“I had three Diet Cokes today,” I told my mom, already knowing it wasn’t true. I had five.    The lie itself wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even necessary. That’s what made it uncomfortable. I’m twenty-three years old, and somewhere between budgeting groceries and calling my parents more than I’d like to admit, I realized I was lying about a caffeinated soda. That realization stuck with me longer than the caffeine ever did.    I am twenty-three years old, and lately, I’ve noticed

There’s this moment in your twenties when home stops feeling like a finish line or a fallback and starts feeling like… a throbbing little reminder that life isn't happening in the order you imagined. That’s the home sweet headache— that oddly tender, slightly painful sensation of returning to the place that raised you while you're still trying to raise yourself, and also, proving to others that you don’t need help.  It is not dramatic. I should be stopping my tears; it is li

Food, fashion, tailgating, chants, and the little details outsiders don’t notice. Most women grow up with routines — morning or night — that feel like small acts of self-care. The therapeutic strokes of a makeup brush, the careful choosing of which version of yourself to present that day. It is a practice, a ritual, a rhythm that sets the tone.              Detroit football is no different. It is an inherited ritual, passed down through generations. From family gatherings to

Martin Scorsese  once said that, “the true goal of storytelling is to make the audience care about your obsessions.” What strikes me is how lucky the people who achieve  that really are—those rare artists whose obsessions become something the world cares about too. Most of us dream of that kind of resonance, but we only see the polished surface once they get there. The struggle it took to be understood, to be noticed, to be cared about—that part rarely makes the story. I wa

By Kiki Pape January 2025 Picture 2014. Middle school was buzzing like a hive of awkward beauty decisions, parents pretending they understand your interests, and me at my vanity, trying to invent something that vaguely resembled adulthood on my thirteen-year-old face. YouTube became my unofficial older sister. Bethany Mota taught me how to flick a wing without stabbing my eyeball. Jaclyn Hill quietly saved me from zit-induced panic attacks, like some kind of makeup superher