elise on life

As I sit here thinking about you, my heart aches a little bit. Kind of in the way when a friend is hurting and you can’t make it go away—all you can do is sit there, hoping that your quiet presence eases even a bit of their pain. Also kind of like the moment in a horror movie when you know the monster is about to pop out, and you’re yelling in vain at the screen for the protagonist to watch out. My heart aches for your overflowing excitement as you piled your life into the back of a dark blue Prius. You were so impatient to escape into this new, bigger life that you moved yourself in completely alone—mini fridge and all—before Mom got back from parking the car. I ache for that fierce hope and determination. I want to share some rambling nuggets of wisdom with you, even though I know that you can’t understand them right now. It sucks, but you have to go through all of the things that have made you into me. Even if I could mail this letter to you on August 20, 2015, you wouldn’t be

I'm sitting on a dark blue towel laid across rocks at the edge of Cascadilla Gorge, tucked away on a little rock ledge. The sun is overhead, filtered through clouds and branches with clusters of small, light green leaves. The waterfall beside me whooshes in my ears and drowns out the voices of passersby above me. When there is breeze, a light mist flecks my skin. The smell of wet rocks, like the sea, fills my nose. The air is calm and fragrant, vibrating with life. A stronger breeze comes and chills me – my skin and bones contract. The rocks at my back cradle me in a bumpy embrace. Home. A couple of hours ago, I finished my final tasks of the school year. It doesn't feel like the cathartic release it sometimes does, but I am done nonetheless. It's difficult to reflect on a semester and a year that feel so blurry, but I'll try. Time has been  weird  this year – weirder than ever. And the scientist in me cannot figure out why. Where do my memories go? What does

Reflections on a semester off, written for  34th Street Magazine . When I first called CAPS last May, I didn’t know that I had an eating disorder, much less understand the extent to which recovering from it would shape the next year of my life. Things came to a head in the middle of a Tuesday night last December. I sat slouched against the concrete walls of Harnwell’s East stairwell on the phone with my mom, paralyzed by indecision. I couldn’t get healthier at Penn, and I couldn’t continue at Penn until I was healthier. It only took one sentence to confirm what I already knew: “I think you should come home.” I bet that, like me, many of you have a plan. It might be painstakingly laid out on a spreadsheet, or it might simply be an idea of where you want to be in a year or five. It involves being “successful,” meaning that you’re great at your job, loved by all, and doing everything effortlessly. When I decided to take a leave of absence, I was afraid to disrupt my plan and to lo