The grass is greener where I am now

Today, I want to be anywhere but here. Specifically, I want to be in Annapolis, Maryland, rolling around with friends on some grassy hill outside of the State House, discussing John Locke’s social compact over ice cream. The grass is soft and lush, and the sun is tucked behind a few trees, casting spiky shadows over our bodies.

We browse the used book selection at Old Fox Books & Coffeehouse where I buy a memoir and a lemonade. When my friends and I part ways, we chirp, “love you,” with the utmost sincerity.

I return to a beautiful balcony that overlooks the Chesapeake Bay, and it’s just me and the bay alone together. I’m mesmerized by the figures below, and the complexity of their lives I might never fully understand. The preppy boys on boats on their way to Thomas Point to fish, the couple chatting on the balcony a few floors below me, the children chasing birds on the marina, the most free they’ll ever be.

And I listen to a street performer sing Elvis Presley’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” And I write lousy poetry in a black moleskin that I’ll eventually lose. And I watch the sky fade from pink to orange to a rich navy, as night sweeps over the city.

This memory is part fact, part fiction, but I want so badly for it to be real. In actuality, I’m sitting in my dorm room in Breen-Phillips Hall thinking about all the places I’d rather be. And while I love the ambiance of our bulb lights, the pitter-patter of the rain in the background and the foliage from our window, among other things, I long for that balcony in Annapolis. And I long for a lot of things.  

Often, I long for my hometown, Alexandria, Virginia. I’m whipping around the high school parking lot with friends, blasting music and reminiscing about former teachers and classmates. We go to Uptowner Cafe in Old Town, and I order my egg-and-cheese on a bagel and a chai tea latte, and we sit in comfy vintage chairs, the blenders and coffee machines harmonizing with the classical music in the background. We leave and say our goodbyes to the owner, then wander down to the waterfront to gaze out at the glimmering expanse.

I swear, that city is mine. From the bottom of King Street, you can see the entire world — the Capitol in the distance, the glittering Woodrow Wilson bridge and the Ferris wheel. And I turn around and look back at the centerpiece of our town, the Masonic Temple, the place we all took homecoming pictures and watched sunrises and talked with friends for hours in the middle of the night. 

And as we leave Old Town and drive back west, I stick my hand out the window, feeling the crisp, cool air strike my palm. And I think of all the wishes of my youth, all the things I wanted so badly, but now have. 

Sometimes, I long for Georgetown, after a 9:30 a.m. Mass. I’m buying soda and candy at Wisemiller’s, dumping change in the tip jar, hearing the jingle of bells above the door as I leave. I stroll, floating past ex-politicians and socialites and children scampering off to CCD in their Sunday best. 

As I walk along the jagged brick, I admire painted townhouses and dorms where my parents lived when they were in college. I walk past the buildings where my mom taught night classes and the bar where college boys bought me Shirley Temples. And I walk past the hospital where I was born. I’m convinced my entire story could be told in this place. 

I go to the church garden and find the brick engraved with my papa’s name, and I sit, wondering if God is even real, but really really hoping so. I’m grinning, thinking about silly church crushes and the priest who knew my Uncle John. 

My Uncle John loved Notre Dame. 

I admit, sometimes, I don’t feel I belong here. Sometimes, I fantasize about what my life would’ve looked like if I had chosen something different, but sometimes, I am so certain this place was always meant for me. 

I think I know, deep down, my entire life led me here. I think I know that all the places that feel like home didn’t always feel like home. Learning to love Annapolis and Alexandria and Georgetown took time too. 

I know I’m not alone when I say that it can be hard to love Notre Dame sometimes, but I really do believe the grass is greener here, where I am right now. The grass is greener here because I am here, in this present moment. 

Someday, I know I will bottle my moments over the next two years and carry them with me, just like I do with my other special places. Someday, I will call upon the times I smiled at a stranger on a walk to DeBart or made friends with a girl in the Southwest Salad line. Someday, I will call upon the time I danced in front of the Golden Dome in the rain listening to Grizzly Bear or went sledding in Narnia behind Holy Cross with my friends. 

Someday, I will indulge in the moment I’m living right now. 

Kate Casper (aka, Casper, Underdog or Jasmine) is from Northern Virginia, currently residing in Breen-Phillips Hall. She strives to be the best waste of your time. You can contact her at

The views expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.


