As was the case last year, students nominate themselves for this scholarship.

The application portal will open on Tuesday, January 14^th. Applications are due Friday, February 7^th. You will need one letter of recommendation, so it is advisable to begin working on that component now.

Because femininity is a concept, it can be constantly reshaped, redefined, and distorted based on the beliefs of the society it exists within, and social media works to heighten and mirror that. As a young, Black queer woman navigating both the virtual and physical world, I am able to notice and reflect on instances where social media becomes a space of healing for certain groups, but not others. Across numerous social media platforms, we’ve seen a rise in “girlhood” related trends. From girl dinner to girl math, a curated glimpse into what it means to be a “girl” is flooding our senses and our timelines. While the inherent satirical nature of the trend can be harmless and even beneficial from the surface, as someone who identifies as a woman and sometimes even a girl I am able to see and experience how the trend works to support and promote undertones of exclusivity apparent in Western society. 

I want to make an important distinction between how the trend looks and what it communicates. I’ve always been a “girly girl” at heart, it’s a way of embracing femininity that feels comfortable for me, so visually I should relate to a trend built on a hyperfeminine, pink-clad life, right? But I don’t, and that is what compelled me to think more critically and write about this topic. I didn’t see myself reflected in this trend and I feel like I’m not the only one. When I look through videos of girlhood on social media, I am often fed a very idealized image. White, heterosexual, cis-gendered, and able-bodied. This perception of femininity being promoted is one that speaks and appeals to a very specific and very Westernized idea of beauty. For women like me, who were once girls like me, this representation can be jarring. It not only feels like our unique experiences don’t belong in public view but that we should try to conform or assimilate to the experiences being shown to us. For girls like me, social media doesn’t always offer room to express our girlhood in a way that feels right, especially not in a widespread or public manner. Instead, there’s an unspoken pressure to conform to this widely celebrated form of femininity and for those who don’t fit in that box, their experiences are erased. Also, girlhood, like most other trends and phenomena on social media, is heavily commodified, and it always has been. So not only am I being sold a hyperspecific, hyperbolized version of femininity, but it’s one I don’t even identify or relate to. I completely understand the positive aspects of the trend but I also can’t help but approach it with apprehension because of the disappointing tendency the media has of generalizing or erasing my experiences as a Black woman. Because of that, I can’t be surprised that I’m seeing the same thing happen here, but instead of my current experiences as a Black woman, it’s my past experiences as a Black girl.

In my AFST 460 course, Black Hair and Body Politics (highly recommended!) we talk about the concept of the “other”. The other is determined because they are different from what is considered the hegemonic norm. In girlhood and femininity, the norm is white Eurocentric experiences of girlhood, and as a result, all WOC and what we experience are labeled as the other. When you’re the other, there is something inherently wrong with you, how you live, and what you experience. I can’t help but feel as though these trends think there is something wrong with my Blackness and my Black girlhood. There is so much to my girlhood that I value and cherish, like the memories of sitting in my mom’s lap for hours while she braided my hair, visiting my family in the UK, early RnB and funk music, and so much more. I haven’t seen this trend celebrate common aspects of the Black girlhood experience unless it is a Black woman herself making space for it. To me, that isn’t fair. If we’re celebrating girlhood, shouldn’t we celebrate all types of girlhood? My girlhood is shaped by my culture and heritage and that doesn’t always align with the trends that dominate my timeline, and I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. 

In the eyes of this trend, there is only one way to be feminine and only one way to heal your inner girl, and if you’re not doing it that way you’re doing it wrong. I urge anyone who relates to this post to appreciate the uniqueness of your girlhood and how it has been impacted by your identity and surroundings. Reclaiming your girlhood doesn’t automatically mean completely conforming to or rejecting mainstream trends, but embracing the beauty of difference. For me, reclaiming my girlhood means doing my hair myself, it reminds me of the bonds I made with my mom when she did it for me. For me, it means listening to the same ’80s and ’90s RnB and funk music my mom used to blast every Saturday morning. These experiences define my girlhood and it wouldn’t be fair to try and apply them to every other woman in the world. That’s my primary issue with this trend, it had so much potential to celebrate the inherent diversity in upbringing. We all have different backgrounds and our girlhoods looked different because of that, regardless we are connected in that we were all girls. Instead, this trend chooses to uplift one version of girlhood and completely exclude all others. There is inherent value in all forms of girlhood, even the ones that aren’t popularized or commodified.

