TENDERNESS ISSUE by Atlas Magazine

ATLAS

Atlas Magazine SPRING 2025 tenderness

tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness

“When death, the great Reconciler, has come, it is never our tenderness that we repent of, but our severity.”

-George Eliot, Adam Bede

tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness

Atlas Spring 2025 | 1

“Let it out, baby.”

“Our most authentic moments often emerge precisely when our constructed identities collapse.”

“In a community that supposedly upholds values of compassion, acceptance, and peace, why is there so much judgment?”

“What a beautiful thing it is to have hope.”

Executive Board

Editor-in-Chief

Creative Director

Managing Editor

Treasurer

Vice Treasurer

Web Director

Photography Director

Illustration Director

Editorial Coordinator

Beauty Director

Arushi Jacob

Erin Norton

Sydney Flaherty

Annie Douma

Elisa Ligero

Jadyn Cicerchia

Laith Hintzman

Ayaana Nayak

Rheya Takhtani

Arshia Nair

Style Editor Rowan Wasserman

City Editor

Globe Editor

Arts Editor

Wellness Editor

Head Copyeditor

Social Media Director

Head Designer

Diversity Chair

4 | tender

Emma Siebold

Gray Gailey

Sidnie Paisley Thomas

Lily Suckow Ziemer

Kate Valentine

Annie Douma

Lilian Holland

Rheya Takhtani

StaffEditorial

Meghan Boucher

Kaden Bryant

Jadyn Cicerchia

Sydney Flaherty

Olivia Flanz

Vara Giannakopoulos

Elizabeth Gomez

Arushi Jacob

Lucy Latorre

Gabriella Mitchell

Erin Norton

Ian Rossin

Emma Siebold

Rowan Wasserman

Lily Ziemer Suckow

Style & Beauty

Rheya Takhtani

Arshia Nair

Marketing

Annie Douma

Elisa Ligero

Paulina Poteet

Aylin Isik

Ian Rossin

Chia Woods

Gabi Mitchell

Olivia Flanz

Bryce Heilmann

Design

Ethan Callahan

Olivia Flanz

Bryce Heilmann

Lilian Holland

Ugne Kavaliauskaite

Lauren Mallett

Photo

Ethan Callahan

Ava Chandler

Bryce Heilmann

Sophie Parrish

editor’snote

Dear Readers,

Whata journey the past four years have been. Tenderness is the perfect issue for me to leave Atlas on. Like a tender bruise, sometimes this magazine has made me hurt and ache. There have been issues where I felt my name didn’t deserve to be on the staff list at the front—that my contributions were too insignificant to be recognized. There have been times when coordinating the budget and communications for Atlas has made me want to rip my hair out of my head. But mostly, this magazine has warmed my heart. Atlas has challenged me to grow as a writer, a thinker, and an administrator, all while forming friendships that mean more to me than I can eloquently express.

The gifts I have received from this magazine are plentiful, and I will carry them with me always. I wouldn’t change a thing.

With Affection,

Annie Douma

Treasurer & Social Media Manager

letterfromtheeditorinchief

Dear Atlas Readers,

Whata wild ride the last four years have been. I’ve been on the Atlas staff since I was a freshman, and ending my time at Emerson as editor-in-chief is such an honor.

For many of us on the staff, this issue will be our last one. It’s an incredibly bittersweet feeling and I’ve been feeling particularly nostalgic this semester, tying in perfectly with our theme for this issue.

“Tenderness” can be construed in many ways — a hand caressing through your hair, the time you take to make sure your nail polish isn’t smudged, the sting of an old bruise or a fresh cut.

However you take it, however you mean it, it’s a deeply personal word, baring a piece of your soul. And everyone this semester has done just that.

I’m so proud of the work we’ve done every semester, especially this one and I want to thank the entire Atlas staff for their never ending supply of creativity, passion, and sense of community. You’ve all done such an incredible job and I can’t wait for you to see your work in print!!

To Erin, thank you for being the kindest, most creative, and dedicated person to do this with. To Annie, for going above and beyond, and putting out a dozen fires without hesitation.

And lastly, to Atlas, thank you for giving me the chance to be editor-in-chief. I don’t have the words to express what this has meant to me.

Love always,

Arushi Jacob

Editor-in-chief

letterfromthecreativedirector

Dear reader,

Iam struggling to find the right words to say. After four years of being at Atlas Magazine, this is my final semester. Describing my time here as an honor and a privilege would be an understatement. Being a part of this magazine was the saving grace of my college experience. The community created here was what helped me feel safe and seen. It will be impossible to replace the people I met and created friendships with because of this organization. Perhaps now you can see why I chose “Tenderness” to be the theme for my final semester being Atlas’ Creative Director. To choose a different word would be sacrilege. To bring it back to my freshman year, I decided to write for the City Section one last time, making my time and responsibilities cyclical. I hope that what I had to say resonates for some of you.

Outside of my own experiences, I think it’s more important than ever before to embrace the tender parts of ourselves. Resistance is necessary to our survival, but community, empathy, and togetherness are the building blocks of resistance and solidarity.

Arushi, it has been more than a pleasure to work alongside you at Atlas. Your expertise, talent, and kindness will stick with me for years to come. Annie, thank you for keeping Arushi and I on track and being the strongest, most logistical person Atlas has ever had. To the whole team, we couldn’t have done it without you. Your talent always leaves me speechless. Now, it is my pleasure to welcome Lilian Holland to the Creative Director position. I am elated to see all that she does with the magazine moving forward. I can sleep at night knowing that my baby is in trustworthy hands.

As I move forward in life, Atlas will continue to stay with me. Thank you for everything. With tenderness,

Erin Norton

Creative Director

Arts

photographer Ethan Callahan models

Sara Kelley, Mia DiGiorgio & Kate Alexander makeup

Ethan Callahan

Jadyn Cicerchia design

Atlas Spring 2025 | 11

The Hidden Heart of Anora

(2024) VArA GiAnnAkopolous

Aplatinum wedding band rests in Igor’s palm. Sitting inside his car, parked outside her building, Ani stares at this circle of metal. Igor exits, carries her suitcases to her building steps, and waits with the falling snow. When she doesn’t emerge, he returns to find her still seated, processing. “This car is very you,” she finally offers. “Do you like it?” he asks. “No,” she replies flatly. “It’s my grandmother’s,” he responds. After weighted silence, Ani climbs across the center console and straddles him. She initiates sex but blocks his attempts to kiss her, a transaction on her terms. But he insists on the intimacy a kiss offers. The encounter transforms as she begins hitting him repeatedly, her composure shattering. Igor encircles her with his arms, holding her against his chest as she collapses into sobs.

transcends the simplified narrative of a “green card marriage” that others imposed on Ani’s genuine hope for escape and connection. Instead, it reveals how our most authentic moments often emerge precisely when our constructed identities collapse— when the personas we’ve carefully maintained can no longer withstand the weight of unvarnished reality.

The Enemy (Of My Enemy)

Sean Baker’s “Anora” earned its Palme d’Or (the highest award given at the Cannes Film Festival, to the director of the Best Feature Film), the Academy Awards for Best Picture and Best Director, and unprecedented critical acclaim by locating connection in unexpected territories: between a sex worker and the enforcer dispatched to eradicate her brief marriage to an oligarch’s son. This complex final scene

Throughout their antagonistic orbit, Igor and Ani communicate in mutual recognition, even as she hurls accusations at him—abuser, pervert, potential rapist. These labels bounce off him because he sees through her performance. While Vanya falls for the fantasy of “Ani,” the glamorous sex worker there to make his trip to America memorable, Igor recognizes “Anora,” the name she abandoned, the person beneath the performance. Their understanding runs deeper than words: two people who navigate life through transactions, who recognize the cost of such an existence.

Baker’s genius lies in how he systematically deconstructs Ani’s fantasy while building an unlikely bridge between her and Igor. Their

first interactions crackle with hostility, her defiance matched by his impassive

“incidents” with other women. Each detail strips away Ani’s narrative,

of his upcoming arranged marriage, and his father’s reference to similar

with a blanket as she sleeps on the flight back. These quiet interludes reveal two

Atlas Spring 2025 | 13

people fluent in reading situations, assessing threats, identifying exits. Both survive through hypervigilance. Both recognize it in the other.

Heirs

The events of the final scene could potentially leave the audience confused regarding where exactly things changed for Ani and her hatred of Igor throughout the narrative—except it doesn’t. With very few movements and fewer words, the audience understands, explicitly or implicitly, why this shift occurs. Igor’s mention of his grandmother was the turning point, striking a deeply personal chord with Ani. Her earlier comments about her own Russian grandmother’s refusal to learn English, a choice that preserved their cultural identity in their small Brooklyn apartment, is reflected in this moment. Baker masterfully contrasts this final moment with an earlier scene where Vanya casually offers Ani his mother’s champagne glass, declaring “It’s the champagne glass of my mother. Of my fucking mother. And it will be your champagne glass.” The camera catches Ani’s microexpression, a fleeting scowl of distaste that Baker emphasizes through a jump cut. Her reaction, barely perceptible but deeply revealing, speaks to how she views familial bonds: not as accessories to be casually transferred, but as sacred connections.

For Ani, who holds the women in her family—particularly her grandmother and sister—in such high regard, Vanya’s cavalier attitude toward his mother’s possessions registers as a subtle red

flag that Baker allows to pass almost unnoticed, as Ani herself would much prefer.

This makes her response to Igor’s mention of his grandmother all the more significant. When Igor speaks of his grandmother’s car, his voice carries the same tender reverence Ani holds for her own babushka. The parallel isn’t lost on her: both of them carry their grandmothers’ influence as a talisman of authenticity in a world that demands performance. Where her mask remained firmly in place during Vanya’s champagne glass offering, here it softens, her gaze revealing recognition of a shared value system.

It’s not just the words, but the gentle way he delivers them, devoid of the performative masculinity that defines his role as enforcer. This small detail of his personal history suggests a capacity for care that exists outside the transactional world they inhabit. For Ani, who has learned to navigate life through calculated exchanges, this glimpse of familial attachment— preserved in the form of a modest, inherited vehicle—offers a stark contrast to the hollow wealth display of Vanya’s world. The car becomes a symbol of their shared understanding of real value: not in the gleaming mansions of oligarchs, but in the weathered possessions of those who truly loved them.

