Dear Reader,

I got a new phone today and it’s making me feel really great, which only makes me feel shallow. I want to connect with everyone on Snapchat and take a ton of pictures and post them on Instagram and share everything with everyone on Facebook. And it’s weird that these things bring me pleasure–or the thought of them do, at least (I really failed at taking selfies tonight, lemme tell ya).

Sarah and I also made a vlog today and I actually love it. It’s only five minutes long and I don’t think it’ll mean that much to anyone else, but we find it hilarious. Sarah keeps coming into my room and asking to replay the first ten seconds because we’re just so stupid (but we think we’re hysterical.)

And I sent it to a few friends because I thought it might make them smile or laugh because they actually know us, and it got me thinking about this whole YouTube thing. My favorite videos to make are with Sarah, but I think the people that would enjoy watching them the most don’t even know that we do this sometimes.

And I find myself trying to censor myself on there and on here and just in different ways everywhere I go. And something I just think FUCK it. Maybe one of these days I’ll just post my blog url in the bio of my twitter or casually share a video of mine on Facebook. Because so what if I say a few cuss words? So what if sometimes I want to talk about mental health? So what if I feel like starting a blog or a YouTube channel or, who knows, maybe Vine will be next!

We’re all going to die one day and we have until then to do everything we wanted to do and say everything we wanted to say and go everywhere we wanted to go and love as much as we can and try everything under the sun.

So what if I say “fuck” on a personal blog when I’m 19? Will that really affect my ability to teach high schoolers after I graduate? Will it keep me from being seen as a role model to those who are younger than me? Will it, in any way, turn my heart black and prevent me from spreading any kindness or love?

I don’t know. Maybe to someone out there it will. And maybe I’ll never tell my parents that this thing even exists.

This really wasn’t what I had intended to write about tonight, but I guess it just kind of got away from me.




PS. Here’s a preview of the video I’ll be uploading this week.

Screen Shot 2016-01-04 at 3.20.11 PM

PPS. It’s up now. 



He tried so hard when he finally had a daughter, just in case the gene that carried his intelligence didn’t transfer. He taught her algebra when she was still able to use her fingers to give her age. He only allowed her to play educational games on the computer. He quizzed her endlessly in the car on things like energy and the four forms they come in.

And she was picking it up.

She excelled at the tests he gave her, even though they were meant for kids older than herself. She understood the metaphors he used. She was even creative enough to make her own sometimes.

He had tried so hard, and he succeeded. Because in fourth grade, she tested at an advanced level and had finally owned up to the term that had been used to describe her for five years: gifted.

And it makes sense, because a gift is something that is given to you. A gift is not something you ask for. She didn’t ask for the lectures after soccer practice or the tab on the computer that marked the educational, “Dad-approved” websites. She didn’t ask to be put in a primarily fifth grade classroom when she had just turned nine.

In fact, she was almost kicked out of that class because she never did her homework. We’re not sure why, but she just never did. So she fell behind in math–she didn’t know anything about fractions. And one day, the principal was called in and she sat down the girl and her teacher and talked about how fortunate she is to be in this class and how there are other bright children who would gladly take her place and work hard to keep it. She warned her that if she didn’t get her act together, she could get kicked out.

But the girl was never kicked out.

She went onto sixth grade excels and didn’t read any of “Treasure Planet,” but still managed to pass the class. And in eighth grade, she would copy her friend’s science homework every morning in homeroom. She’d do just fine on the tests and would end up passing that class too.

In fact, she’s never failed a class. She skated by time after time despite her poor time management skills and awful problems with procrastination and lack of motivation. How she did it? We’re not quite sure. Maybe it’s because she’s gifted. Maybe it’s because her father tried so hard. The day she learned to speak was the day he taught her to read. Just like the day she touched a soccer ball was the day she joined travel soccer.

But she ended up quitting soccer after ten years.

And now she wants to quit school, too.

Because you can mold a young mind into memorizing multiplication tables and understanding the metaphor of a firecracker when it comes to the four different types of energy, sure. But you can’t stop there. You can’t work hard(ish) with her for the first nine years of her life and then assume that she’ll be okay.

Because she won’t be.

Sure, you can tell her time and time again that she needs to “get her act together” and “own up to her potential.” After all, she is gifted.

You have the tests to prove it.

You even have her high school diploma, with the golden sticker that tells you she graduated with honors, probably hanging in your office somewhere.

But she never read The Scarlet Letter. She never really tried to learn trigonometry. She probably never even opened her ginormous textbook for AP Biology.