A love letter to my family

Something I always hear from my friends is that their parents want them to call home more — that could never be me. I call my parents before I even know what I want to talk about. In October, I called my mom and dad a total of 24 times, but if I had it my way it would be more like 48. My mom genuinely is my best friend — she just gets me in a way that nobody else does. I’d classify my July as a “Hannah Montana Summer”, because all I did was relax and hang out with my family. If you snapchatted me in July, I probably responded while watching The Price is Right with my mom, doing random work with my dad, bird-watching and gardening with my grandparents, or chasing around my baby cousins with their awesome mom, Maddie.

Some people may ask me, “Christina, why are you homesick in your junior year?” and the answer is simple — I love and miss my family more and more each year. Being the young baby of a family has its perks, specifically going to school with your older brother. John graduated from ND last year, and I had no idea that his presence had such a deep impact on my college experience. Whenever I felt vaguely homesick, I could just pop over to Dillon Hall for a hug and a quick snack. Now that he moved away for graduate school, it’s a lot easier for me to feel homesick, because now I miss him too. To my icon of a brother, thank you for being a great influence while I grew up, getting me interested in Notre Dame and involved with PEMCo, and for managing my fantasy football team. To my angel of a mom, thank you for always answering my calls, sending me memes on Instagram, sending me “Good morning bestie xoxo” texts without fail and for keeping a 1,470 day streak with me on snapchat. To my genius of a dad, thank you for being the smartest man that I know, sending videos of animals in our family group chat and helping me apply for an Apple credit card even though I was denied. To my dear Nana and Pap, I want to thank you for always showing me what it is like to love someone and to be a Mosier — look at birds, watch for deer, be 15 minutes early, and always show up with a cookie tray. To the Snyders, Egglestons, and Lorings, thank you for letting me crash every holiday, hosting the best barn parties, and throwing the best family vacations.

To everyone else in my crazy and loving family, thank you for the constant dedication to sending birthday cards, baking thousands of cookies for every family wedding, and always reminding me that no matter where I am, I can always come home.

You can contact Christina at

This views expressed in this Inside Column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.


All roads lead to the Grotto

When I returned to my hometown in Northern Virginia for summer break, I felt a kind of dissonance almost immediately. My first few days were spent taking strolls and drives with friends, meandering streets that once felt so familiar, but now felt so different. My elementary school had been torn down, replaced with the bare bones of some new monstrosity, and the lookout spot that was the centerpiece of my youth was no longer open past sundown. Needless to say, it took a few weeks to feel like myself again—it took many trips to my favorite coffee shop, many late-night catch-ups and many journal entries. Of course, I missed my school friends and the daily stimulation of college life, but, perhaps more than that, I came to realize that I missed the Grotto. 

Throughout the summer, I found myself craving a safe place in my hometown where I could cry and unpack my emotions and feel everything — a place where I could be alone but amongst others. I found myself desperately trying to fill this void, desperately trying to find my Grotto. I tried going to the Basilica of Saint Mary, the one with the high ceilings and ornate paintings, but it didn’t feel right; I tried sitting along the Potomac River, the moonlight glistening against the water, but it didn’t feel right; I tried sitting in my car in the high school parking circle listening to nostalgic music, but it didn’t feel right. Nothing quite had the magic that I found at the Grotto; nothing could compare. 

Right when I thought I’d tried every place worth trying, I felt a strange calling to go to the hill by my house. I had just finished tutoring my neighbor and needed a moment of solitude, so I sat perched on that grassy hill for an hour, hearing the whoosh of cars combined with the crickets, feeling the rush and the stillness all at once. I looked at all the drivers passing by and began to think about all their lives, all their homes, all the complexity of their relationships and jobs and families. But thinking of all these worlds I would never know didn’t make me feel small, it made me feel like a valuable part of a beautiful whole. There I was, alone, an outsider watching from a quiet hill, but, somehow, I was so bonded to all these drivers. I was bonded by the humanity and beauty of being in the same place at the same time as all these perfect strangers. 