False Idols

Baker employs Russian Orthodox iconography as sly commentary, with ornate religious imagery in Vanya’s

mansion and Toros’ church standing in stark contrast to the transactional relationships below. These icons, with their stylized depictions of compassion, create an ironic counterpoint to the family’s hollow displays of wealth. When Igor embraces the sobbing Ani, their posture mirrors these pietàs, but their compassion emerges from secular desperation rather than devotion. Vanya’s family estate, with its vaulted ceilings and grand elevator, shrinks human connection, rendering it insignificant against material excess. The icons that adorn these walls— images of transcendent suffering and divine compassion—silently judge the commodification occurring below them. Baker positions these religious artifacts not as background but as witnesses, their gold leaf halos catching light as families negotiate marriages like business mergers and lovers promise impossible futures. These religious symbols highlight how both Igor and Ani exist as pawns in an oligarchic system. The icons represent an order where suffering is aestheticized, just as Vanya’s family has commodified both Ani’s body and Igor’s labor. Both characters are exploited within this hierarchy. Baker frames them against backdrops of institutional power to emphasize their similar position: both serving at the pleasure of wealth while remaining discardable.

Choices, Choices

What makes Baker’s approach so compelling is his refusal to sentimentalize this shared exploitation. Igor and Ani aren’t portrayed as noble victims or

Atlas Spring 2025 | 15

romantic rebels against capitalism. They’re complex participants in systems they didn’t create but have learned to navigate. Igor’s loyalty to the family isn’t presented as blind servitude but as pragmatic survival. Similarly, Ani’s profession isn’t moralized; it’s simply her economic reality. Baker respects their agency while acknowledging its constraints, allowing for a more nuanced exploration of how people find

connection within exploitative struct its constraints, allowing for a more nuanced exploration of how people find connection within exploitative structures.

Their mutual revelation comes through Baker’s manipulation of cinematic time. Scenes between Ani and Vanya unfold in dreamlike compressions—jump cuts, soft dissolves, montages that skip through days in moments. Their “romance” exists in fantasy temporality where consequence is suspended. In stark contrast, Baker films Ani and Igor’s interactions in unflinching real time, often in single takes that allow nowhere to hide. This temporal difference marks the boundary between fantasy and reality in Ani’s world. Igor exists in her actual timeline; Vanya in her imagined future.

Baker’s 35mm cinematography further delineates these realities. The grain structure itself seems to shift between worlds—softer, more diffused in Ani and Vanya’s romance, sharper and more defined in her confrontations with Igor. Even the camera’s physical relationship to the characters evolves. With Vanya, we often see Ani through his gaze: objectified, idealized. With Igor, the camera maintains a more neutral distance, observing their power struggles without romanticizing either perspective. This visual strategy culminates in the final scene where the camera holds steady as pretense dissolves between them.

This contrast builds toward the devastating conclusion: they were never truly enemies but fellow casualties. The sound design reinforces this revelation, as ambient city noise fades when they embrace, creating a sonic intimacy Baker has withheld until now. Their antagonism—enforced by their respective roles within the oligarchic structure—dissolves when they recognize their shared expendability. What remains isn’t romance but recognition: seeing each other clearly without the performances their roles demanded.

Baker’s sensitivity to how class and economics shape intimacy has been evident throughout his filmography, from “Tangerine” to “The Florida Project” to “Red Rocket”. But Anora represents his most sophisticated exploration of this theme. By placing his protagonist in the orbit of extreme wealth, he illuminates how capitalism doesn’t just determine who can marry whom, but how we experience connection. The tenderness between Ani and Igor isn’t separate from their economic positions—it emerges precisely because they recognize their shared relationship to power.

At Last—Surrender

The rings that bookend the narrative offer Baker’s most potent visual metaphor. When first selected at the jeweler, we see the ring on Ani’s hand reflected in a mirror, a layered image of projection and fantasy. Her relationship with Vanya exists in this reflective space, built on mutual delusion. But

in the final scene, Igor presents the same ring with an open palm—directly, plainly, without artifice. This visual shift from reflection to direct presentation encapsulates the core truth: genuine intimacy emerges not in romanticized projections, but in moments of unvarnished reality between people who have no reason to pretend.

In the film’s final frames, as Igor holds the sobbing Ani, Baker doesn’t offer us the comfort of a romantic resolution. There’s no suggestion that these two will build a future together or even spend another second together after she leaves the car. Their connection exists in this moment, authentic precisely because it’s unburdened by expectation. In a cinematic landscape cluttered with love stories that promise escape from life’s constraints, Baker dares to locate profound human connection not beyond our systems of exchange and exploitation, but within them. The heart of Anora beats in this recognition: that sometimes our most genuine moments of tenderness occur not with those who promise us fantasy, but with those who witness our reality, even when we’d prefer they didn’t.

Atlas Spring 2025 | 17

The Tender Touch of a Monster:

Understanding the Popularity of Monster Romance

If you’ve used social media in the last five years, you’ve probably encountered some book recommendations; and if you’ve encountered book recommendations, you’ve probably been recommended a monster romance. It’s a genre that is lining the shelves of many female consumers. From the mythical faeries in “A Court of Thorns and Roses,” to the egg-laying tentacle men in “Found by the Lake Monster,” there is no limit to the creatures with which you may find your typically female protagonists. But if you are out of the loop, you may be horrified to see a copy of “Moan for Bigfoot” by Virginia Wade proudly displayed at a Barnes & Noble. What could possibly be sexy about these creatures? Is it because Bill Skarsgård keeps playing them on screen? Though the popularity of monster romance has skyrocketed in the past few years, it is, as said in “Beauty and the Beast,” a “tale as old as time.” Even if they are not outright romance or erotica, classic monster stories such as Bram Stoker’s “Dracula” often have sexual connotations. One could chalk it up to the stereotype that women prefer

bad boys. I mean, what is badder than a monster, right? Well, after my foray into the world of monster romance, I would argue that many real men have monsters beat in the asshole category, and many women do not find this behavior appealing. Though queer monster books do exist, it is important to note that the most popular monster romances occur between a male-presenting creature and a female-presenting human, as the genres of romance and erotica are generally considered to be more feminine. You may have seen the viral trend where women make their male partners read scenes from monster erotica, their reactions always horror and bewilderment. So what exactly is it that makes the non-human such a staple in the lives of fictional and real straight women, and why can this genre be hard for others to understand? Let’s take a look at some of our monsters before we decide.

According to the World Health Organization, one in three women experience physical and/or sexual violence in their lifetime, mostly by an intimate partner. This makes violence against women the most widespread, but

JAdyn CiCerChiA

Atlas Spring 2025 | 19

among the least reported human rights abuses. This is a statistic that women are constantly reminded of. When you see many of your female peers become victims of sexual assault, when your parents hand you pepper spray and a drink cover before you move out, and when you turn on the news and hear about your bodily autonomy being taken away, a disdain begins to build. Fantasy tales have always been used as a form of escapism, and it appears that monsters are often used as a way to explore safer, heterosexual relationships. These romances can fall victim to gender roles, with the monsters typically being tall, large, strong, and protective. But there is no reason for a fictional species to be burdened by gendered violence the way humans are. Ice Planet Barbarians, an extremely popular alien romance series, is a great example of this. The first book follows Georgie,

a 22-year-old American woman, who has been abducted by aliens that plan to sell her and other human women into slavery. But as luck would have it, the ship crash lands into the home of a second alien race whose main goal seems to be doting on their unexpected female guests. The aliens appear to have little understanding of women, or humans in general. They speak a different language, have different biology, and have never interacted with them previously. Being outcasts, monsters usually lack knowledge of social norms. Their cluelessness may sometimes cause serious miscommunication, embarrassment, and discomfort. But in their ignorance, monsters can also be inclusive. They are genuinely confused by the fear the women feel and desperately try to learn more and understand them. When Georgie can finally communicate why

20 | tender

she fears being alone with these large male creatures, her alien romantic interest is horrified by the idea that women are harmed on Earth. Many monster romance novels involve extending kindness to those we view as the “other.” You are not seen as less than because you are a woman or because you are a blue alien with horns and a tail.

We can even look at monsterromance franchises that are not very sexually explicit, such as “Twilight,” to see similar tropes. A big plotline in the series is the vampire Edward Cullen’s fear of harming the human, Bella Swan, during sex. For women, especially during their first time, sex can be painful, and losing your virginity is something that you are told to just endure. Some pain can be natural, but this is aggravated by a lack of understanding and communication. Many women are also unaware that they may suffer from issues such as vaginismus, endometriosis, vaginal dryness, and other issues. In a survey conducted by the National Library of Medicine, 73% of women said their primary care providers asked about sexual health only a few times, and more than one third of women who sought help for sexual health issues felt their concerns were not adequately addressed or taken seriously. Though it should be the bare minimum, men genuinely understanding and listening to a woman’s concerns surrounding sex and love is rare. When you go into a fantasy world, it doesn’t have to be. In modern monster romances, we see

this focus on respecting and listening to women, not only about sex, but also during the physical act. According to medical research, 82% of men report experiencing an orgasm during their most recent sexual encounter, compared to 32% of women. Often referred to as “the orgasm gap,” this is an issue that is heavily discussed among women. However, they are still consistently ignored by doctors and their partners. But the monsters certainly know how to remedy this. Many monster romances put a large emphasis on paying attention to the female anatomy and foreplay. Some of this has to do with the nature of two different species attempting intercourse, but the monsters are usually very dedicated to listening to the woman’s needs. Many women cite their male partner’s lack of attention as the main culprit in their lack of orgasm. In some stories, these monsters only exist to bring pleasure to women. It is quite common for the monsters to have nonhuman genitalia that makes sex more enjoyable for the woman. Though this genre is often dismissed as silly or even crass, there is something to be said for the unexpected, common thread of women finding relationships where they don’t experience disrespect, sexism, and general apathy. Historically, the monster is a manifestation of current social anxieties, and sex has always been a highly debated topic. In the past, themes such as vampirism were used to demonize women who were more outwardly sexual or independent. So even when monsters are supposed to be bad, they often

Atlas Spring 2025 | 21

end up acting as symbols of freedom; they do not adhere to the norm or the expectations of others. Nowadays, exploring your sexuality with a partner is more normalized, but it can still be daunting for young women. In such divisive times, with a government that is not very supportive of women’s rights, many are saying sexual exploration is just not worth it. This is made clear by the rising popularity of voluntary celibacy amongst Millennials and Gen Z. So if you find yourself with your nose buried in the newest minotaur romance, you certainly aren’t alone–and embarrassing women for having an interest in sex, no matter what format it comes in, is antiquated and counterproductive. Perhaps some straight men should start paying closer attention to romance novels.