And she knows this is all her fault. She’ll always place all the blame on herself, and just chalk it up to another personality trait of hers that she absolutely despises. Another piece of the puzzle that is her self-loathing.

But don’t think she won’t remember. Don’t think she won’t wonder. What if there had been more structure when she got her first C in history? 

6e346b3e542ae665449ee4e5af3420b8.jpgWhat if she had more help with her homework when she got home from school–help that didn’t end in a yelling match and tears.

What if her parents were at that meeting when she was nine?

What if she never aced that test–the one that marked her as “accelerated.”

What if my father didn’t try so hard to make sure I was gifted.


A lyric essay I tried out for a composition class I took this fall. It’s pretty dramatic and a tad more personal than what I’ve been posting lately, but I thought it’s been a while since I’ve shared my writing, so here it goes:

  1. My name is Samantha.
  2. I was born on September 11th.
  3. I like to be called Sam even though I always introduce myself as Sammy.
  4. I become obsessed with new songs, but they die when I overplay play them long before the radio has a chance.
  5. I never think of a good comeback or a witty remark or the right thing to say until the moment has passed.
  6. I never seem to find the perfect word I’m searching for until it’s too late.
  7. I still have a baby tooth.
  8. Sometimes I’ll laugh at a joke that I don’t get and I’ll get really scared that someone is going to make me explain that joke and I’ll be exposed as a fraud. That never really happens though.
  9. I laugh a lot but oftentimes my laugh is too loud. I’m sorry.
  10. A few years ago I tried to train myself to laugh differently. It didn’t work.
  11. I wish I didn’t care so much what people think about me.
  12. I’m half-Canadian.
  13. I love maps, trains, and nights when the moon is full.
  14. I hate when people say they like the rain but then they stay inside all day and have the audacity to complain about feeling lazy.
  15. I love watching the rain from a cozy place inside just as much as I love splashing, dancing, and going on walks during rainstorms.
  16. I get sick a lot.
  17. Sometimes I’ll try a ring on at a store because I’ll forget what size I am and then it’ll get stuck and my face will turn red.
  18. I’m easily embarrassed.
  19. I trip over my feet just as much as I trip over my words. (A lot.)
  20. I break things a lot but I didn’t realize that about myself until senior year when my friends pointed it out after I broke our school’s rain stick. This is when I started the list of things I’ve broken. It has over 20 items on it. I’m sorry.
  21. Sometimes I read in different accents. Not often, and only if it’s logical, but it happens.
  22. My favorite accent is an Indian accent.
  23. Sometimes I talk to myself. I read somewhere that it makes you smarter, but sometimes I just like practicing how to speak and say different things in the hopes that maybe one day I’ll get better.
  24. I google everything.
  25. I overshare.
  26. I eat when I’m bored.
  27. I eat when I’m sad.
  28. I eat because food tastes good and eating is fun and sometimes I accidentally schedule two lunches on the same day but I’ll eat at both because I don’t want my friends to feel like I’m watching them eat.
  29. I never hate myself while I’m eating, but I hate myself every time I look in the mirror.
  30. I pull accidental all-nighters sometimes because I’ll get so caught up in whatever I’m working on that I won’t want to sleep. Sometimes there’s just not enough time.
  31. I pull on-purpose all-nighters sometimes because I procrastinate.
  32. My high school GPA embarasses my father.
  33. I’ve dreamed of being a lounge singer in London and I’ve dreamed of writing a textbook. I didn’t particularly pursue these dreams, but they both formed within the last two years.
  34. Sometimes during soccer my heart would randomly start beating out of my chest, and other times I would stand up too quickly and my vision would go black around the edges. I thought this happened to everyone, but I guess I just have an autonomic dysfunction, so I need to eat more salt.
  35. I love beef jerky. And ketchup. (Not together you weirdos)
  36. I don’t care for nutella.
  37. I don’t speak up. Most of the time I wait too long or am just too afraid of messing up or sounding stupid and I miss my chance.
  38. I have ADD.
  39. Sometimes I won’t realize I’ve been singing or humming until you’ve asked me to stop.
  40. Same goes for shaking my leg or tapping my hand or any other continuous movement. I’m sorry.
  41. I have to remind myself to listen, smile, and look otherwise engaged when people are talking to me.
  42. I get distracted by eye contact and forget to listen to the words that are coming out of the person’s mouth.
  43. If I didn’t hear what you said, I might ask you to repeat it. If I didn’t hear it a second time, I will probably just smile and chuckle.
  44. I’ll wholeheartedly agree with something I don’t believe in if I haven’t been paying attention. Which is often.
  45. I stare into space a lot and sometimes it looks like I’m glaring at people. I’m sorry.
  46. Sometimes I’ll accidentally spoil a book for myself because my eyes will wander to the last paragraph before I’ve read a single sentence on that page.
  47. I start sentences that don’t go anywhere. It’s hard for me to control my train of thought. Sometimes there’s just too much in my brain.
  48. I thought this happened to most everyone. I thought this was relatable. After all, I felt like I related to my peers, so I assumed they’d relate to me in turn.
  49. I never wanted to be the same, I just wanted to be normal.
  50. You write a lot. I know. I’m sorry.