While it is upsetting that yet again women of color are forced to carve out spaces for ourselves within popular media trends, there is still power in reclaiming your girlhood, whatever that means for you. The trend shouldn’t be about commodification or fitting into aesthetic boxes, but celebrating your roots and healing your inner child. There is no one way to be a girl. Girlhood and womanhood are messy, hectic, and beautifully diverse and that is what the trend should be celebrating. Girlhood, like all trends, is fun and fleeting. Despite this, it’s important to recognize how they can be used to perpetuate exclusion and marginalization. For those who fit inside the box this trend has popularized, think critically about the media you’re consuming, and how it might be impacting those who look different from you. For those of us on the outside of mainstream definitions of “girlhood”, it is important to remember our stories, our youth, and our identities are just as valuable –because at our core, we are all just a girl.

What comes to mind when I think of an activist are images of figures like MLK Jr., Gandhi, Rosa Parks, and others who became symbols of resistance, fighting for civil rights, freedom, equality, or education. This association has made activism feel out of reach for me, something only the Malcolm Xs and Malala Yousafzais of the world can do. I never felt I had the ability or power to do things like organize a protest, start a hunger strike, or other major forms of activism, therefore I didn’t consider myself an “activist.” Yet, I always spread awareness on social justice issues that I’m passionate about, whether it’s posting on my social media channels, implementing themes into my photography, or academic writing.

While social media activism has become synonymous with “slacktivism,” spreading awareness within one’s circle of influence is the first step toward creating change. Problems that we face as individuals are often public issues, even if it feels like we are the only ones struggling. Therefore social media can be a key tool in organizing for change because the more we talk about issues important to us, the more can be done to address them. I often find myself asking “what can I do about it?”, waiting for some opportunity to present itself before I get involved as an “activist.” But I am reminded of President JFK’s famous quote “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” This mentality requires us to self-reflect on what skills we bring to the table.

Activism can take shape in many forms. Rallying in the streets of DC, chaining myself to a tree, or engaging in sit-ins aren’t the be-all end-all of activism. I often shy away from activism because I think I don’t have the position or power to be an activist. However, anyone can be an activist if you utilize the skills and resources you do have. Social change relies on an ecosystem where each of us plays a different role. This framework developed by activist and writer Deepa Iyer, calls us to reflect on our roles in the social change ecosystem. Whether we’re the healers, experimenters, storytellers, disrupters, Iyer says everyone has a role to play in the “pursuit of equity, shared liberation, inclusion, and justice.”

Reflecting on my personal experience, I’ve been able to engage in activism through the opportunities I’ve found at UMBC. In March of 2024, I was a participant in the Alternative Spring Break (ASB) experience through the Center for Democracy and Civic Life. During this trip, I was part of the group called “Improving Life After Prison” which was looking into the incarceration system in Baltimore City. We met with various community leaders, organizations, city officials, and those with personal experience in the incarceration system to get a better understanding of the issues people face and the work being done to address them. Although the trip was just a few short days, it was very eye-opening for me, as it was not an issue I was familiar with prior. I was inspired to engage in this important work myself, and decided to apply for an ASB leadership position this year. For the past few months, my co-leader and I have been working to develop an ASB program for Spring 2025, around environmental justice and sustainability. Our hope is to give this year’s cohort as meaningful of an experience as it was for us, so that they may develop the skills and confidence to create change beyond ASB.

As part of my role at the Women’s Center, I’ve also been given the opportunity to engage in activism through the work we do. In many ways, we are working to bring about social change, such as changing the campus climate to that of a more inclusive environment. Through discussion-based programs, educational workshops, or the Take Back the Night Rally, the Women’s Center has empowered me to engage in activism in ways I didn’t think possible before.