22 | tender

iAn rossin

Dance, Equity, Inclusion

Out of all the types of performance art, ballet is perhaps the most special because its stories are told without words—the phrase “actions speak louder than words” comes to mind. The pirouettes, jumps, and pliés, coupled with delicate orchestral music and beautiful lighting, create a heartwrenching narrative that is open to interpretation by the audience because no one’s instructing them how to feel. The emotions elicited from ballet come from within a person, without verbal influence. No one knows this better than Daniel Rubin, a professional ballet dancer, choreographer, and current company member at the Boston Ballet. Having started dancing from a young age, Rubin first dabbled in Russian folk dance, then enrolled at a small studio that taught tap, jazz, and ballet. While he studied tap there, his parents persuaded him to try ballet as well. He saw that “ballet (of all classes in America) was the one that had other boys in it,” and decided eventually that “this is a man’s activity.” When he began, Rubin remembers “feeling this sensation of gold in the pit of my stomach” that he’s been pursuing ever since.

Rubin agrees that ballet has a certain tenderness to it. He defines his understanding of tenderness as “a heightened state of living in the moment and showing all of the care and fragility that is inherent to love.” Ballet as an art form is the embodiment of love, “whether it’s fairytale love, an excess of love, a deficit of love, abstract love,” said Rubin. In terms of living in the moment, dancers have no choice but

to do just that. They have to take what they learn in the rehearsal room and translate it to the stage, taking great care to keep the choreography as accurate as possible, because one misstep can lead to disaster and humiliation. One of the aspects Rubin loves most about ballet is that “When a dancer goes out on stage, regardless of their costume or circumstances, they are essentially naked. They bare their soul in every movement.”

Ballet, like most things, has a history wrapped in racism. The Nutcracker, having premiered in 1892 and staged using Asian stereotypes, is still largely depicted using appropriation of Asian culture to this day. Georgina Pazcoguin, in an article for Elle, says that “The Chinese Tea dance is…overthe-top offensive. The number, and ballet in general, still features some of the worst Asian stereotypes ever conceived—pointed hats, yellow-tinted face paint, slanted-eye makeup.” I’ve seen this myself, too. When I myself was in undergrad, I was the assistant stage manager for a pre-professional production of “The Nutcracker”. The second act of “The Nutcracker” has dancers representing a variety of countries and performing in front of Clara and the Nutcracker to show them what they have to offer. One of my junior year college roommates, who was white, was a part of the “Tea” dance, mentioned by Pazcoguin. He confided in me a couple of times that, upon seeing his costume, he was uncomfortable wearing it because even he recognized the display of

appropriation of Chinese culture. While it’s clear that there are still instances of racism and cultural appropriation ingrained in it, ballet companies like the Boston Ballet are endeavoring to make the art form more diverse and inclusive, both racially and gender-wise. These efforts are representative of the commitment to reinforce the idea of love and beauty within ballet.

According to the Boston Ballet’s Missions and Values page, diversity is “respecting the intersection of varied differences and identities in our society, including but not limited to: race, ethnicity, physical ability, sexual orientation, gender identity, age, religion, nationality, culture, socio-economic status, and parental status.”

Some of the organization’s ongoing initiatives include “reimagining narrative ballets,”

26 | tender

story ballets have a diversity of varying characters and tempers that are

all inherent to the human experience.” Despite the fact that performers don’t use words to tell their stories in ballet, they all utilize their unique skills, training, and backgrounds to bring new, deep characters to life.

Rubin’s ideas about diversity likely stem from his upbringing, as “this is not the tradition that [he] grew up admiring in Russia. There, an entire corps de ballet of swans or willis are carbon copies of one another and all breathe the same breath. Here, the same choreography is tackled by people who are physically and culturally very different.” In creating a uniform, static environment, diversity and creativity become lacking and restrained. Our differences are what makes us unique as human beings. All of us as individuals have varying body types, personalities, interests, and styles. If we were all the same, all creativity-based industries would come to a grinding halt because there’d be no one left to bring any fresh perspectives or ideas to the table. Even when Rubin himself is the choreographer, he’s “asking questions, letting dancers solve certain things for themselves, creating small games where the solving of the game is part of the creation itself, both in conceptual inception and in the act of creation on stage.” He allows his dancers to let their creative juices flow because he knows it takes a village to turn ideas into reality.

At a time where the presidential administration is

punishing arts organizations and educational institutions who are refusing to follow its demands to eliminate DEI policies, representation is extremely important, especially in the performing arts industry. Theatre and dance are meant to bring people together and incite love, joy, and beauty, and most importantly, inspire. And the best way to inspire people is to put stories onstage that represent people of all genders, sexual orientations, races,

City City

photographer Bryce heilmann models casey miller & isaiah Flynn design Bryce heilmann

28 | tender

Hope Gets Lost In Translation

Erin norton

Half of what I write is about where I’m from or where I am. The reason I can’t write fiction is because I’m too rooted in the settings of my own life. That’s why the first thing I wrote about when I started college was about adjusting to life in Boston after coming from a rural area.

While I had the opportunity to write an article that truly analyzed the differences between my small town upbringing and urbanity, I ended up writing a bulletpointed list of pretty surfacelevel changes I was facing at the time. While this first article for Emerson’s own Atlas Magazine was not what I’d

consider to be anything special now, it holds a place in my heart for a time when I had hope for Boston and my desperation to belong.

Growing up in Vermont, it was easy to know every single corner of my hometown. There wasn’t much space to cover in the eighteen years I spent living there. I frequented the same places on a daily basis, like the bookstore-cafe that changed its ownership and name maybe once a year, but always remembered my order when I’d go there for my lunch break. There’s the stairwell in one of the nearly empty strip malls that had the best acoustics to sing with your other just as publicly unbearable high school theatre friends. There’s a river that’s crossable by walking on the trunk of a fallen tree, which leads to a completely secluded part of town. The abandoned bowling alley that was victim to adolescent arsonists when I was in high school was a good place to hang out until it got boarded up and eventually torn down.

I was full of angst and uncontrollable sadness from a young age. Around my 12th birthday, I was diagnosed with adolescent

depression. Even in Vermont, where I was perpetually surrounded by nature, friends, and a good family, my brain operated in a way that most other children my age couldn’t comprehend. I was in the fifth grade when I started pinning my hope on the future. I want to go to boarding school; I told my parents every day.

Every Wednesday, when I would go to the post office with my dad, I would empty our mailbox to see a shiny cardstock brochure from my dad’s alma mater, a prep school in western Massachusetts. Seeing the pamphlet then prompted him to reminisce. He always spoke of his boarding school days with high regard. He would tell anecdotes of pulling pranks on his peers and teachers, sledding down the steep Berkshire hills on stolen lunch trays, and asking girls from the boarding school across the lake to formals. He was carefree in a way I could only fantasize about. I thought to myself, if happiness doesn’t exist in my hometown, it must exist somewhere else. For the rest of middle school, I planned on taking the placement exam for the boarding school I wanted to attend. I think my parents were nervous about breaking my spirit because, in the late spring of my final year in middle school, they told me that they never set up a placement test for me. As a family, we couldn’t afford it. In the end, I attended the local high school everyone else went to. I resented it, and I was good at hiding it. I was an avid participant in the theatre department and definitely was not a loner. In March of my

junior year, I even wrote a speech to deliver to all 600 of my peers at the weekly assembly. I fit in, but I didn’t feel that way at all. I continued to hope with a fervor comparable to those who pray.

After four long, slow-moving years, it was time to apply for college. I applied to anywhere that wasn’t rural. Many adults in my life tutted my yearning for an urban life. They joked I would come crawling back to my roots like a shriveling plant. I hoped I could one day become larger than my hometown. Not in the sense of fame; I simply wanted to live in a place I didn’t outgrow. I needed to go somewhere bigger to become bigger. I moved to Boston.

The first article I wrote at Emerson College was called “Small Town to Big City: a Guide for New Bostonians.” It wasn’t very much of a guide. In the first paragraph, I talked about how I saw someone snort cocaine and compared it to watching Pulp Fiction. That wasn’t

necessary for me to sensationalize. Additionally, the tips in the article were basic and unhelpful. I remarked that getting lost on the train is inevitable, it’s difficult to grocery shop because it takes five minutes to walk there, and there are things to do. Boston was my new car. Shiny with a distinct plastic smell, I was about to press down hard on the gas.

For a while, I cruised onward. I absorbed lots of knowledge and formed my own opinions on Boston. Bova’s is better than Modern or Mike’s. Don’t bother trying to use the Green Line if a Sox game just ended. Being catcalled in Downtown Crossing, even in broad daylight, is inevitable. Don’t pay for the aquarium, just take an edible and look at the seals in the tank outside the building. The corner of Boylston and Tremont is statistically the windiest intersection in the United States. Start layering up in late September. With the wave of an arm and a kissy noise, it’s possible to summon a squirrel in the common. Charles Street is overrated, except for DeLuca’s. Don’t try to go for a run in Beacon Hill, the South End, or the perimeter of the Common and Public Garden unless you want to trip and eat bricks for breakfast.

But where did my piece fit into the puzzle? I ended up resenting Boston more than I hated Vermont. These were supposed to be the best years of my life, and I spent half of the time self-isolating in my room. I planned it all out in my head. I was going to be happy—whatever that meant. My dumb BuzzFeed-esque article was supposed to

be a manifestation of our union: a rural girl meets the big city and falls madly in love. Boston was going to be my home, but I could never fit the key into the lock.

In two months, I will be graduating with a degree in creative writing. All I will have to show for it are a bunch of depressing poems and essays about Vermont and now Boston that nobody will read. My tongue twists the tenderness of the past into hope and then hope into sadness.

Hope is a word that will forever be lost in translation. In May, I’ll be moving to New York City. Then, my life will truly begin.

Fuck, I’m doing it again! Fuck, I’m doing it again! Fuck, I’m doing it again!

For the rest of my life, I’ll be a mutt chasing its tail. And then and then and then and then and then. Maybe when I die, I’ll get there. I’ll get to where I’m going. I will finally be kinged in this game of checkers. I’ll finally think: I’m here. I can move wherever I want, go wherever I want. I belong. I am happy. Perhaps I’ll realize that belonging and happiness are not intrinsically connected like how I once believed them to be. I’ll think back to high school when my friends and I were obsessed with astral projection. We fell asleep every night with the hopes of making it to the astral plane. There, we could go wherever we wanted. We could belong everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. As the world starts to fade to a charcoal grey, I’ll think: what a beautiful thing it is to have hope.

Earthy, Crunchy Elitism: Peace and Love for the ‘Granola’ Aesthetic

gaBi mitchell

As a life-long New Englander, I find it is very common to see people in places like Boston, Burlington, and Worcester sporting outdoor recreation brands. These brands (Patagonia, Cotopaxi, The North Face, and more) are synonymous with the “granola” aesthetic. The term “granola” in this context is typically used for people who enjoy outdoor hobbies such as camping, skiing, and hiking, are environmentally aware, and prefer more natural living. This subculture has been around for decades, but the use of “granola” is relatively new–it started to appear on Tumblr in the early 2010s.

