of people breaking up with their significant others for their families’. But it’s seldom as simple as TV often portrays it.

Background: I am sitting in Starbucks during my senior year of high school. I’ve gained thirty pounds on my once athletic frame, and my eyes are always puffy from either exhaustion or crying. A former teacher of mine and I are having coffee, and she is attempting to persuade me that my home life will not always be as poor as it is. She says that I need to wait it out, that I will succeed with or without my family’s assistance, and that I should not feel alone while enduring it.

I’m 18, I smoke cigarettes in my rebellion to my father’s position as a physician, and put forward effort into being a normal young adult. It’s always been evident that my parents’ wrongs are usually done with good intentions; they, in all candor, believe that what they have done and continue to put me under is the best for me. This fact is little consolation to me, and I end up with multiple breakdowns as a teenager. I give up, and try again; give up, and try again; give up, and try again.

At some point, I started working towards all the wrong things. I don’t know it yet, but the amount of exertion I put into partying and being “normal” is extraordinary, and incredibly far from normal. And yet, I more or less survive life’s trials and tribulations while depressed, resentful of my family, and passively (later, actively) suicidal in my reckless endeavors in the city and outside of it.

My father does not react well to my moving out. He falls into a deeper depression, and becomes nearly obsessed with my daily life. My mother adapts by effectively ignoring my absence and my existence; perhaps, as a result of my sister growing into my role as the elder daughter struggling to find meaning in anything. They blame me for these developments; rather than going somewhere my pain can be remedied, I have left it in my parents’ home to fester. Neither turn out to be true; I took my hurt everywhere I went.

I touched people’s lives and left them with a little bit of that hurt without reducing my own. It was akin to a virus, and it spiraled out of control many times.

Fast forward two years: my sister is in college while living at home. My parents let her drive, let her wear shorts, and don’t make her abide to an 8pm curfew. She struggles in her studies, and they try to help her in whatever she pursues. My youngest sibling is treated normally for a high schooler. Without going into any detail at all, my mother and father are good to them. And they are good and kind to me. I am no longer angry – I have lived through more than someone my age should have. We have all changed, for better or for worse.

Writing this is not meant to trivialize those with abusive families, nor is it meant to dramatize the tension that all families undergo when during adolescence. Rather, I write this to point out that in addition to circumstances changing, people do indeed change for the better, despite popular belief. We learn from our mistakes. My parents knew that if they maintained their rearing methods, my sisters would struggle, and leave, the way I did.

I love them more than anything, but love is not enough to maintain such relationships, even within families. But love is enough to force people to change, and to forgive. We forgave each other (or at least I like to think so). It is unbearably hard at times to move on at times, but it almost always the best option.

Ever since I was a little kid my home life was not in the condition it should have been. From the time I was 9 until the summer before my 14^th birthday I was abused. The only things I had were school, my baby brother, and music. School was my only safe place to be at, so I ended up spending a lot of my time there and my teachers tried to do everything that they could to help me to no avail for a long time, but when I moved back to Georgia everything changed.

When most people go home after school, they have some sort of mother figure around them to help them get through everything that life has to offer the best that she can. I however did not have that growing up at all. I did not know my mom and as far as I knew, she did not give a shit about me. My whole life I looked to my teachers trying to find that support system that I never had.

When I attended Unity Elementary School, all of my teachers looked out for me and truly cared even after my dad took me away from my nana which was the only happiness I had ever known. I remember my principal crying as she told my nana and aunt that they were not allowed to see me because my dad would not allow it. On the last day of third grade my teacher, Mrs. Moore held me as we both cried because I would not ever see her again and I believe that she sensed the trouble that was ahead for me.

That last day of school was the start of my five years of hell.

After I finished the third grade, I moved to Delaware with my dad and stepmother and things started out okay for the most part. I went to school and my teachers always had my best interest at heart, but my home life was another story. My dad and stepmother started fighting all of the time and it got to the point that I would go to school crying all of the time. The support from my teachers during this time helped me learn that the fighting was not my fault, but the turmoil that was to ensue was soon to come.