Photos taken by me at the Take Back the Night rally 2024

Engaging in student activism has been a transformative journey for me, one that wouldn’t be possible without the many opportunities UMBC provides. It’s taught me that activism isn’t just protests and rallies, it’s a mindset and commitment to making a difference, no matter how small the act may seem. Whether it’s through organizing events, amplifying voices, or fostering meaningful conversations, as students we have the unique power to create ripples of impact. My journey is ongoing. But it has reaffirmed for me that anyone can be an activist, as long as they are driven to make the world a better place.

Undergraduate Research and Creative Achievement Day

On Wednesday April 16, 2025, Undergraduate Research and Creative Achievement Day (URCAD) will feature research, scholarship, and creative work carried out by UMBC undergraduates. Student work will be shared through oral presentations, posters, artistic exhibits, performances, and film. Over 300 presenters participate annually. Researchers work with faculty mentors on independent research, or research that is part of the mentor’s on-going projects. They are from all disciplines, and can be working on a thesis, capstone project, part of a scholars or honors program, or they can be unaffiliated. This campus-wide celebration of achievement affirms UMBC’s commitment to the twin goals of research and a distinctive undergraduate experience.

All current undergraduates who have conducted research, scholarship or creative work in the last year may apply to present their results at URCAD. Mentors, fellow students, friends, family members, high school teachers and students, graduate school recruiters, and the general public are invited to attend.

Apply starting January 3 at URCAD.umbc.edu

A 200-word abstract describing your research and mentor approval is required.

Email aprilh@umbc.edu with any questions.

The week the pandemic shut down all the schools, I went to the gynecologist. Over the past six months, I had been plagued by non-stop yeast infections, and I had tried every home remedy under the sun to cure myself. Then the gynecologist told me I actually had chlamydia.

The diagnosis started me on a path to recovery that would span years. The chlamydia itself cleared up within a week, but the psychological damage of enduring painful sex for so long remained. My partner at the time was abusive, and did not care about my pleasure, or my pain. Sex had been painful, every single time, for six months straight. 

I was ashamed, firstly, when I realized I couldn’t use so much as a menstrual cup without experiencing immense, lasting pain, like a cold, persistent ache.

Recalling my lessons from Family Life courses in middle school that taught me to seek out a doctor if I experienced pain using menstrual products, I booked several more appointments with gynecologists, hoping that the next one would find something wrong with me, or tell me some way forward. Each one only had a vague answer, finding nothing and asking for a followup if the pain continued (it always did). I was sure something was wrong down there, to the point where I asked the gynecologist doing my pap smear to look for scarring. There wasn’t any, and she reassured me that any past trauma I had was unlikely to do permanent damage—after all, vaginas are built to push out babies and heal from them. 

My paranoia began to eat me alive. Despite the placations, I was still experiencing pain. To top it off, every time I felt an itch I feared it was a yeast infection, or that I had somehow re-infected myself. I asked the nurse to test me for every STI, just in case they had missed it before. They told me it wasn’t necessary to test again if I had no symptoms, but still, I needed to know for sure that I was in the clear.

I was. But the pain continued.

Over and over I had been dismissed, largely because I didn’t have a sexual partner. It seemed as though the nurses and doctors that attended me didn’t see an issue with my pain because they saw my vagina as a sexual vehicle through which sex or birth is performed. Since neither was happening, I was relegated to the margins, told to come back if the pain persisted with a partner. So, the next time I saw a doctor, I lied.

This time she listened to my concerns, and asked me more specific questions: Did the pain persist in all positions, or were some easier than others? Had I tried using pillows to prop my hips up in a comfortable position? Was I using lube? Maybe my cervix was closer to the entrance than most cervixes (the cervix, she informed me, changes positions throughout the menstrual cycle, and canal length varies between bodies). She did a full exam, providing the kind of care I was used to receiving from a doctor when I came in with an issue.

But at the end of the exam, she came up empty. The best advice she had for me was to experiment with positions and keep trying. 