Throughout my childhood, I went hiking numerous times with my family, but I was completely unaware of the culture surrounding it and other outdoor activities. I was first introduced to the granola subculture in middle school when I transferred from public school to a small charter school in Middlesex County. The majority of my classmates were involved in outdoor hobbies,

especially skiing and snowboarding. My new school was also mostly white, and I found it a little difficult to relate to my classmates. Most of my friends came from more money than I did. I never went to ski club with them after school, and I didn’t really understand the concept of sleeping in a tent for fun. What I did understand, though, was fashion.

My friends would come to school in Birkenstocks and fuzzy Patagonia fleeces, and since I wanted to fit in, I begged my parents for these things. Now to me, $139 for a jacket is pretty damn expensive. Thankfully, I found an Eddie Bauer one at the thrift store for a little less than $30. I wore this fleece every week. As I got older, I started to develop my personal style, and while it has changed significantly, there are a lot of elements of granola style that I still love, especially the convenience of Birkenstocks.

where the poorer families often lived. The change in the culture surrounding these activities is undeniable. So, I asked some of the people in my life to define “granola culture” nowadays and what it’s like to be a part of it.

For Nancy Serrano, University of Oregon ’24, there are two sides of granolaism— “elitist” and “dirt”.

“To me, the big differences lie not only in their consumption of outdoor products, but also in community engagement,” Serrano said. “I can only afford a gym membership because of a BIPOC scholarship my gym offers and I go to the free climb nights for BIPOC. I am guilty in that I buy a lot of outdoor equipment, mostly because I am insecure. I’ve come across many white people with super nice

equipment doing things I love to do and I feel inferior due to my ‘lack of preparedness’”.

Like Serrano, my partner University of New England freshman Jack Kuehl would not participate in “granola” activities like skiing and rock climbing if they were not school-funded. Kuehl agrees that elitism is affecting the aesthetic.

“I think that the need for brand name products, Arc’teryx for example, can lead people astray from the actual values of the subculture,” Kuehl said.

For my friend Neeve, granola habits coexist with the lifestyle.

“I think the elitism definitely comes from a lot of the expensive clothing and equipment brands, but a lot of them–despite being huge corporations–are genuinely environmentally friendly, like Billabong and Patagonia, for example,” Connelly said. “In granola hobbies it’s really hard to separate life and hobby. It’s common for people to basically have no life outside of their outdoorsy hobbies and do whatever they can to pursue those things.”

During my interviews, fashion came up a lot, which is interesting to me because fashion doesn’t seem

like a typical “granola” value. While many outdoor brands try their best to be sustainable, this can often cause problems with affordability. According to ecoswap.uk, products from brands that produce sustainably, such as Patagonia, Cotopaxi, and The North Face, are often 75-85% more expensive than brands that do not. This is due to the use of higher quality materials and, of course, the fact that they treat those who make the products ethically and actually pay them. It is easy to judge others for not buying sustainably, but not everyone can afford to buy from brands like Patagonia. This ties into what Nancy was saying about the different sections of granola: those who buy directly from the stores and those who buy secondhand. This also applies to gear and equipment.

Regardless of who is buying what, fashion is very important to granola culture, despite what those who are a part of it may say. Otherwise, there wouldn’t even be a name for the style. There is a reason that Nalgene water bottles are so popular amongst this group. They

are as fashionable as they are functional, and one might even call them an accessory. If not for the brand name, people would just buy any old water bottle.

I think that the ability to dissect a culture you are a part of is important for personal growth and awareness of what is going on around you. Granola culture is something that comes with many highlights as well as faults, and in order to uphold the values of peace, love, and humanitarianism, you need to be able to recognize potential systemic issues, even within your own environment. At its core, the essence of granola culture is enjoying nature, doing the activities you love with the people you love, and advocating so that others can do the same.

Atlas Spring 2025 | 39

Let It Out, Baby Let It Out, Baby

rowan wassErman

In college, we’re scream-deprived. Picture it: you’re 18 years old, just moved to Boston from wherever the hell you’re from. You have no friends, you’re falling behind in your classes, your philosophy professor doesn’t like you, and you’ve called your mom so many times in the past week that she’s getting tired of consoling you.

You have two roommates in your tiny, lightwell triple—not quite friends, but something more than acquaintances. One goes home every weekend to pet their dogs and sleep in their bed, leaving their third of the room an empty and over-decorated nest. The other stays out late and returns on unsteady feet with a wild grin and the scent of alcoholic puke on their shoes. You’re alone here, in a city you don’t know.

a singer for more than half of my life, mostly in established groups meeting multiple times per week. When I didn’t have a choir to go to, I had a car ride with my brother where we could roll the windows down and scream lyrics to whatever 2000’s 2000s-era song we were into at the moment. These forms of release have always helped me to maintain my sanity and regulate my emotions without any unnecessary drama. But when I came to college, I lost those opportunities—my roommates weren’t down with singing randomly at my whims, and I’m not keen on getting noise complaints.

Here’s the move:

Scream. Sing. Cry. Let it out. Let it out.

Emotional release can be accomplished in a variety of ways, one of the most effective of which, in my case, has been singing. I’ve been

The more you look for a space to be loud and alone, the more impossible it seems. Back home, there were open spaces in nature, empty fields and long highways, marching bands, and organized sports. Emotional release through sound is super helpful for teenagers, but it’s difficult to find that same release when you’ve moved into a crowded city in a room with two almost-strangers.

Unless you’re looking for attention from dozens of strangers, screaming in the Boston Common is ill-advised. While the Common and Public Garden can be idyllic locations for meditative walks, they’re not prime spots for vocal release. And while it may be one of the greener spots in Boston, it’s not the wilderness by any means—you can see, hear, and smell the street from any point within the park.

So you can’t scream in the Common. Screaming in your room definitely isn’t an option—the walls are thin, so even if your roommates aren’t present, you definitely will be heard by your neighbors. A courteous neighbor might ignore muffled sobbing, slightly loud music, or repetitive alarms, but they’ll probably draw the line at a flat-out shriek. If your room is off-limits and the Common is closed, where do you go when you need to let out all of your frustration and emotions via scream?

Think back to that stereotypical, classic high school experience. Whether or not your school football team was any good, there’s a high likelihood that there was a football team. With a football team comes a football game, and at that game, there will be screaming. It’s the U.S. and we love to yell at football games, be it on the screen or in person. A point is scored, someone screams. A run is made, screaming occurs. A referee makes a call (be it good, bad, or otherwise), someone will scream.

Sports are one of the primary ways for a huge swath of people to express their emotions through sound, which is a part

of why sports are so broadly popular. So, this leads to your next move. You’re in a college town—go to a sports event. Aside from Fenway, TD Garden, Matthews Arena, Hormel Stadium, and Bright Hockey Center, there are opportunities for less professional tier matches to interact with. College

Atlas Spring 2025 | 41

42 | tender45tender matches, and even highschool matches, are accessible at various levels. Emerson has a few sports teams with games and events at various times, the majority of which can provide an outlet for you to make some noise. Look into it. Try a concert. With our incredible public transit system, we have access to a wide variety of

performance venues, some of which are freely accessed. The New England Conservatory, in particular, has near nightly performances which are free to attend. At breaks between songs, the louder you clap and cheer, the better. The emotional buildup standard during a classical performance will make that release of cheering even better than just sitting and watching a baseball game.

Maybe try a practice room. Practice rooms, located in Paramount and The Little Building, are slightly soundproofed rooms designed for people to make noise inside. Plus, some of them come prepared with a piano. Sit down, slam your fists on those ivory keys, and scream at the blank white walls of Emerson College. Your sound will at least be muffled. Plus, practice rooms are for being loud, so no one can complain. Human beings are meant to make sound. We are meant to speak, to sing, to cry, to dance, to clap, to make any form of noise possible. Unfortunately, it is often natural to avoid being the object of unflattering attention—we don’t want to be stared at for laughing too loud in the library. In this new environment where we’re all getting used to the strangers around us, we need a moment to release all that sound that’s building up inside us at any given moment.

Don’t hold in your clicking pen, don’t force your leg to stop bouncing, don’t stop yourself from crying.

Let it out, baby.

ugnė kavaliauskaitė

My Seat at the Table

By mEghan BouchEr

Ithink the sun was made to shine through my grandparents’ kitchen window. It perfectly illuminates the small table where we share meals together, drink tea, and reminisce. It warms up the cold tile floors that I used to patter across, chasing my sister as a young girl. When that sun pours its golden rays into a place full of so many memories, I can’t help but feel safe. It’s interesting how much of your life can take place in one room. The majority of my childhood is in that kitchen. I did math homework on that table, listened to my Grammy play the grand piano in the other room, and

46 | tender

learned how to cook family recipes on that stove. But most importantly, I got to talk with my grandparents there. We would talk about everything, for hours. I’ve watched as the sun slowly recedes past the window as the conversation carries on, and yet the warmth of memories and love still sets the room ablaze even in the moonlight. Despite the years of talking about what was happening in my life and what it would eventually look like, my most special memories are when we stepped into the past together.

It often started by looking through old photo albums. My grandparents’

photography collection is incredibly impressive and extensive. Decades of memories span across tens of albums. Every Christmas, birthday, and vacation is meticulously documented with an endless amount of photos, and my grandparents have a story for each one.

I remember one day, the albums were accompanied by something else: a small, blue book. It was my grandmother’s published poetry. She would read a poem and then show me a picture that was somehow associated with it. One in particular showed a church with a Celtic cross. Naturally, I asked her about it and it divulged into a history lesson. I didn’t mind one bit.

Since a very young age, Grammy always made sure I knew I was Irish and knew the stories of our past. Of course, there were photo albums to accompany each story. As she flipped through the pages of the albums, I learned more and more about where I came from.

It was always exciting to me to see what my grandparents deemed worthy enough to be the focus of their camera. As music teachers, there were dozens of pictures of organs and instruments in the Irish cathedrals they visited. As loving parents, there were pictures of my mom and uncle peering out over the Irish landscape our relatives had once called home. As a couple deeply in love, there were photos of them posing together in front of landmarks, always smiling. As grandparents, they made sure to share all the memories they could with me.

During these family history lessons, I would sit in the corner, often where a

lamp hung far too low over the table. It was my job to switch it on so our meals or conversations would be bathed in a tender glow–although I preferred the beauty of the sun filtering through the window. As I got older, I’d hit my head on the lamp every time I made my way to my designated corner. Each time, the sharp pain reminded me of how much I’d grown. How we were all growing older together.