Dear Reader,

The other day I found myself deeply analyzing every aspect of my life. I didn’t mean for it to happen, and it certainly wasn’t a good idea for me to continue, but I couldn’t stop. I sat there in class, re-living every small detail of my short, pathetic life, and I came to the conclusion that it is unusually, unspeakably boring.

For one of my English classes, we have to write essays Personal essays, lyric essays, digital essays. We’re learning all the different ways you can tell a story. But here’s the thing: I don’t have very many stories to tell.

My first was about the state championship game, but it was all about how I was an irrelevant, forgettable member to this amazing team. It was about how confused and undeserving I felt through it all and how I, to this day, don’t know how to feel. In fact, it wasn’t much of a story at all. I played soccer, I was just decent enough to continue with varsity, and they won the championships. I wrote about my inner thoughts and feelings and analyzed how it all made me feel and how my life will be spent trying to accomplish more than this feat that I wasn’t really a part of.

My second story was about the root of my insecurity issues. Once again, not a story. Just some comments that have been made over the years, the changing of my mindset and the way I see my reflection in the mirror, and how I act nowadays.

But these aren’t stories. 

I don’t have a story.

And that’s kind of why I started this blog–at least that’s what I said. In my first post, I said that I don’t have a story, but I want one. I am a protagonist in a novel that is going nowhere. But just once I want something spectacular to happen.

But those things don’t just happen. At least not to people like me.

So the other day I was looking up personal essay ideas because for my third essay in my English class, I have no idea what to write about. And that’s when these realizations hit me.

The experience of overcoming a fear. The proudest moment of your life. Your most fortunate day. A visitor that you can’t forget. A special morning. A kiss that meant a lot.

I read these ideas and nothing came to mind. Nothing. Sure, I’ve had good days and proud moments, but nothing story-telling worthy.

And there were other ideas that should’ve made me feel fortunate that they didn’t prompt a memory. The hardest news you had to deliver. The ugliest thing you’ve ever seen. When you needed a hug. A disastrous date. The breakup of a friendship.

Nothing has happened to me.

I’m eighteen years old and I haven’t felt true pain or true happiness. I haven’t done anything worth writing about and I haven’t learned anything worth sharing. I’ve never been head-over-heels in love and I’ve never been heartbroken. I’ve never been addicted and I’ve never overcame an evil. I’ve never needed to be strong and I’ve never broken down because I’m weak.

I don’t want a broken home or a problem trusting people because I’ve been hurt. I don’t want to hate my simple life, but I can’t help be bored with it all. I don’t wish for all the sorrow in the world unless it can help me feel truly happy–a feeling that I don’t think I’ve yet felt.

So I don’t know where I’m going with this. Just like I don’t know where I’m going in life, I guess. I’m not going to go smoke crack or drop out of school or stir up drama in my life.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I just know I have to be careful.

Because right now I’m searching for something more out of life. After all, it’s supposed to be this indescribable stream of events that make you who you are and teach you more than you could ever learn in a classroom.

But for me it’s entirely underwhelming.

And I know that if I look to make it more, I’m going to encounter plenty of sorrow searching for joy.

I just think in the end, it could be worth it.



PS. The best cover of Hey Ya (by Outkast) that I’ve ever seen/heard. Enjoy.

Spreading Myself Too Thin

Dear Reader,

I’m a bit stressed.

I am moving into my dorm at Miami University in exactly a week. And yeah it’s stressing to say goodbye to everyone and prepare for a completely different life three hours from home, but that’s not exactly what’s bothering me.

