Love from, Druid Hills

I was born on Valentine’s Day, which is a curse in that my birthday will forever be overshadowed by candy grams and embarrassing declarations of love, but it’s also a blessing. From the minute I opened my eyes to the paper hearts and cheesy cards strung across the maternity ward, I’ve seen love everywhere. 

Even at Emory, which I have, at times, referred to as a loveless wasteland — love truly is all around. 

That’s because love is lying across the room from your roommate when the lights are out and it’s three in the morning and your eyelids are falling shut but you keep talking because you’re on the verge of a philosophical breakthrough. It’s sitting in Kaldis with a friend but not chatting, because you both have papers at midnight and it’s better to be with her than to suffer alone in the stacks. It means walking on the train tracks with your best friend for miles, lost in conversation, until it gets dark and you might get run over by a freight train but all you can think about is how lucky you are to be on this Earth — in this city — at the same time as this person. It’s sitting in the passenger’s seat of a friend’s car with the heater on and the windows rolled down and he’s blasting music as he turns down busy Atlanta streets while you’re wondering how such a person with such a heart stumbled into your life. Love is calling your sister and telling her about everything that has been special to you since you last saw her and wishing that she’ll also experience magic when she goes away to college. 

Love in college is being hundreds of miles from home and still feeling like somebody would care if you dropped dead. 

Emory students succeed in college not just because of academic support and external pressures, but because they have people to love and to be loved by. This series, ‘Love from, Druid Hills,’ is a testament to the loves that push us to wake up, get dressed and trek across Asbury Circle every morning.

– Sophia Peyser, Opinion Editor