Life began to pass so quickly. I spent less and less time in that kitchen. I’d see my grandparents once a week if I was lucky. Those photo albums rarely left the shelves, their history collecting dust as I drifted farther away.

I had always longed for something outside of that kitchen. Out of my small town, to the big city, to the rest of the world. Maybe it was those photo albums. They had shown me a world beyond that kitchen and I’d longed for it ever since. It wasn’t until I began studying abroad that I realized how naive I had been. Every weekend, a new European city to explore. Every day, a new adventure to be had. I was so close to where my family had come from and yet I had never felt further away. No ancient landscapes or museums could compare to the comfort of my grandparents’ home and the memories that danced through it. I decided the only way to remedy my aching homesickness was to have a glimpse into that kitchen and back into my past. I texted Grammy, asking her if we could chat. She said yes, of course. I asked her if we could look through some of those old photo albums, the

ones from Ireland. She said yes, of course.

“It will give me a chance to reminisce and remember things, good and bad,” she said.

A few days later we chatted via Facetime, her sitting in that wonderful kitchen, me sitting in my dorm room thousands of miles away. Ever the overpreparer, she had laid notes and photo albums out on the table in front of her. I wouldn’t expect anything less. As she told the stories I’d heard a hundred times before and held the photos up to the camera that I had spent years of my childhood gushing over, I grew emotional. How I’d missed that kitchen and my grandparents.

“I’m more than just sitting in this kitchen. We’re more than all the challenges that forced our family to leave Ireland,” she said.

I didn’t know how to tell her that there was nothing more important to me than sitting in that kitchen with her and my grandfather. While I loved to hear the stories of our past, my favorite stories were the ones that were created sitting around that table. Simplistic moments. People have been conversing around kitchen tables for centuries. But I wonder if any of those people knew how perfectly the sun poured into that kitchen and how much I missed its warmth?

My Pa would chime in every now and again to help Grammy remember some detail of her story. They were perfectly in sync. They always have been. They bounce off of each other like those sun rays bounced off the suncatcher in the

48 | tender

window.

As we talked, she told me about an assignment she did back in her teaching days. She tasked her students with looking into their heritage and researching how their cultures influenced music. She told me how a fellow grandmother had come up to her to thank her. The woman said it was the first time her granddaughter had taken any interest in spending time with her.

I couldn’t tell if she told me that as a way of saying thank you. Thank you for asking. Thank you for taking an interest. Meanwhile, all I wanted to say was, “thank you for your stories…. Thank you for the openness of your heart. Thank you for remembering the past. Thank you for that kitchen, for its golden rays, and the warmth of your love that grew me into the person I am today.”

A Guide to International Heartbreak

By sydnEy FlahErty

Don’t throw away the McDonald’s bag 1.

You are looking at it right now. It’s filled with trash—a half-eaten pack of ten nuggets, empty cartons, and unused ketchup. You ordered it last night, when you were together.

It’s right in the middle of everything. A big paper bag in the middle of your small, temporary dorm of one semester. You know it’s garbage, half-eaten cheeseburgers. You know you should throw it out.

But don’t. Don’t, because he touched it. And you’ve never been sentimental

before, but you’ve also never been in love. Think about his fingers, the nails cut short, on the bag’s sides. Think about last night, sitting in your twin bed in this foreign country, eating McDonald’s and being in love, finally. Think about the way you laughed and put your legs over his.

Your suitemate is going to come back soon and she’ll tell you that the best way to get over him is to get rid of everything. But you can’t. Don’t. Not yet.

Go to the post office

You’ve been crying a lot. It feels like there are holes in you, wind moving through them, and there is a hollowness in you. You don’t want to cry again so you can’t be alone. Call your friend and start crying when she asks about your day. Look at the McDonald’s bag and try not to think that he is somewhere in this city, somewhere without you. Tell your friend you want to come when she says she has to run an errand at the post office.

Lay in the sun

You walk from your dorm to Letná Park, you’ve done this for the past five months. It’s a hill that looks over the whole city. From your favorite bench, you can see everything: the National Museum, the narrow and winding streets, the Charles Bridge over the Vltava River.

You showed him this park, brought him here to see the sunset. Walk past the tree you both leaned against,

Cry in the theater

You still haven’t gone to the National Theater after five months. You need to go before you leave in three days. So buy tickets. You wanted to see an opera—he loved the opera—but there are none. So you go to a play in Czech about a small village in the countryside. You can’t understand a word. You need to strain your neck to see certain corners of the stage.

Post offices in the Czech Republic are similar to DMVs in the United States. Watch your friend pull a number and sit with her for three hours until they call her name. She is renewing her visa. She is staying. You’re leaving soon, in four days. This is just one semester abroad for you. This is her whole life. Try not to be jealous. Try not to think about what would happen if you could stay.

sipping sweet beers and talking about your younger siblings.

Walk quickly. Lay down. Close your eyes because the sun is right in the middle of the sky, and see its fleshy, orange glow through your eyelids. Think: there is still the sun and the park, still the grass that pricks into your back and the trees that sway towards you, telling you it’s okay over and over.

Halfway through, you give up on following the plot. You look at the costumes instead: the flowing skirts and patched pants that contain the same reds and whites seen on the country’s flag. This is something you like—the national pride that stems from the countryside, from tradition. You don’t think about him for a full two minutes.

Debrief over brunch

Look for him by the river 5. 6. 7.

It’s the same friend from the post office, inviting you to brunch because she’s worried about you. You’ve been here before, it’s a small restaurant near the main shopping district. You like it for its outdoor seating.

People are smoking at the tables next to you but you don’t mind. It’s warm outside, so you take off your sweater. You and your friend watch people pass by, some speaking Czech,

Ride the funicular

He told you about the funicular, a cable car that takes passengers up to the top of Petřín Hill—the hill his dorm was on, the hill where you used to meet him. He told you it was fun, an essential for tourists. He had taken you there but the line was too long. You are back, this time alone, and there is no line.

You take a seat and watch as the cable car swells upward, higher and higher, above the trees and the city. There

others Spanish or British English. You’ve grown to like not understanding, letting peoples’ words wash over you without flinching or grasping for meaning.

You talk about family and Prague and realize that in two days you might never see your friend again. There is a familiar sting, a choking sensation in the back of your throat— push it down.

Everytime you go on a walk it turns into a manhunt. You listen only to happy music now, as you turn left and onto the bricks that line the Vltava. Someone told you about the Vodník, a river spirit a woman fell in love with. She jumped into the river and joined him.

It was your second date, when you

are two young boys in front of you, playing video games on their phones. You wish this was normal for you, a regular commute. You wish you weren’t a tourist.

Months later, months after you’re gone, you’ll have a dream where you’re on the funicular. And there he is, standing next to you. He doesn’t say hello, just pinches your arm until you wake up.

came here with him. The sun set early then and everything was slightly blue, looking for fish in the murky water. His friends live around here, you met them twice. And you wonder if he might be here too, on his way to meet them, or going on a walk, same as you. What would you do? You rehearse it over and over.

Go shopping

a library Leave 8. 9. 10.

You’re leaving tomorrow and your suitemate wants to go shopping for bathing suits. It is about to be summer, blisteringly hot. You feel time like a gun against your back, flicking through racks of discount clothes at Primark. Your suitemate is characteristically frugal and indecisive, picking an item up, then down, then up again.

Tour

It is your last day and you still haven’t seen the Klementinum Library. You book a guided tour instead of packing. You find out that you can’t actually go

Laugh because she’s always like this. Sometimes it feels like you know her every thought. Yet she was a stranger five months ago.

She asks about him, but you can’t speak about it anymore. Instead, you are trying to memorize the way she smiles, trying primitively not to forget. She buys a bikini.

You pack everything in one hour. Save the McDonald’s bag for last, throw it away without looking. Eat with your friends who haven’t already left. Your flight is early in the morning but still, you stay out late.

You don’t think of him now, saying goodbye to your friends, eating your favorite foods, walking down your favorite streets. You think, instead: goodbye goodbye goodbye. And you cry all the same.

In the airport you are watching the

inside the library, just look in between metal rails, because the books are too fragile. It is pretty all the same, even from this distance.

sun rise. You imagine what the sun looks like now, over the Charles Bridge, in Old Town Square, from Vítkov park. How it is coming through the windows of your friends’ rooms.

There had been a hollowness here, a deep cut since he left. But, rising, there is fullness—the places you have seen, the people you met. The huge, nearly unmanageable size of all this new love. Your body expands to hold it.

You have never been so sentimental; you have never been so in love.

A Broken Ankle Won’t Stop Me

By liz gómEz

Hindsight is twenty-twenty.

So, if I’d known that in a little over four months I would be shimmying through a five-foot-bythree-foot hole in the side of a rusting ship stranded on the coast of Inis Oírr, my legs bent at ninety-degree angles and my broken ankle scraping a serrated, tetanus-filled piece of metal, perhaps I would’ve practiced some temperance on my twenty-first birthday. Or at least, I would have only downed one shot of tequila and refused to skip with my friend down the uneven sidewalk less than fifty feet from the Little Building.

But hindsight is twenty-twenty, and while skipping alongside my friend,

more than one shot of tequila coursing through my veins, I tripped over my foot, crashed to the ground, and felt my left ankle pop. At that moment, the tendons in my ankle snapped so quickly, so powerfully, that they broke a piece of bone off the bottom of my ankle joint.

Then I threw up. All over the sidewalk. In public. In front of a dozen people.

After three months of convincing myself I only sprained my ankle, I finally met with an orthopedic doctor who, taking one look at my swollen ankle, raised his eyebrow and said it was broken.

“You need physical therapy

immediately,” he said while studying my X-rays—which clearly showed the piece of bone floating between my ankle joint, a speck of painful dust that had prevented me from walking normally, sleeping normally, living normally for the past several months. “At least four months of it.”

I looked at the black-and-white tiles on the floor of the examination room when I responded. “I’m leaving for a study abroad program in Ireland in less than three weeks.”

His sigh made me want to curl into a ball and sink into the Earth’s core.

“Well, then,” he whispered to himself, “you’ll get in three weeks of PT.”

Physical therapy flew by. At my last session, I could barely point my left toes, my foot refused to move side to side, and if I even dared to walk without

a limp, I’d be on the ground in fewer than five seconds.

Ireland’s sloping hills, fields of undulating limestone, and, I’d later discover, rusting shipwrecks with one entrance and exit, waited for me with open arms and the promise of soreness, frustration, and many pills of Advil.