During my sixth grade year, my STEM teacher, Mr. Fragile started to notice my missed absences and my changing behavior, so he dared to ask me the question that my teachers have been wanting to ask me since I moved to Smyrna, DE, “Kyasia, have your parents been hitting you?” This was the beginning of many steps taken to ensure my safety over the next two years. The next two years would be the worst in my life and yet I would learn so much about myself and the teachers that I looked up to.

While in middle school, my Honors Social Studies teacher, Mrs. Prairie was the most supporting teacher I had had at this point in time. Every day she would make sure that I was alright and that things were okay at home. Most of my teachers at this point began to notice that I was having issues at home, but none of them knew the extent of these problems. I clearly remember Mrs. Prairie giving all of her graduating 8^th graders her cell number and telling us to use it at any time we needed her. This was the 3^rd time that someone actually cared and supported me since I was a little girl and over the years I would call her numerous times for advice or to just catch up. That summer after I graduated middle school, my dad told me that I was going to go to Georgia for the summer and here is where everything changed.

No one really understood my struggles until my freshman year of high school when I met Mrs. Slay. Mrs. Slay was my 9^th grade English teacher and the first person I ever told my life story to without being ashamed.

The next couple of years would prove to be the most life changing for me because as I got to know my teachers and as I gained the courage to tell them my story, the more they began to support me and encourage me. During my junior year the biggest milestone of my entire life began to happen. After we came back from Christmas break, I finally got the opportunity to talk to my mother for the 1^st time. The minute I told all of my teachers what had happened they were ecstatic for me and when I became nervous about meeting her my AP Language teacher told me not to worry because my mom would love me as I was and would be proud of me no matter what. The day I finally got to meet her was the happiest day of my life and I was able to share it with those teachers who supported me through it all.

Without the support that my teachers gave me throughout the years, I would not be here today. The support that I received from them is the exact same support that I want my students to receive from me when I become a teacher.

When I was younger, the things I disliked about myself the most was my ethnicity, my legs, and my constant thinking. It took me many years to realize that these differences were my strengths.

The first time someone asked me “what I was” (See Explaining Your Ethnic Situation), I was five or six and confidently stated, “White.” I thought that was the correct answer to any and all situations, or I didn’t know what they were talking about.

Up until then—growing up in the suburbs of Atlanta—I had a suspicion I was something other than white. We spoke in a different language at home; cooked with a lot of spices and ate fermented foods; and, most obviously, I looked different. Yes, these were differences, but could they possibly amount to something important like identity? It marked the introduction of an identity crisis.

Not much time passed after that initial encounter before I realized I was Korean. It was only hours later my brother informed me of the truth over a fit of laughter, realizing his little sister thought she was white. Being that young, I remember thinking, “So what does this mean?”

For the better part of the next decade, I was determined to find out what being Korean didn’t mean.

I could have non-Asian friends, I could choose Britney or Ludacris over Korean music, and I was free to layer myself in Hollister (Hello 2000’s).

I was as enthusiastic about being Korean as I was when my mom bought me a congratulatory cake for getting my period. It’s true… No ethnic background could have saved me from pressing myself into the mold I perceived as southern suburbia.

I have always had large, muscular legs—or what kids would call tree trunks—something I inherited from my dad. At age twelve, I started training harder for tennis and my legs grew wider and all the more muscular, making it impossible to find good jeans (still a problem).

Kids made it clear that I was different, gargantuan, and beastlike. And that was reason enough for me to be mad that they were stuck on my body—and I thought they were u-g-l-y, ugly.

There’s the age preschoolers hit when they become walking and wailing broken records stuck on “Why?” They ask, or rather, demand whys regardless of the explanation. Despite a little less wailing, I never quite grew out of that phase; I posed questions to myself and turned the answers over and over until I thought of more questions.

People like to say to me, “Don’t overthink it.” If there was a penny for every time someone offered me that piece of advice, the world would be drowned in a flood of pennies. I believe I do have a “rich inner life,” as the great Amy Schumer puts it.

I’ve fallen mercy to it in situations where being present and interaction with others is expected. Socializing, I think is what they call it. It often felt debilitating; I’d think out my responses, weighing them against the replies I’d thought I’d get.

I loathed these differences about myself; I wished instead to not think. I wished to be carefree and say whatever floated into my mind. It recently dawned on me there’s a term for that—drunkenness.