The last doctor visit was both the most helpful and simultaneously the least encouraging. I tried a different tactic with this doctor, being extremely honest and upfront about why I was there. I relayed to her all my past experiences and told her the immense pain that had brought me there. After deciding for me that an internal exam wasn’t in my best interest, she leaned forward and whispered, “Do you need to speak to someone?”

Looking back, I am almost certain she asked with good intentions, but at the time, it felt condescending. It felt like she was invalidating my pain, insinuating it was all psychological. Despite having had years of therapy under my belt, I instantly declined the offer, insisting I would just like to figure out what was wrong with me. I was certain it was physical.

The doctor, who was really a nurse practitioner, offered to go and get the head doctor of the practice. She said he could examine me and, with his decades of experience, hopefully give me an idea of what was going on. “But,” she added hesitantly, “he is male. Is that alright?”

It wasn’t alright. I didn’t want a man anywhere near me, especially not when I was so vulnerable. But more than that, I wanted this over. So I agreed. And I waited. And waited.

The head doctor never came. He was busy and wouldn’t be able to make time. It had taken over an hour for them to relay this to me. The nurse practitioner came back in with the printed resources they always gave me, and on the back she had written down a URL for a local pelvic floor physical therapist. The therapist was out of network, but the website provided me with validating information: this pain was not just in my head. Other people experienced it, too; it was called vaginismus. And it could get better.

Sex was not better the next day—it took a lot longer than that. I had to tackle a number of various issues, starting first with getting to know my own body. Finding the right positions is tricky, too, and it can change throughout the month with your hormone cycle or just the way your body is feeling that day. Medications and mental illness also got in the way, lowering my sex drive to null at times. Talk therapy helped a lot, and I am lucky enough to have a therapist that enrolled in additional courses to find a better treatment plan for me. My partner was patient with me, and understood that sex will be painful at times, but we can switch positions, use pillows or lube, and get intimate in other ways to make me more comfortable. Memories of a time when sex had been good kept me going when it seemed impossible to continue.

It was difficult to admit, but sex was painful for a long time for me, both emotionally and physically. I felt like something was wrong with me, that I was doing something wrong somehow. It took countless doctor visits to learn that I needed to first understand my own body, and then to learn how to trust myself. I had to learn to stop saying, “Thank you so much,” and start saying, “Actually, I don’t understand the results. Can you go over them again with me?” I learned that the sex ed I had been taught was severely lacking, because it didn’t go over what to do when sex isn’t fun anymore. I learned to be prepared for when sex becomes difficult, whether due to injury, sex drive, or disability.

When Michel Foucault wrote, “Tomorrow sex will be good again,” he didn’t mean it to be hopeful. Tomorrow does not guarantee a better day; sex is a constant negotiation of power and embodiment. Still, sex can be good again. But tomorrow’s progress does not come without today’s work. If you’re in a similar position, keep trying—learn more about your body, be open and honest about your pain, and don’t stop advocating for the care and comfort you deserve.

Part One: A Strange and Friendless Road, For a Tomorrow Without Tears

or, being a woman (mostly), queer, and autistic. Self-diagnosing, and the fear of an official medical stamp.

Content Warning for mention of the r-slur.

By Katlynn Seghetti.

Over my time working at the women’s center, I’ve been doing a lot more reflection and thinking about the future. Fun topics, assuredly. In this post, I wanted to verbalize my own, and I’m sure many others’, feelings on being autistic in the current climate. 

I was not recognized as autistic, until I took an AP Psychology course in my sophomore year of high school, (2017/2018, to age myself.) I saw the criteria for autism and literally went ‘hm. That all seems average. Can’t be me though, I’m able to take care of myself.” Consider me shocked when, not even months later, I entered the worst burnout state I’d ever been in – not in school, though. I still kept up my grades, still socialized well enough, but at home, I did nothing but scroll on the internet, or play one particular game until my eyes burned. I was lonely, and I couldn’t understand what the hell happened. 