I want to be an English teacher because, in my eyes, that’s the best job there is. I love reading books and studying poetry and writing and teaching and all of it. And I want to make a difference. More importantly, I believe I can. This year I got to be a student teacher in some classrooms around the area and it only verified that this is what I’m meant to do. And I’m passionate enough to be good at it! I could honestly write an entire post about why this is my dream job, but instead I’ll cut to the chase.

It’s a great job, yes, but do I want to get straight out of college into a career so routine-oriented?

I’d work from August to May, and then use my summers to prepare for the next year. Sure, it’s great when you have a family, I would imagine. And I want to teach in a school much like my high school–a nice suburb with a good community and intelligent, inspiring kids (even though you can find those anywhere).

But I don’t want to spend my whole life in the same town, doing the same things, just looking for little pleasures in my life.

I want to travel the world. Return to France and English, and go on adventures in Thailand and Finland and Germany and Luxembourg! I want to live in New York City. I visited when I was a freshman and it’s been on my mind ever since.

But I don’t want to teach there. And even if I did, I can’t imagine that it’d be easy to find a job in the city.

So I’m going to this school for the next four years of my life and I’m going to milk it for everything it’s worth. I’m going to learn everything I possibly can and travel with any group that will take me along. I’m going to leave in 2018 as the most educated, prepared, worldly, leader that I can be.

Which has led to my decision of adding a journalism major.

So far in Miami I will be taking five classes that meet two days a week, practicing with the club tennis team four nights a week, working three nights a week, and auditioning for the orchestra that meets every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

It’s all part of my plan. I have two English classes that I’m very excited about and will, therefore, be excited to study. One is just reading and studying works by major American authors and the other is advanced composition, which I’m assuming will help me when writing my own novels. I then have an Educational psychology class that seems interesting and a journalism course that looks very promising. Then I have a random science class that I may need help with but am nonetheless ready to take on. (Plus it’s required for my graduation)

Then tennis is going to help me stay in shape, meet new people, have fun, and help me if I ultimately decide to coach (I’ve definitely been considering it). And I may not even make the orchestra–actually, I probably won’t. But if by some miracle I do it’ll be great to keep up with the cello and help me prepare for if I become a private cello teacher in the future.

And the job is to help me pay for the winter term if I decide to stay or study abroad (fingers crossed for New York City) or simply give me some money to save for the future or pay back my father for everything he’s done for me. And might I add that the hours are very reasonable.

So I’m planning all of this as the excitement grows inside of me to the point where I burst and spill the beans to anyone who will listen. And then this is the response I get:

“Have fun failing out.”

All I want is for one person to be supportive. Supportive without the condescending comments about time-management and heavy workloads. Because maybe I am spreading myself too thin, but let me make that mistake for myself. I’d rather try it all and be forced to quit a few than not try enough and live with regrets.

I understand that this is going to be hard–probably harder than expected–but this is my life! This is all preparation for the life that I will choose after college.

Maybe I’ll be a suburban teacher, maybe I’ll be a tennis coach, maybe I’ll be a journalist, maybe I’ll be an author, maybe I’ll be a cello teacher, maybe I’ll be all of the above! But this is just me trying to prepare for anything and everything and this is me pursuing my passions and following my dreams.

So just stop trying to stop me.



Help Me Get Out of this Slump

Dear Reader,

Have you ever had SO much to do that, instead of tackling the list, you procrastinate or sleep, hoping the problem will fix itself? Well, that is me currently.

I HATE it when I get in these moods. I haven’t felt like doing anything for the past few days and everything that I do force myself to do is done half-heartedly. Even reading. I find myself zoning out on every page, just wishing I could go to sleep. But then I’ll sleep, only to awake an hour or two later, mad that I wasted more of my day and not feeling any more rested.

And I’ve been meaning to make a new post, but I haven’t committed to any of my ideas. I’ve been particularly irritable lately, so I was going to make a list of my most annoying pet peeves, but I decided that would worsen my mood. So then I thought I would make a list of things that make me happy, so I could boost it back up, but I can’t really think of anything that’s worth mentioning. And then yesterday I got a haircut that I am loving, so I was going to write about how I love change and how this is the new me, but it certainly doesn’t feel like a new me. I mean, I have all the same bad habits that I used to. I just want this to be a new me.

So here I am, writing this pointless and poorly-written post, asking for help I guess. All I’ve been doing is eating and sleeping and zoning out and just being fatigued. And I’m sure it’s because my two back-to-back trips just drained me, physically and emotionally, but I hate feeling like this. So please, if you have advice, I’d love to hear it.

What do you do when you need to feel, just, better?