And so, my inner monologue was also one of self-criticism. Sure, children can be cruel, but none are worse than your own demons that feed on your insecurities.

The commonality among all of these qualities was that they each made me different; they made me feel different because I didn’t match up to the people around me. The essence of what I craved was acceptance. Our default setting is to slap judging labels on qualities that threaten our shot at it.

It’s only later, through broader experiences, that I realized differences aren’t dangerous, they’re what makes us who we are. In accepting them in myself, I could love them in others.

It took a long time to come to terms with my heritage, my body, and the way I’m wired. And it’s still taking time. But having experienced Korean culture firsthand during time spent with my relatives in Seoul; after winning matches thanks to the power and speed of my legs; and after meaningful conversations that arose from asking too many questions, the things I disliked about myself are now the ones I celebrate these days. 

Holidays are one of the best times of year for college students. They are a break from schoolwork and responsibilities and a chance to spend time with family and friends. For me they are the time in the fall semester where the swim team has a lot of hard training because there is no school. But at my house it’s all play.

Thanksgiving break is about all the things we are thankful for and how much food we can eat as we avoid the schoolwork that lays before us in the days before finals. Christmas break is about spending time with the ones we love the most and the Christmas story of Jesus. The things I look forward to most about the holidays with my family are the foods we eat and the traditions we have.

Thanksgiving break for my family and I involves a lot of eating and TV watching. Like most families we have a large Thanksgiving meal, but that is not when the eating festivities begin for us. We wake up on Thanksgiving Day and eat breakfast. We then watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, which we recorded in order to fast forward the commercials. Once it is about 11 am we break out the parade watching snacks, everything from chips and salsa, guacamole, and queso to veggies with ranch to spinach dip with bread.

Once the Parade is over we stay on NBC and watch the National Dog Show. As a family who does not have dogs and are not particularly dog lovers we often find ourselves making jokes about the dogs that are shown and laughing our heads off. When the Dog Show is over we switch over to football, but this is usually the time of day when everyone falls asleep, so football becomes background noise. Dinner at the Raab house is usually around 5 pm and although we have nice tablecloths and dishes, we are still in our sweats. When the food is almost gone and we can’t eat anymore we go around the table and all say five things that we are thankful for. The only rule is that you can’t repeat anything that was already said.

The day after Thanksgiving means swim practice, movie watching, and spending time as a family. We are a family of athletes, and holiday breaks are no reason to miss a workout. The three swimmers in our family roll out early and get a swim practice in. As a family we not much into Black Friday because we don’t like big crowds and crowded stores. Instead of shopping my mom and I and whoever else wants to join will start watching the Hallmark Christmas movies. Although we have probably seen them all, we still enjoy watching them. The Friday after Thanksgiving also includes family board game time.

Christmas decorations at my house include the many nativities that my mother has collected over the years. We actually went around the house this year and counted them. We counted 59 but are sure that we missed some and that more would be received as gifts this year for Christmas. Each nativity is unique. One is wooden and hand carved from Korea that is a family heirloom. Another is made from banana leaves. My favorite nativity though is the Willow Tree one. It is very pretty to look at; each piece was crafted beautifully. The nativity pieces sometimes magically appear in other places. One of the nativities in the kitchen has pieces that have been found in the fridge, the pantry, the medicine cabinet, and the container of cookies on the counter. Whenever my mom finds the pieces she takes a picture of them in their new location and sends it to me.

We have a set of Merry Christmas block letters. Every time you walk by the letters they say something else. This year has been out of control with new words created. Everything from “my rich armrests” to “cherry mistmars” to “I c smart rhymers”. Each one is funny to read and they change rather quickly so you may miss some of the best ones. This adds a comical element to the holiday season and we laugh about the different combinations often. It was cool to see how many things could be made of those 14 letters.

My family has many Christmas traditions that I look forward to every year. We do the same thing every year on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day making it one of my favorite times of year at the Raab house.

Christmas Eve typically starts off with an early morning swim practice. We attend the Christmas Eve service in the late afternoon at church. On the way home we pick up Chinese food for dinner. We read the Christmas story out of the Bible during dinner, usually with each person taking a turn. After we have eaten, we open one present that is for the entire family, and some years we all open one present of our own. The family present is always a new board game that we play as a family after dinner. When we open a present of our own, we usually get matching jammies that are perfect for the family Christmas morning photo in front of the tree. After the fun of Christmas Eve, my four siblings and I have our annual sleepover. This sleepover usually involves TV watching, more games, and staying up to midnight to check isitchristmas.com before falling asleep.

