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The simple Charlie Brown cartoon illustrates the simplicity of being understood.

55 stories.

After three semesters of being on The Central Trend, I have written 55 stories. 55 narratives—some just musings of an inexperienced, hopeless romantic, some accounts of students who have long graduated by now. 

I don’t love all of them. Many are rushed and poorly written, some never posted because I didn’t want them to be seen by the public eye. But I am proud of each one. From the 450 thought-vomits to the lengthy, in-depth reviews, I am proud of every single one. 

And I want people to read them.

My stories are a reflection of my mind. Although not all of them concern me as an individual, I find ways to include myself through style, voice, and diction. 

Unfortunately, my stories are plagued with a lack of visibility—something that I’m working on, no doubt, but a problem that won’t be solved very soon. I occasionally post on Instagram stories or send a link to my family thread, but despite my efforts, my stories stay almost entirely off the “trending” widget.

I put nearly every part of my life on display—from TCT, to Pinterest, Instagram, and even Apple Music. My interests, style, taste in music, and weekly ruminations, all sorts of things one might learn when getting to know someone, are at the fingertips of anyone who cares enough to look.

“To be loved is to be known.” 

I want someone to know me. I want them to know that I enjoy the aesthetic of matcha, but not the taste, that spring is my favorite season, that I long to dance even though I’m not very good at it. I want someone to know that I hunger for spontaneity, for whimsy, for immature love.

I am forever grateful for the class that has given me the opportunity to express my innermost introspections in 450 words or more, whether that be about an album that I loved or a simple thought I generated at 11:11 p.m.

I look back at some of my old stories now. Some, I was once proud of, and now I nearly despise; some I used to be ashamed of, and now I smile upon. Regardless of their quality, I love seeing how far I’ve come—from the early freshman giddy at the notion of getting her editorials posted to a burnt-out sophomore who just wants people to read her stories. Who just wants to be known.

Too late, I have discovered that I am known best by those I don’t expect. The love of being known is found in the simplest of places, places all around me. It’s in the sound of my favorite directors calling me “M&M” or “Em” after reading my column about desperately wanting a nickname. It’s the thousands of heart reactions left on text messages as my friends and I attempt to psychoanalyze each other into fruits or colors or whatever else piques our interest.

It’s in those who go out of their way to read my stories, even when I don’t ask.