I wanted to throw up again as I boarded the plane, my new and improved brace locking my ankle in place, making it almost impossible for my foot to move, but not preventing the dull throbbing threatening to consume me for the six-hour flight.

Our first full day in Ireland was spent traversing the farm of a very attractive, older Irishman (I will never forget you, Patrick.) Did my ego tell me to “walk normally” and “try to look sexy and cool in front of the farmer, not letting

Atlas Spring 2025 | 57

him know how much my body was in pain or how exhausted I was from jetlag while not even having one meal in my stomach”? Maybe. How long was I able to act like this? Not even ten minutes, for the group walked into the hazel tree forest surrounding the farm, which hid a huge, steep hill that we all had to climb to the top. Thank God my friends were there to hold my hand as I stepped over large rocks and slithering tree roots. But, it’s a strange feeling to have your body—or part of your body—actively working against you; I struggled with it while studying, traveling, and learning to live in the west of Ireland.

Three weeks and many Advil pills absorbed into my small intestine later, our program spent three days in the Aran Islands, a group of three islands— Inis Mór, Inis Meáin, and Inis Oírr—off the west coast of Ireland. On the first day, we explored Inis Mór. My ankle behaved as best it could; there were ample benches to rest on, so I could spend hours watching boats dock in or leave the harbor, the gray ocean water rippling from the Irish breeze.

On the second day, we went to Inis Oírr. My friends and I had heard of a shipwreck on the coast of the island. While the sun shone in the blue sky, we trekked towards the ship, pointing out the cows, dogs, sheep, and birds that surrounded us. I almost forgot about my ankle; it had been quiet that morning, whispering instead of shouting each time I put pressure on it. I was so close to forgetting about the months of pain and fear I had endured before going on this trip—so close to feeling a sense of normalcy that I could barely recall, a blurry dot on the horizon of my consciousness. Then, I saw the ship. And suddenly I was so very close to throwing up.

Crooked, rusted pipes sprouted from the caved-in roof. Scattered across its red, brittle sides were a variety of tiny holes. Toward the rear of the ship, a tall boulder held a group of tourists who, one by one, squeezed through one of the holes, their bodies bending and contorting in ways I’ve only seen in horror movies.

I realized three things at that

momentt. One: My ankle started shouting in pain, even though I hadn’t moved it; Two: Only one person could fit inside that hole, so there was no way my friends could help me through; And three: If I didn’t, by some miracle, get through the hole and climb to the bow of the ship, then I’d miss the best view of the island.

My friends started walking toward the ship, whispering excitedly to each other about how they had to go on the boat and how could they miss out on the coolest attraction on the island? At the back of the group, I huffed as I carefully glided—okay, hobbled—past the crevices trying to snag my ankle.

Nearing the entrance/exit hole, I

watched as a child no older than five was hoisted through the hole by his father, giggling and smiling so widely.

Damn it if I would let a child get a better view of the island than me. I’d be the one who would remember it after twenty years, not him. He’d barely remember it in the next hour.

Stubbornness, competitiveness, and a touch of jealousy propelled me to the entrance. My friends yelled at me to stay back, to “not risk” hurting my ankle again, to “be safe.”

I was sick of being the one who stayed back during hikes.

I was sick of not taking any risks out of fear.

I was sick of being safe.

Grasping the two smoothest pieces of metal I could find—and thanking God I got my tetanus shot a few months before—I pulled my left knee to my chest. My ankle brushed against the bottom of the hole; I bit back a gasp as I pushed my body through the hole, putting all my weight on my knee. I shimmied onto my back and paused for a moment to catch my breath and regain some composure over the pain. That’s when I realized I’d done it.

Racing to get up, I hopped over the holes scattered across the ship’s floor, jumped from stair to stair on the mostly

empty staircase, ran to the front of the ship, and gasped at the island of Inis Oírr. To the left, the blue horizon seemed never-ending; rolling hills greeted me to the right, black and white specks of cows and sheep roaming its grassy terrain. Ahead of me, my friends cheered, as surprised as I was.

Inside me, while my ankle throbbed— which I took care of later with four pills of Advil—the security and confidence in my body sprouted out from the base of my chest, their beautiful petals eager to unfurl and thrive.

Style Style

PhotograPher

ModelS

deSign

SoPhie ParriSh

Saadiyah Proctor, iSaiah Flynn, JJ Moore, lauren Mallett, grace rogerS, & Mia

digiorgio

olivia Flanz & lilian holland

Atlas Spring 2025 | 63

Chappell Roan’s Style Honors Queer History

KadEn Bryant

“Unapologetic authenticity” perfectly sums up the skyrocketing pop star, Chappell Roan. A lesbian who came out in her mid-twenties, Roan portrays many relatable queer experiences, retelling and reclaiming stories from her life: falling in love with her best friend who doesn’t reciprocate her infatuation, dating men without any romantic feelings for them and then wondering what’s wrong with her, figuring

out how to flirt with women for the first time. Using her words and lyrics to stand up for what is right, Roan has become a beacon of hope for many queer people. Her raw, original portrayal of her experiences as a gay woman shows lesbianism in an authentic light that goes beyond the typically over-sexualized, heteronormative, and unrealistic stereotypes generally associated with women who love women. On top of her spectacular music, her unique style is what fueled her miraculous popularity. Her art, outfits, and voice honor the queer community in a way it has not seen from other artists to date.

Before Roan rose to fame, her initial recording label dropped her specifically because of her fashion and makeup choices. They did not think people would appreciate the style and pushed for something more tame, but Roan knew what she was doing. This choice is arguably a massive component of why she grew in popularity so quickly with her new label. While her first team may not have understood the history behind her style, fans surely did. Roan and her look represent the vast history of queer people, fighting for a safe community to express themselves. Roan has fostered that same kind of accepting and supportive community within her fanbase who appreciate the

representation and empowerment behind her fashion choices.

Roan’s punk and drag-inspired fashion style pays homage to a wide array of queer people in 80s subcultures. This style has a rich history when it comes to drag ball culture, which was pioneered by Black queer men and women. The balls originated as low-key underground festivities where people could express themselves without judgment. They exist as a key aspect of queer culture and Roan has adapted a style similar to those of drag performers that would be seen today. Often, she paints her face white and conceals her eyebrows with tools like glue,

drawing over them for that signature drag look. Her outfits are always extremely detailed and extravagant, with countless accessories and details. Roan’s performance attire has been lauded by critics and fashion experts alike. The colors, patterns, textures, and accessories employed in her wardrobe all come together to create beautiful, unique pieces Roan displays with pride.

Like all art forms, fashion and music are powerful tools that build bridges between communities. During the Harlem Renaissance, a historic transformation was made through the exceptional art, literature, and music created by Black artists that eventually

A movement, a change—a stand is needed

Once ours is taken away, who’s to say yours won’t be next?

propelled the Civil Rights Movement. Art can initiate understanding and facilitate empathy. While it is everyone’s job to educate themselves, not everyone will, and many may not ever realize it’s their responsibility to do so. The education system does little to nothing when it comes to learning about social justice and equity. Due to this lack

of education, ignorance continues to breed. Brave individuals must challenge these false narratives, illustrating the injustices that minorities face. Countless Black artists protested against Jim Crow laws during the Harlem Renaissance, showcasing their brutal struggles in a way that white people could understand - not verbally, but through

art. This began to brew sympathy in the ignorant, whose eyes were opened by these revelations. Though on a much smaller scale, Chappell Roan is achieving something similar through her own artistic decisions. She is showing the world that being queer is not a choice, something to be afraid of, or something to be punished for. It is a component of humanness, self-identity, and authenticity. Artists like Roan act as one small push to preserve what our community has built.

Chappell Roan’s journey reveals how art can be a tool for social change through influencing perceptions and uplifting the community she represents. She creates connection and understanding between communities that may not fully comprehend the

experience of someone unlike them. Incredible vocal talent, relatable lyrics, and historical representation through her drag-like style offer solidarity to the queer community. By challenging the United States’ hatred and intolerance toward LGBTQ+ people, Roan is a sign of hope for our future. A cultural shift toward fostering empathy and inclusivity in our country is desperately needed, and Roan is playing her part in it. A movement, a change—a stand is needed. This is about more than style and music, it’s about representation and human rights. Once ours is taken away, who’s to say yours won’t be next?

The Eight Year Old Goth

lily sucKow ziEmEr

From second to fourth grade I was a self-proclaimed “goth.” In retrospect, I had no idea what being goth was. My favorite article of clothing was a black t-shirt with chains sewn around the neckline to resemble necklaces. I had resolved only to wear the colors black, white, and grey, and decided to label that goth. It wasn’t that hard to maintain as I wore a uniform five days out of the week. My childhood friend recalls me walking up to her house in a bowler hat, tie, and offthe-shoulder-top. Church attendees were likely thrown for a loop by the elementary schooler appearing in all black week after week. But no matter the strange looks or questions I received, I was fixed to my achromatic wardrobe.

Most parents would be concerned to see their young child suddenly swear off color, and mine were no different. They’d

70 | tender

occasionally make comments about how nice I’d look in something before I responded with, “I can’t wear it, it’s not black.” However, they were supportive in a way many parents wouldn’t be. My dad would lend me his ties and tie them for me, my mom showed her love by making me things, and both would egg me on in photos where I dramatically held a black feather boa.

My mom has always loved sewing.

From her wedding gown to my prom dress, slowly but surely she spent her free time working on clothes for herself and others. When I entered my goth phase, she began looking out for things I might like. That favorite shirt of mine was her creation.

The inspiration was spotted in a sewing magazine. She always had magazines and pattern books seemingly appearing out

of nowhere. In a small room in our basement, she’d flip through images, some getting pinned to a corkboard behind her sewing machine. Most of them were sundresses or blazers, but she would occasionally bring pictures to me. My black chain shirt came straight out of a fashion magazine.

“We could easily make this,” she told me. She always says “we,” even if she’s doing all the work, “all we need is a black shirt and some chain.”

My mom was a loyal customer of the Joann’s near our house. She always came prepared with coupons and her rewards membership. She’d let me browse the many drawers of patterns for sale, and give my input on the color of fabric or yarn for her next project. I’d sometimes get bored with the shades of beige she picked from, and wander the store to ogle fake flowers and unpainted birdhouses. When she had an idea for me, the trip was always fun. There were so many different types of chains, from large, chunky links to thin, flexible ones. Each one was wrapped around a cardboard spool and spilling over the shelves. I was quick to choose one, but my mom counterbalanced me, making sure I looked at the width and shape of each and imagined it around my neck.