Christmas Day begins no earlier than 8 am. We start with stockings, and where our stockings are located becomes our present drop off zone during the present opening. My parents give us kids three gifts a year: something we need, something we want, and something that is a surprise. The three gifts are symbolic of the gifts that the three wisemen brought to Jesus after He was born. I have four siblings, but each year I only give gifts to two siblings. On odd years I give gifts to my sister Allie and brother Luke, on even years I give gifts to my sister Shannon and brother Tim. The surprise present involves a sibling scavenger hunt that has evolved from simply following the clues in the house to getting pictures of places sent to our phones and upon figuring out which location was next, we sent selfies or videos of why this place is important to us to get the next clue. The scavenger hunt is always fun for the five of us. Once all the presents are opened, its time to assemble and play with gifts, learn how gifts work, and eating something to curb the hunger feelings until dinner. Christmas dinner used to a spiral ham, but for the last couple years has been standing rib roast.

The holiday break draws to end for me a couple days after Christmas as I have to head back to school earlier than normal students because of practice, I think about the time I have had at home with my family.

My family is in a category all its own. We are a little weird and we do things differently than most, but I wouldn’t pick a different family if I could.

The New Year is approaching and the talk has turned from what people want for Christmas to the resolutions people will make for the coming year. Personally I don’t make any resolutions because I believe that one can change anything about them anytime during the year, not just at the beginning. But there are several things that I look forward to with the New Year. The swim season’s biggest competitions are in February (SECs) and March (NCAAs). As someone who thrives with the stress of competition, this is an exciting time for me. I look forward to the changing of the seasons from winter to spring. Spring is my favorite time of year because all the plants are turning green and blooming again, animals come out of hibernation, and the weather warms up. There are so many outdoorsy things to do and places to explore in the spring and summer time around Athens and Nashville that I say I will venture out to and find, but usually doesn’t happen.

The biggest thing that I think about as one year ends and another begins are all the things that I accomplished, and where my new goals are. This year included my two best semesters in school ever, being a part of a SEC and NCAA winning relay, a NCAA championship with the best team around, my first major concert, a top 10 finish in the country at Olympic Trials, a road-trip with my brother to our grandparents house, the chance to live broadcast high school sporting events, the wedding of a former teammate and friend, and I was baptized. So many great things happened in 2016, and I know that 2017 will hold so many great things that I can’t even imagine yet.

12.21 A.M.

1/7/2017

2016 was as crazy as 2015. Though earthquakes didn’t shake up my world like it did in 2015 (25 April, 2015 – Nepal Earthquake), there were other emotional earthquakes that shook up my world.

The first was my move to the USA. Leaving my home country, Nepal, has to be one of the most difficult things I have had to do. I landed in America on July 23, 2016. The air was humid and the weather hot that I felt like peeling my clothes off right there and then at JFK. (But that would turn heads and cause unnecessary commotion so I didn’t.) I had known that America was a land of hot and cold-snowy weather but the humidity was getting to me. Coming from a place where the climate is neither too hot nor too cold, I felt like I was being fried in the sun. I felt disorientated for a while carrying my 120-pound luggage and a backpack. They say “He took my breath away”, but for me “My suitcases took my breath away”. Huffing and puffing I walked towards the final door that would lead me outside the airport. I felt like I was opening a door towards another dimension. As soon as I walked out, my friend Krishma ran towards me with her arms wide open. We hugged in the middle of the way blocking everyone behind us. Her dad shooed us over to the side and took one of my suitcases. Her granddad took the other, and her sister took my backpack. I felt loved right away.