That’s when, for the first time since I’d been home, I felt that overwhelming, gut-wrenching Grotto feeling, a feeling of warmth and familiarity like the smells of our youth or the taste of our favorite foods. On that hill, I was transported to those cold South Bend nights, clinging to my wool coat, my fingertips turning blue, as I walked toward the Grotto. I was transported to the moments I saw the glow from the cavern, the moments I felt the warmth and love from hundreds of candles representing hundreds of people and intentions. 

Without a doubt, what makes the Grotto is the people. Without people, the Grotto wouldn’t be illuminated with candles each night; without people, the Grotto would serve no purpose. I’ve always felt the Grotto was a place for everyone to feel everything, regardless of background or religious belief. At the Grotto, all are welcome. Some Grotto-goers are Catholic, some aren’t; some go after nights out partying, some go after class; some go to pray, some go to sit and watch Tik Toks in peace; some go when they need a good cry, some go every single night. Some Grotto-goers go in packs, some go alone; some light candles for their best friends, some light candles for people they haven’t even met yet; some light candles in hopes of a good test score, some light candles in the wake of a bad test score. Grotto-goers come in all shapes and sizes, with all different needs and desires and lives. They are much like the drivers on the busy street by my house. 

Maybe my Grotto will always be that hill by my childhood home; maybe, later in life, my Grotto will become a person or a feeling or a prayer, but I’m learning that we all have a duty to ourselves to bring the Grotto everywhere we go. We all have a duty to be more human to each other, be the flame in the vacant corner. The Grotto is not just in Notre Dame, Indiana. The Grotto is in those moments you looked out for a perfect stranger; the Grotto is in that friend who is there for you unconditionally or the song that always puts you in a good mood. Here, the Grotto is our comfort place, but I’m convinced that all roads lead to the Grotto, even if those roads take you far, far away from Indiana.

Kate Casper (aka, Casper, Underdog, or Jasmine) is from Northern Virginia, currently residing in Breen-Phillips Hall. She strives to be the best waste of your time. You can contact her at


To the women who make Notre Dame my home

When you hand a little kid a piece of paper and a crayon and tell them to draw “home,” it’s pretty likely that they will draw a triangle stacked on top of a square. Maybe they will add a chimney, a door, a tree and some windows. 

As we grow up, a lot of our definitions change. We learn that family doesn’t just mean our parents and siblings, but can also include our chosen family, as well. 

If you handed me a piece of paper and some crayons today and told me to draw my home, I would draw two pictures: my childhood home and my quadmates. So here’s a love letter to some of the women who make Notre Dame my second home.

Nicole and I were random assignment roommates as first-years and have been inseparable since. The first time I saw her is burned in my mind — I walked into our room and there she was, a perfect stranger who I already felt like I had known my entire life. She does the best pterodactyl impression I’ve ever heard, makes the best brownies I’ve ever tasted and has the coolest collection of pants I’ve ever seen. She would run through a rainstorm to find her friends if she knew they needed her, she stays up until 3 a.m. blowing up balloons to make sure someone feels special on their birthday and she makes my life better every single day.

Lizzie is one of the most hardworking people I know. She is generous with her time and talents. Last semester, when I told her that I wanted to try to relearn piano after not playing for eight years, she started running down to the Flaherty chapel with me at 11 p.m. multiple nights a week for jam sessions. She is an incredibly talented musician, but an even more patient teacher. When she does something, she excels. When she loves someone, she loves them with her full heart.

Rachel keeps me on my toes. Even though I feel like we know each other very well, I don’t think there will ever be a day when she doesn’t surprise me. Seeing her smile is like a shot of dopamine going through my veins. I really admire how she knows who she is and wears it proudly. She is a ray of sunshine that has a soft spot for bad boys and edgy choker necklaces.

We like to call our quad the “pentagon” because it would be incomplete with just four points. Mary Grace, the fifth member of our quad, is the epitome of compassion. Anytime I’m walking around with her, we run into multiple people who she calls out to and asks about how some specific thing they have on their plate is going. She cares deeply about everyone in her life and is not afraid to show it. Not only is she sweet as pie, she cracks me up on a daily basis.

One of the things I love most about my Notre Dame family is that no matter how long we are apart, I know that as soon as we are together again, it will feel like we were never gone. I hate to think about how we are halfway done with our college days together, but I know that my life will be forever changed for the better because of the strings of fate that brought us together. 

The views expressed in the Inside Column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.

Maggie Klaers

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