Back home, materials in hand, my mom went downstairs to work. It was a quick process, just cutting and attaching the tops of the chains to the shirt. I probably watched TV in the basement while she worked away. When she emerged from her sewing room, the shirt became an instant staple in my wardrobe. I wore it with jeans, tutus, or

She always says “we,” even if she’s doing all the work,

“all we need is a black shirt and some chain.”

leggings, always playing with the cool metal as it bounced around my neck. Every time my mom would say, “That looks so good on you.”

Soon after she moved from the storage room to a small conclave that used to house my brother’s robust Lego collection, and made me my own craft table. I’ve spent the years since painting, bedazzling, sewing, and much more in that room. Even after I moved to college, the table remains for me to visit on breaks. I’m an inconsistent crafter, but when I do get wrapped up in a project, my mom is quick to help me. She taught me over and over again how to change the foot on a sewing machine or wind a bobbin. When I got frustrated

or forgot what to do, she’d sit down and do the tricky bits with me.

It’s been a long time since I called myself goth or wore that shirt with chains on it, but my mom is still making things for me. She searched for A-line dress patterns when it was my favorite silhouette to wear, and figured out how to knit a heart onto fingerless gloves because I asked her to. My mom might think the scarves I wear are abnormally long or that my shirts are too cropped, but she still makes an effort to support my style. The love she has given and taught me is the love of creating for others.

This might just be a lesbian flirting tactic, but when meeting someone for the first time and they happen to be wearing rings, one of the best ways to get to know someone is to ask about them. When you really think about it, it’s pretty much a built-in storytime.Sometimes it’s simply their favorite jewelry brand, or it was found on the side of the road. Perhaps it “accidentally” slipped into your pocket when shopping, was gifted by a loved one, bought from the opposite side of the world, thrifted, or vintage; the list goes on.

o livia F lanz

Got Me Wrapped Around Your Finger”

No matter how big or small, there always seems to be a story behind rings. Here are four people telling the stories of their hands.

“SIX”

Sophie Rasmussen:

“You

“All right, so I wear six rings. One of them is a band that was gifted to me for Christmas by one of my best friends, Danny, who was my mentor and kind of just someone that I really looked up to throughout high school. And it has my nickname on it with a heart on the inside. The next one I have is from an estate sale in my neighborhood. I thrifted it for a couple dollars and it is very good quality. There’s some markings on it that I don’t really understand what they mean but they’re beautiful and I love wearing it. It’s comfortable.

On both of my thumbs, I wear these two matching rings

that are in the shape of, like, a little arrow. I got them from a Renaissance Fair. They often have a lot of, like, small business vendors and such. And the ring I bought there is real silver so it’s really good quality, and it’s always fun to go and search through rings at fairs. They also have a good collection.

Then on my pointer finger, I have a ring that I stole from my little sister because she steals stuff from me all the time and so I get to steal something from her—and it reminds me of her.

On my pinky, I wear a ring made out of a Michigan quarter from my birth year. I got it from a Traverse City Farmer’s Market.

And so, yeah, I got my little collection.”

“TREASURE”

Makenna Cannon:“These were actually just both from Depop, but they looked like this ring that I got from Morocco because my dad lived there for years because he speaks Arabic, because he’s Lebanese. And so I wanted to get rings that matched it that didn’t, like, tarnish. Yeah. And so I wanted my full set to just be, like, nice ones that didn’t tarnish and matched the ones that, like, had the Middle Eastern accent to them.This one also matched that, but it’s from my mom’s friend’s grandma. We found a treasure chest, a jewelry box that was hers in a basement. We broke it open with a hammer and we found this one.”

Makenna Cannon: “And then this is Etsy. There’s really no story behind that.”

Olivia Flanz: “Is that a spoon ring?”

Makenna Cannon:“Yeah, this one’s a spoon ring. This one is too. And this one, I got for my birthday and so I just liked some rings on Etsy and then my mom picked this one.”

“LOST”

Birdie Nelson: “This one is very sentimental because it’s like one of the first things I bought myself in Spain. Same with actually the ring on my pointer. Yeah, pointer finger and index pointer…it’s missing a piece of it that I am going to super glue back on because I’m a pro. That’s the way to do it.I feel like all the rings are the same. It’s like I bought this one at the same flea market a little bit later. On this hand, my mom’s ring on my thumb. Same with the ring finger as my thumbs for different reasons. I have to have my mom’s rings on them. For my ring finger it’s because that’s you know the special finger that when you get a ring on it that’s marriage but I’m not tied to anybody. I appreciate my mother and all she’s done for me. Oh, thumb. Thumb is just for protection. The rings there keep me safe. Same with my pinky, cause they’re the outer. So I like having my mom on my thumb. It’s also like my little, like, stress fidget. And so it’s just like, you know, keeps me close to her. Pointer finger, also my mom’s. A replacement to one that I

Olivia Flanz: “How did you lose them in the woods?”

Birdie Nelson:“Yeah, oh my god my senior musical in high school. I think it was the last performance I went on, like, a nature walk in the dead of night. It was probably like 10 pm. Like not that late, but it was dark. It was cold. It was beautiful. And when I left I realized all the rings that I put in my pants pocket had fallen out and scattered into the woods somewhere. So now they are with nature. Or maybe a person that found them. I hope they’re happy there, but goodbye to all, like, five of my mom’s rings that I lost. Index finger, middle finger, also bought in Spain. I think I was eyeing this one for, like, multiple weeks from the same vendor and then I finally caved and I got it because it was just calling to me. And then finally ring finger, my mother’s. And this one I also fidget with because it can spin, has a little bead on it. And it just makes me feel safe and comforted.”

“FAIRIES”

76 | tender lost in the woods.”

Avary Amaral: “I have a moonstone, and I have a green stonery. Both of these I got in Providence when I was with my mom. We took a day trip to Providence. And there was this store that was selling a bunch of different rings. And we were just spending the day. We got lunch and we’re hanging out. Then, I got these when we were abroad at Kasteel and my parents came to visit for the independent travel break and we went to Amsterdam and there was this little store that we liked that had a bunch of different rings and stuff. And so my mom had me pick out one that she could put in my stocking for Christmas. So this is the one that she let me pick out and put in my stocking. And it was actually really cool because I totally forgot that I picked it out. And then when I got it on Christmas, I was like, oh my God, wait, I picked this out like three months ago. That’s so cool. So that’s that one. But another story that’s kind of sad is I used to have this, like, pink glass. My grandmother all had matching ones and it was, like, a pink glass ring because my mom found three of them and, like, bought them for all of us so we could have, like, matching ones and, like, have it as, like, a symbol, like, our, like, heritage and family and it was really sad because I was talking with one of my friends and the conversation kind of got heated because we were both really passionate about what we were talking about and I slammed my hand down on the desk or, like, the table that we were talking at and it completely just shattered which is really sad, so I don’t have that one anymore. I also tend to

lose jewelry a lot.”

Olivia Flanz: “No, I feel that. I’m always losing jewelry.”

Avary Amaral:“Yes. I’m really bad about keeping them safe. I used to have, like, five other rings and I remember one time at home, I took them off and put them on my nightstand to go to sleep and in the morning they just disappeared. Like they just go. Just poofed into thin air, poof. And I remember telling my mom about it and she told me this story or, like, myth or fable that, like, the fae, like little fairies will, like, play tricks and steal little shiny things from you. And she was like, oh, like they probably stole them off of your nightstand, like they probably took them when you were sleeping, made an offering, like, to the fairies and, like, put a couple of coins and, like, shiny things, like, on my window sill. so they would, like, take that and then return the rings and I did it and they returned one.”

Olivia Flanz: “What?”

Avary Amaral: “I found one of the rings again.”

Olivia Flanz: “One of the rings???”

Avary Amaral:“Yes. A couple days later, there was one of the rings in the nightstand. So they didn’t return all of them. They still have four of the other rings. But they returned one of them, which I was very appreciative of.”

Wellness

Atlas Spring 2025 | 79

photo

Ava Chandler model

Grace Rogers & Anna Scarpone

design

Lauren Mallett

Curls, The Lack of Kerala, and Me

She’s my best friend, favorite person, and someone I look nothing like.

arushi JacoB

Theonly real fight my mother and I have ever had has been about my hair. Anyone who spends more than 5 minutes in my presence knows I adore my mom. She’s my best friend, favorite person, and someone I look nothing like.

Maybe that’s not entirely true. We both have similar facial structures, curved cheekbones and a dimpled smile. But the rest of me, I get from my dad.

For those of you unfamiliar with Indian geography, the nation often feels like 28 countries crammed into one. Moving one state over brings a whole new language, set of customs and traditions, food, way of dressing, and of course, appearance.

While my parents were born and raised in Mumbai, where they met and fell in love, neither of their families are originally from the country’s cultural capital. My mom’s side comes from the dry, desert-adjacent Gujarat in the west, while my dad’s family is predominantly from the lush, tropical Kerala at the southern tip of India.

My dad died when I was young and his family has been scattered across the globe for generations now, from Paris to Sydney to Singapore. I was raised in a house of my mother’s family, people that looked like each other, Gujarati even to the untrained eye. And then there was me.

As a child, I used to wonder if people saw us together and assumed I was adopted. Her with her beige skin and straight, thin, light brown hair. Me, with

skin carrying generations of Kerala sun and a tangle of black curls that refused to behave.

My mom has never had any idea on how to handle my hair. Her suggestions to brush it when it was untidy caused it to become a large poof of hair, her shampoo left my hair feeling sticky, and as it grew longer she tried to keep it braided, something that I hated, even at 5 years old. Eventually she cut it off, giving me a pixie haircut in the 2nd grade that she thought looked like Tinkerbell and I thought made me look like a boy. Years later, I fought with her, exclaiming she should’ve tried harder to understand our differences rather than get rid of them. A shitty haircut as a child is practically a rite of passage, but it was the message beneath it that hurt. There were parts of me my mom would never understand, and more importantly, that I wouldn’t either because I didn’t know the person they came from.

There were parts of me my mom would never understand, and more importantly, that I wouldn’t either because I didn’t know the person they came from.

As most girls with curly hair will be able to empathize, I’ve spent years straightening my hair into submission, deciding my natural hair looked wild and unruly after a day post-wash because it was so unlike the hair I was surrounded by. It’s beautiful hair, and I know this. Thick and pitch-black with curls I’ve always thought were pretty –and yet I have absolutely no idea how to take care of it.

Even now as a senior in college, I haven’t bothered to dive into the world of curl creams and serums. Part of me knows that’s because I don’t want to look even more different from my family than I already do. It’s not something I’m constantly aware of, but when I do think about it, it hits like a bolt of lightning.