I spent two weeks in Connecticut. We went to Boston to visit my granddad for two days and went to a beach in Rhode Island which has a pretty complicated name: Misquamicut beach. Our days were spent mostly going to the park, parking the car and listening to songs or sleeping for hours. I hadn’t thought about what would happen once I left this place and go to college in a totally different state – Alabama. I know now that I had not experienced true home sickness until I was left alone in my dorm in college with my suitcases sprawled on the floor and the bleak light flickering above my head. The white brick walls screamed “mental asylum” to me and I panicked for a while when I realized that the key to my suitcases were with Krishma who had just left. I had to wait while I waited for a maintenance guy to come up and break my locks. It was lonely for three days because the WiFi did not work yet.

Living away from your family is mentally exhausting because you finally learn to be independent, earn your own money, pay your own rent, take care of yourself properly and maintain relationships with people you have met for the very first time.

It’s not as easy as in your country, where you have grown up with and become friends with the same people for a decade. Here, we must form connections and put trust in each other and help each other out too. It’s a complicated relationship. Sometimes friends come first and sometimes acquaintances. Sometimes you have to swallow your pride and ego in order to help someone from your own country. And sometimes you got to let go of your anger and forgive for the sake of maintaining peace and professionalism.

2016 was also a year of meeting a lot of people, getting to know different perspectives, and understanding that nothing was right nor wrong. What mattered was how you lived your life and how you treated the people you loved and is closest to you. No matter how a person is, it doesn’t matter. I met two people in August: Pranisha and Sangé. I consider them my sisters (Pranisha is really a cousin of mine, anyways.) I used to be this naïve girl who always thought that there was a certain way a person should act and go about their life. But meeting them, I saw that it was not how you showed how you were to others, it was the memories you made with each other. Even if we made mistakes, fought a lot while living together, even if I did not agree with a lot of things with them, I learned that the thought matters even if the action was not carried out. I adjusted, I compromised and it was all an experience for all of us.

The final emotional rollercoaster I went through in 2016 was that I fell in love. And I fell hard. There was a lot of good times and a lot of very bad ones. Highs and lows are the norms in life but I felt them more intensely. I always thought that all love stories and all tragedies were too cheesy. There was too much drama but that’s exactly how it is. Sometimes expectations are not met, sometimes you are too selfish, sometimes you are not thinking rationally, whatever it is – love is a ride you have to be ready for and be strong for. You can’t go diving head in without knowing who the person really is. And I think I went too much with my feelings and emotions.

Though I don’t like to admit that being logical is the only way to make the right decisions for yourself, it is ultimately so if you want to live the life you want and not be dependent on that love.

As I lay down on my bed here, feeling the cold-thin air that is seeping in from the cracks of the window, I look at the damages that were done to my heart by circumstances. That aching gap which could only be filled by talking to my parents and brother once a week on Skype. The scars left by what I thought were friends and people who cared, were there as experiences. The bitter weight that pulled me down to my knees because my love was just a bitter tragedy, unfulfilled and lost forever, is all there to make me strong for my next journey ahead in 2017.

“Everything about us supports the Yankees, we bleed blue.”

These words echo through my childhood. We are Yankees fans, tried and true. Growing up the morale of my family was based on how the Yankees played; if we won, we celebrated, if we lost the whole family grieved. The Yankees were our only excuse for staying up late. Together on our couch, we faithfully watched every game until the last second.

I remember one specific May afternoon when I was six. My brothers and I were casually headed home from school when we were suddenly rushed into our old minivan. As we quickly shuffled to sit down, we learned that we were going on a surprise trip: a chance to watch the Yankees play live. Arriving at the stadium, I was soon overwhelmed with all my favorite things: the sea of devoted fans, the yell of young peanut sellers, the smell of burgers right off the grill.

As my family all sat around stuffing our faces with warm, familiar hot dogs and cheering for the same, faithful team I remember feeling like life was perfect; surrounded by the people I love most watching our team play to victory.

Life continued. We were hit by many bumps along the way: the death of my dad, an abrupt move to Georgia, and soon my brothers departing for college leaving me the only child at home. However, one thing remained permanent in my life, and it was the unfailing spirit and joy of the Yankees. I knew every year, as March rolled around, they would always be there; although trades were made and players were moved, they always came back.

I soon realized that like the Yankees, my family too would always be there to rely on, to bring me joy, and to be a constant in a life of continuous change. Moreover, every year this team would continue to bring the family together, no matter where we were in life.

Whether it is my brothers making one last visit to the old stadium or gathering for spring training, the team brings us together.

