2024 Senior Anthology
A collection of thoughts from some of our editors and writers in the senior class of 2024.
1. by JANET LIU
Too much work, and no vacation, / Deserves at least a small libation. —Oscar Wilde
Sometimes, when I think back on my four years at LHS, I wonder if I did too much, or if I didn’t do enough. I was vice president of my class, captain of the mock trial team, and—of course—editor-in-chief of my beloved Lexspects. I took five AP classes in my senior year, nine total over the four years. I got good grades, and I had a robust social, physical, and creative life. My mental health was high-ish. But still, sometimes I wonder. It seems all at once like a staggering amount to have taken on, and at the same time not enough.
For the most part, spurred by my parents’ encouraging (threatening?) words and Lexington’s crushing academic mindset, I spent my years chasing after the elusive Ivy League acceptance. I know countless other LHS students who have struggled with the same mindset, pushing themselves to their limits. Note that there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that I did solely because I thought it would “look good” on my college application. Everything I did, I loved, and I’m sure it’s the same for my peers. But still, in the back of my mind, nagged that incessant reminder: if you don’t get into a good college, will it all have been worth it? And at the end of my four years, I’ve arrived at a confusing purgatory of equilibrium and indecision.
Looking back, I have a lot of wishes. I wish I worked harder on schoolwork; I wish I worked less hard on schoolwork. I wish I was involved in more extracurriculars; I wish I did fewer. I wish I played a sport. I wish I focused more on art. I wish that my high school years could have been perfect. But the truth is, you can wish all you want, but it will never change the past. The only thing you have control over is your future. I can look back, not with regret and longing, but fueled with knowledge that will inform my actions in the years to come.
When I look back on my years at LHS, I remember the nights I struggled through physics packets, plowing through indecipherable equations and concepts. I remember the panic attacks and the tears and the crushing disappointments. But above those memories, I remember the good. I remember staying after school in the quad on a sunny day, laughing with friends. I remember when the weather was finally good enough to eat outside. I remember getting lunch at Shake Shack with my friends when class was canceled.
So, I’m glad. I’m glad I pushed my limits and I was still happy. I’m glad I made so many incredible friends, and I’m glad I did so many things. I’m glad that I was able to touch so many lives during my time as vice president, as so many of my classmates touched mine. I’m glad I’m moving on to the next chapter of my life, and that I can look back on my years with fondness. Most of all, I’m glad that there’s nothing I regret.
2 . by VIVIAN WANG
I wish I could always remember LHS as it appeared to me on my first day as a freshman. It was warm outside—you could tell because people had brought out their frisbees and spike ball nets. The campus seemed too big. For lunch, I sat with my friends in front of the world language building because surely the wasps wouldn’t get us there. I brought a sandwich from home and felt rebellious pulling down my mask to share a container of fruit with a friend. We debated whether or not Taylor Swift made good music and made predictions about when the pandemic would be “over.”
Four years later, my feelings towards LHS are much more complicated, to the point where it’s incredibly difficult to encapsulate my experience at this school. It wasn’t all bad; it certainly wasn’t all good. When I look back, very generally, I see a blur of routine with some dark patches and some bright ones.
The routine was one that I fell into naturally as a product of my classes and extracurriculars, which demanded a tight schedule. School, research, skating, writing, art…there were times when my daily activities seemed like a long to-do list rather than things I chose and loved to do. I give myself grace for being worn out, but if I could change one thing about my high school experience, I would change how resentful I was of it all.
Somewhere between my happy-go-lucky start to freshman year and my stressed-about-college-applications senior fall, I accumulated a lot of anger. Looking back, I think this is where the darkness crept in. My anger wasn’t exactly directed towards something or someone—it was just a sweeping feeling that I unknowingly projected towards every area of my life. I tried to maintain an effortless image but I was so bitter. I complained about how much work I had and blamed various teachers. I cursed my 10 PM skating practices for how exhausted they made me. I criticized the toxicity of the college admissions process yet committed myself to the process nonetheless.
Maybe it’s easier said than done, but I really do believe that being more aware of my mindset surrounding my own choices would have made a difference during high school. I complained about a lot of things but didn’t do much to change how things were. At the end of the day, I stressed about my grades because I wanted to maintain good grades. I went to late night skating practice because I loved skating. I tried my best during college applications because it was important to me. I’m proud of myself for balancing so many activities, but I got so caught up in my balancing act that I too-often forgot how lucky I was to be making the choices and doing the things that I did. If i reminded myself more often, maybe I would have been a little happier along the way.
I regret my resentment, but I don’t regret much else. I found a lot of happiness in the bright patches of high school. I entered LHS bearing the grand hopes of “discovering myself” and finding “true passions.” Honestly, I wouldn’t exactly say I found myself at LHS, but I did find some great things. I found exceptional friends and amazing communities. Now that high school is coming to an end, I realize that these are the parts of LHS I will remember and treasure. I’ll remember lunch in the quad, my tasty sandwich order (pesto AND spicy mayo), doodling on my friend’s paper during class, and getting inspire bowls after school. These are also the moments that make it hard to leave LHS.
One other moment: on April 8, there was a 95% totality solar eclipse over LHS. The spikeball nets and frisbees were out and there was music playing as hundreds of students and teachers stared up at the rare celestial event. When I think of my time at LHS, I sometimes still feel dissatisfied or regretful. But, when everyone gathered in the quad, I didn’t think about my regrets or struggles. Instead, for the first time, I thought about the full size of the school and the joy that this community is capable of producing. That joy is why, when all the bitterness burns away, I am grateful for the choices I made and the connections I built at LHS.
3. by MAHI MIRCHANDANI
A Letter to Myself
PART I
In pixels, your freshman year began.
Masks covering noses,
a shield against the unknown.
But you had another shield, didn’t you?
For in the face of adversity, you found your army.
People,with whom your smile shone bright.
But not like the sun, alone and begging for attention.
Like a city skyline lit up by stars,
beautiful because of the light each provides.
Who says half a face masks your smile?
In the end, you had it in you.
You did it with your eyes.
PART II
You remind me of folklore by Taylor Swift,
and The Vampire Diaries and lace camisoles,
and those endless personality tests.
You remind me of all these phases,
but most of all you remind me of peace.
You’re mature in your little garden, certainly more than me.
At fifteen, you knew everything.
You succeed quietly, and you feel smart
for the first time since eighth grade.
Your eyes lit up when learning about the human heart,
and you were never more in touch with your own.
You’re my greatest teacher. An assurance, really,
that it will all be okay.
PART III
You finally felt like the main character of your life.
You became so much more.
And you changed,
not always for the better.
(You do not remind me of lace.)
You’ve journeyed, sometimes scarred and burned.
Yet with each stumble, you’ve come to see
Confidence, a phoenix, rising bold.
It’s the kind people would kill for,
but you’re immortal. You live.
Your 5 year old self would be so proud,
as am I,
that you control your labyrinth of choices made.
PART IV
The calm after the storm.
Just kidding.
To be honest—you really went through it.
In the wake of dreams that silently fade,
distant whispers of those you once held dear,
you felt a harsh light of truth, for you clearly aren’t a star.
A cacophony of noise, for you certainly aren't at peace.
A crushing helplessness, for you’re no phoenix.
I used to wonder, who are you to share their name?
But how would I have survived, if you all weren’t a part of me?
I wield the night sky, a garden of dreams, and powerful flames,
which is why this message isn’t addressed to any of you.
It’s addressed to me.
When I look back, I don’t want to leave
because—truly—I remember it all fondly.
PART V (in progress)
But leaving is inevitable,
and I suppose I’m ready.