I could end this by talking about how it’s what’s on the inside that truly matters and how everything I am is from my mother. I could talk about

how I know my family has never once thought any of those things, and how they couldn’t care less about our features next to each other. But making peace with things you can’t change is an exhausting, ongoing process. It’s not something you can fix overnight. Who knows, maybe this time next year I’ll have an elaborate 12 step curl care process. Maybe I’ll get it permanently straightened so I don’t have to waste an hour every time I go out.

I’ve heard numerous opinions over the years about what I should do with my hair, from friends and family and boys and teachers and strangers. What I do know is this—I love my hair. It might exhaust and infuriate me at times, but it’s mine. I might change its shape and form from time to time, but I’ll never let it be anything but the black hue I was born with. So dark in nature it turns grey in the sunlight instead of brown. My last gift from my father.

What I do know is this—I love my hair.

DISORDERED

CONTENT WARNING: MENTIONS OF BINGE EATING, RESTRICTIVE EATING, WEIGHT LOSS

Emma siEBold

My mirror was always the enemy. As was the scale. And the measuring tape I used to criticize my stomach, arms, legs and waist. My photo albums full of “progress” photos. They lied to me, and told me that what I was seeing staring back at me was worthless, and needed to change.

I have never had a good relationship with my body, and my disordered eating and exercise spiraled out of control the summer of 2024. In a few months, I completely wrecked my body. I dropped an unhealthy amount of weight, losing my period and falling into an awful pattern of restricting and bingeing. Eating disorders are romanticized in the media—especially now. Influencers like Liv Schmidt advertise tips on how to live a “skinny lifestyle,” which usually involves a dangerously low calories goal and unrealistic amount of exercise. According to the National Institute of Mental Health, over 3 million women in the U.S. suffer from binge eating disorder. I couldn’t open Instagram or my TikTok “For You” page without being bombarded by “What I Eat In a Day” videos. Everywhere I looked, other peoples’ bodies and eating habits were being shoved in my face, and I couldn’t make myself look away. Each video made me question how much

I was eating, and internalize the idea that if I ate as little as they did, I could be skinny, too. I kept spiraling down, down, down, into an illness that felt uncontrollable and inescapable.

I kept spiraling down, down, down, into an illness that felt uncontrollable and inescapable.

With binge eating, there is an all or nothing mindset; if I ate something early in the day that I considered a “bad food,”, like a cookie, then suddenly I felt compelled to eat a dozen cookies. I was hating myself into changing. I began long-distance running freshman year, and while it started as a form of healthy exercise and self-care, it soon became a non-negotiable way to purge calories. Before every workout and meal, I conjured up images of what I looked like “before,” and I called myself names that I can’t imagine uttering to anyone else. Because of my ED, looking at these old pictures filled me with fear and anxiety that I had never previously felt about my body. As a teenage girl, I had felt insecure at times and had restricted eating before, but never to this scale. Suddenly, I was sure that

Atlas Spring 2025 | 85

There is nothing romantic about binge eating.

everyone who looked at me could see my weight gain. I convinced myself that losing weight and eating so little was healthy for me, and that I was becoming a better version of myself. The ED was like a parasite, worming its way into my brain and manipulating the way I thought about myself.

There is nothing romantic about binge eating. Nothing was romantic about eating out of trash cans after starving myself all day and having no control. Nothing was romantic about venturing out for food at 4 a.m. because I was so hungry that I could not sleep. Or losing my period for months. I secretly weighed my food in the dining hall with a portable scale and tracked gum in MyFitnessPal.

I lost more than just weight—I lost my dignity, identity, and any semblance of love for myself.

My ED almost took my life. Now, four months into recovery, I can’t imagine what my life would look like if I was still bingeing. I don’t want to imagine the fear, the suffering, and the self-hatred. I will never forget my last binge. I had gone multiple months without any “junk” food, and around Halloween, I went out by myself at night and had an entire pizza, Caniac combo, two Insomnia cookies, and chocolate cake in just a couple of hours. I ate until I was sick and didn’t enjoy a single bite. Sitting on my dorm room floor, feeling disgusting and alone, I realized that my life was spiraling completely out of control. I had to dig myself out of the hole I had fallen into.

Starting November 1, that first day of

recovery with a therapist and program, I felt like I had to become a brand new person. I had never felt such a shift before, not even when moving across the country for college. After being at such a low and treating my mind and body so poorly, I had to completely reframe my relationship with myself. What did it mean to love every part of yourself? How could I rediscover that love after such humiliating moments? The answer wasn’t easy; it still isn’t. The road to recovery isn’t a shiny, yellow-bricked path to self-confidence. It’s a rocky trail with uphills and downhills, and I’ve gotten lost, turned around, and figured out my way back.

Instead of trying to love myself despite my insecurities, I’ve had to intentionally treat every single part of me with tenderness and care. While exercising and eating balanced meals can be healthy habits, those habits have to coexist with taking rest days, eating treats, and doing things outside of my normal routine. It’s been uncomfortable, and even unbearable at times. I still find myself saying no to social events because they won’t have my “safe” foods, or ignoring my hunger cues because it wasn’t “time” to eat yet. While I’ve been able to catch myself reverting back to harmful habits, I try not to beat myself up about it. Recovery is not linear, and putting too much pressure on myself will not help me heal.

Patience, love, tenderness, hope—these are the qualities

of long-lasting recovery that I practice each day. Every day is a new step towards healing. Bad days are just bumps in the road of this path towards a better, fuller, richer life. Every meal becomes easier to bear, and I am starting to feel like I am nourishing myself instead of restricting. I fuel myself before, during, and after my runs, and exercising has become its own form of self-care instead of punishment. I’m making a constant effort, and that is all I can do.

Instead of trying to love myself despite my insecurities,

Rare

I just find that the idea of falling in love is a lot like being cooked.

lucy latorrE

I’vealways felt rare. Not rare in the sense that I’m bold or different, but more that I’m unfinished or uncooked. Like meat. Like a bloody red steak. Deep down, isn’t that all we really are? Human intimacy, when we really break it down, is quite gross. Meat and flesh hitting, slapping, and holding each other sounds completely undesirable. Worse yet, growing to truly love another glorified steak can leave you completely withered and devoid of any control at all. And yet we crave both and more from a partner, dying to have these dramatic romantic and sexual experiences. Why?

This is not to say that I don’t crave them too. I’m not some superior being leagues ahead of the rest of humanity. I just find that the idea of falling in love is a lot like being cooked. When meat is cooked, from a scientific perspective, it becomes something completely different. It is denatured, losing its characteristic properties and turning into something new. I find that human love is strangely similar. Love changes you because letting someone in gives them the opportunity to really understand you. They can tell where you like to be touched and where you don’t, and that there are reasons for both of them. If I let someone see the deepest parts of my psyche, like my fear of panic attacks or how I sometimes scream in

We are both denatured, charred, and devoid of anything we were before.

my sleep during stressful dreams, I’m throwing myself right into a bubbling pan of oil. When that love ends (because who gets married at 21 anymore?), the parts of me that they saw can’t be erased from their memory. The brightest and darkest parts of their being are forever with me. We are both denatured, charred, and devoid of anything we were before.

Then comes tenderness. As meat denatures, it becomes more tender: easier to cut and chew. There are ways to elevate the process such as pounding or marinating, the first breaking down muscle fibers and the other attacking muscle proteins. Different methods, yet both rely on breaking something. That’s my qualm with “tenderness.” There’s two kinds. Tenderness is gentle and loving, but it’s also brutal and sore. A hug from a friend can be just as tender as the fresh bruise you get from falling off a bicycle. When I put myself in a scenario with one kind of tenderness, the other sneaks in. Intimacy can have that effect. I could be having a beautiful moment with someone I truly love. Tender. I could bring their hand to my mouth and kiss it and look into their eyes and tell them just how much I care. Tender But one day I’ll say something that hurts them. Tender. Worst of all, the comfort their warmth used to give me will sting. Tender. Why does anyone want that? We fill our heads with idealized images of finding “the one” and spending our entire lives intertwined. Movies, television, greeting cards, they all tell us that this is what we should want: unconditional love for another hunk

There are times when I’m so close to throwing myself into the fiery oven of love that I start to see the flames.

of meat, when all it does is change and hurt us. Is there really a reason for any of this?

There are times when I’m so close to throwing myself into the fiery oven of love that I start to see the flames.

I’ll carry a conversation over from a dating app to text. I’ll have friends set me up on dates. I’ll have an awkward conversation with that guy I like who sometimes chooses to like me back. But each time I back out before I get too close. I block, I unfollow, I cancel. I push away until I’m back in my comfort zone with all of my muscle fibers and proteins completely intact. Difficult to chew, but still myself. This works well for me, except when it doesn’t. It’s like I’m climbing up the stairs to the Statue of Liberty and the walls keep closing in. No matter how great I’ve heard the view from the top is, I’m too claustrophobic to stick it out. Looking out from 305 feet above the ground doesn’t sound as great as the safe, well known view from

the ground. But then I look all the way up and if I squint I can see everybody else at the top. They are laughing, pointing out across the Hudson at all the amazing things they can see thanks to those extra four flights. That’s when being safe at the bottom starts to suck. I try to ask myself what feels worse, opening up or staying shut. I make pro and con lists like it’s my job. But love is something that my brain constantly flip-flops on. After all, you can’t leave raw meat around forever. It’s just a little terrifying to know that the process of tenderizing will change me. More tender in both ways. I’m so afraid of getting hurt that I close myself off from any tenderness at all. Maybe that’s why you can’t just let meat stay raw. Because tenderness isn’t a weakness. Being “cooked” and made into something new isn’t relinquishing any sort of power. Both the pain and the pleasure are human. We’re meat, but we are still human.

Darling Readers,

As we wrap up our Tenderness issue, we want to extend a heartfelt thank you for your continued support. Whether you've been with us since the beginning or are just discovering Atlas, your presence means the world.

This issue invited us to explore softness, care, and vulnerability—and now, we ask you: what does tenderness mean to you? We hope these pages have inspired you to carry that spirit into your own life, however it looks and feels for you.

To our alumni, current staffers, and the broader Emerson College community—thank you. Your creativity, encouragement, and belief in Atlas fuel everything we do.

Be sure to follow along with us on Instagram, @atlasmagazine, and visit us online at atlasmag.org. We'll be back with a brand new issue next semester—and we can’t wait to show you what’s next.

With tenderness,

the Atlas Magazine Team

f o llowus on instagram

c heckout ourwebsite

Atlas Spring 2025 | 93

Atlas Spring 2025 | 95

tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness

tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness

Atlas Magazine tenderness

tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness

96 | tender

tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness tenderness

Atlas Magazine SPRING 2025 tenderness