Even if we do not have the opportunity to see them in person, we are all watching. Every year when I enjoy each game, I know that wherever my family is they are doing the same. We are continually texting each other, yelling at refs, cheering for plays, and grieving over losses. Together. I believe in the Yankees. I believe in the excitement and unity it brings to my family.

Although my dad has now passed, the Yankees still bring us together. It was the Yankees that kept us going when we wanted to give up and the Yankees that brought happiness to our lives when all seemed distraught. And – it is the Yankees today that continue to round the family and remind us of the importance of love and each other.

The tradition of weekly Wednesday night dinners in Athens evolved from my family. It all started in Calvary, Georgia. For as long as I can remember,  Family Night has been a weekly tradition of putting all work aside, relaxing, cooking amazing food, and gathering family together around the table.

My older cousins Bradley Jones, Chaz, and Emily Oliver originally got Family Night started in Athens when they first came to the University of Georgia. They began hosting weekly dinners and inviting their closest friends.

Eventually, the group grew to include boyfriends, girlfriends, roommates, neighbors, and friends of friends. It was also a great way of meeting new people because everyone was so welcoming. When I came up to Athens to attend UGA, I also joined and gained a whole new group of lifelong friends.

Although most of us weren’t related, we still considered ourselves a family. Food can do that to people.

Eventually, it became a much larger group of friends that came from the University of Georgia, North Georgia College, Athens Technical College, and even graduates that were still living around the Athens area.

Most of us have known each other for years, but meeting new people wasn’t uncommon and they usually returned and were welcomed back with open arms. On average, we had about 15-20 members attending Family Night every week.

We would take turns hosting and cooking dinners. It wasn’t a pizza take out kind of thing. We’re talking about home-cooked meals y’all. It was definitely a challenge cooking for such a large group of people, but time spent with “family” was well worth it and so was the food!

When these sorts of events happened, we went all out. All the family members prepared and brought their best home cooked meal for the feast. We even got really competitive on who could cook the best meals and celebrated special occasions such as Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Around Christmas, we would dress up in our tackiest attire and take a picture to send to our own families to put on the refrigerator.

Family night was a great way to drop everything and come together to keep in touch with friends and family when times got busy. It was the one-day of the week where we could just relax and catch up. If we didn’t have this once a week, I probably wouldn’t have even seen my family or closest friends as much as I did and that’s something I truly treasure.

If someone couldn’t attend, we made sure they were sent a take-home plate. Because let’s face it, everyone has to eat during a stressful test or project and there’s no better meal than a home-cooked one prepared with love from their “family.”

“Is it okay if I bring my dog?” The answer was always yes! After all, dogs are family too. They were brought over to enjoy company from the humans as well as other furry friends. Our pets weren’t left out of the scrumptious meals either. They were also served part of our feast or as my granddad, Big Daddy, used to say, “the crumbs under the table.”

Because most of us were college kids, we typically didn’t eat the best food. Eating out was our go-to because it was a quick and easy fix.

Family night was a way to have a good home-cooked meal at least once a week and reunite with our friends. It is one of my best college memories.

Now that I’ve graduated, I plan to continue to carry on this tradition in Atlanta and wherever life takes me. Cooking is more than just about eating: it is something that ties people together.

It doesn’t get much better than gathering with friends and family, meeting new people, cooking great meals, making new memories, and passing on our beloved family tradition! Cheers!

I am a mental health advocate. A stigma fighter. I am the mental health community administrator for the Wish Dish Platform. President of the Loyola University MD chapter of Active Minds. Yet, I struggle with my own mental health. It’s not that I expect others to believe that I don’t struggle with my anxiety and depression from time to time, but I certainly don’t think people know how incredibly much I have been struggling since the loss of my uncle.

I don’t know what the typical relationship of a girl and her uncle usually is, but I can tell you that my relationship with my uncle was anything but typical. I grew up in a very large, close, Italian family. The holidays were always my favorite because I got to spend the day with my 50+ family members on my dad’s side of the family. I was lucky enough to grow up in a family where I knew that I could call any of my relatives at any time, and they would be by my side in minutes.