But I still couldn’t be autistic, right? I’m excelling where it matters. I’m not a burden on anyone else. Ignoring the fact that consistently throughout my entire life, my family referred to me as retarded:

• “Why are you acting so retarded?” 
• “Don’t do that, you retard.” 
• “Aw, you’re serious? You’re our little retard in the family.” 

I couldn’t be autistic, I was purposefully refusing gender norms – I’m non-binary, of course. I couldn’t be, I have friends (who would treat me as a pet- one even did so at one of my more recent birthday parties, or make me the butt of the joke.) I couldn’t be, statistics show it’s a ‘boys’ disorder. 

It wasn’t until I was deep in that burnout that I got content online, tagged #ActuallyAutistic. This post suggested getting fidgets, I did so. It helped- but only because I wanted it to. A weighted blanket helped. But again, only because I wanted it to. Anything that helped me wasn’t because I was autistic. It was just because I’d been doing SO much research (…another sign in and of itself,) that I was simply just fooling myself. Then, came the reflection of my childhood, lots of tears, anger, and all that fun. 

Needless to say, I’m no longer in denial – I even got unofficial testing done at the health center here, and was told, “I can’t diagnose you, but I would say you are probably extremely highly likely autistic.” But… I think that’s where this ends. At least for a few years. I don’t need accommodations to succeed, I have a support system at home to help with the things I do need aid with. What would an official diagnosis give me? Another figurative target on my back. We’re an ‘epidemic’, we’re a social media trend, and we’re not to be taken seriously. Being queer, being connected to womanhood, I’m already terribly at risk. There’s no reason to add another one in the eyes of the government, the medical system, and anyone doubting my passions and my ability to do good work.

What I can do, though, is focus on community. My work in the Women’s Center, creating a Neurodiversity club, and connecting with other autistic (and other neurodivergent) adults at UMBC, allows me this. I can give space to those who feel like they don’t have it, and encourage change and progress. It’s not over until (drumroll) there’s a tomorrow with tears.

Part Two: The Journey through Genesis

or, my goals for next semester, and how we get there. 

What does that mean though? Campus-wide, where do all the neurodivergent students exist? Everywhere, and nowhere. You see someone every day, and probably just call them a ‘weird’ kid. Here’s how we can start.

A Neurodiversity Club.

• This is in the works, but it is genuinely astounding to me that, other than the Disability Advocate Union, something like this hadn’t been created. However, neurodivergent people are so rejected, shoved aside, and treated like a bad thing to keep hushed and under lock and key. Why would they feel empowered to create a club? Going through the process of founding this club, it’s so simple but very scary, in a way. Will the people who ‘verify’ that this club needs to exist agree with us? Will the students think we’re doing a good job? The only way to know is to take the jump.

A Neurodiversity Support Group, for students, and for staff and faculty.

• I can only speak for students, but I understand there’s been some frustration getting recognition on campus. Accommodations feel like interrogations, and going to professors is a stunted legal-speak conversation. Let’s get community, connections and actual neurodiversity knowledge around. Well, my group this spring semester will be part of that- starting a group and collecting resources for neurodiversity. It’s a lot of work. But it’s good work. Students deserve to have good work and support. One thing I didn’t expect is how much support I’ve gotten from the Women’s Center, and how many neurodivergent staff and faculty supported my events. I see you, and I appreciate you. I feel like the work I’m doing is deeply fulfilling, and I know that I wouldn’t have gotten as much headway without everyone.

Trained Specialists; both in SDS and for faculty and staff support

• Yes, working with neurodivergent students can be hard. Seeing the invisible struggles, while making sure people don’t ‘overuse’ or ‘abuse’ the supports is valid. Why not add people who know the details about neurodiversity? Who can support staff and faculty in supporting these students? Who can support SDS in navigating accommodations? Who can empower students to get what they need?

Open Dialogue

• Students need information. That’s why we’re students. Neurodivergent students especially. Let’s create conversations about neurodiversty. Change can’t happen without voices. Students don’t feel heard or respected. This is not anyone’s intention, but it is the impact. We can work together to fill in the rift.