I also had the privilege to live next door to my Uncle Mike and Aunt Lona since I was 8 years old. I would walk next door when I was bored, or when I needed someone to talk to. I spent more time with my aunt and uncle than most kids spend with their parents. I grew up with not only one set of parents, but two.

Uncle Mike and Aunt Lona have been two of my biggest role models since before I could remember. My dad’s parents and siblings immigrated here from Italy when they were young. My grandfather spent five years working in America and building a life for his wife and four kids back in Italy. My aunts and uncles had been through a lot in their young lives. They lost one of their siblings to cancer on the journey to America. Once they got to America, they had to build a life for themselves, learn English, go to school, and work to help support their family. Yet, none of this hinders my dad or his siblings in any way.

If anything, it made them work harder, love more deeply, and appreciate what they had.

My Uncle Mike took these ideals to heart when he met the love of his life in ninth grade. At age 14, my Uncle Mike met his wife, and my Aunt Lona. They were perfect for each other. They always knew what the other needed, kept each other in line, and helped each other and rhea ones around them grow. I aspire to find a love as deep and as right as theirs was. I looked up to them both in every possible way. They weren’t simply my aunt and uncle; they were my godparents, my next-door neighbors, my role models, and my second parents. It was hard when they moved to South Carolina when I was a senior in high school. They were the first in the family to move outside of Maryland, and I took it pretty hard. But, I did have a sweet new vacation spot.

I thought that them moving to South Carolina meant that they would miss out on a lot if important moments in the lives of my sisters and I, but I was wrong. They flew up for every family party, prom, graduation, and most birthdays. They visited often, and we would always pick up right where we left off.

I had never met two individuals more loving and understanding than my aunt and uncle.

That is what made it even more difficult when my Uncle Mike suddenly passed away over a month ago. What made it even worse, was that it was extremely unexpected. Coming home for that weekend and seeing everyone in my driveway, I instantly knew something was wrong, but I never thought to expect what I heard next. I sat on my deck surrounded by family, and felt nothing. I cried as my aunt and uncle, first and second cousins, and other showed up at my house to share in the grief that we all felt. But I couldn’t feel it. Not until days later, or even when I saw my uncle laying in his casket.

I have been through a lot in my young life. I have watched my mom go through breast cancer and brain surgery, saw the emptiness in my sister when she lost her first baby, lost a close friend to suicide, and have been without grandparents since high school. Yet, this loss cut deep. I didn’t know what to do or what to say. I either couldn’t feel anything at all, or felt so much that I thought I would explode. As this was all happening, two of my best friends were having the time of their lives abroad. It felt like my world stopped, and everyone else was doing great. I was drowning.

I was comforting everyone else and staying strong. But I also fell behind in school, drank to numb the pain, isolated myself from others, and was altogether miserable. My depression was at an all-time high, as was my anxiety. I had lost one of the best individuals in my life, and I couldn’t stand to be a part of my own reality.

I knew he wouldn’t want me to be this way, not again. I finally began to talk about it. About how much it hurt, sometimes so much that I couldn’t move.

I talked about the good times I had with him, the lessons he had taught me, and how I would give anything to hear him say “hello dear” one more time as he hopped out of his chair to greet me. I was ungrateful. I knew how much he meant to me, but I had always thought he would be there, like he always had been. The last time I saw him, I rushed my time with him to go be with someone who didn’t truly love me. I didn’t get to say goodbye.

I was expecting him to be at my house waiting for me that day when I arrived home. He would tell me about the beers he drank the night before, the conversations he had with some of the people he loved the most in this world. What I got instead was the look of grief and terror on my dad’s face, and the knowledge that my life would never again be the same. But though it still to this day hurts more than I thought anything ever could, I prevail. I live my life in honor of my uncle. I do what I can to make myself and the world around me a better and more loving place, because after all, that’s what he was most proud of me for doing.

Every family has their issues. Every family fights. But as I begin the holiday season without the greatest man I had ever known, I ask that you forget the past. Forget all the bad times, and work for the good ones. I ask that you hug everyone in your life, tell them just how much they mean to you, and appreciate every second you have by their side. I loved my uncle with all my heart and spent most of my life with him, but still wish I could have just five more minutes with him. One more hug. So, this holiday season, love your friends and your family with all you have. Because unfortunately, you truly never know when it could be the last chance you’ll ever get.