Category: 2025 Ignite Publication

Hope Luebbe Davidson ‘25

Looking out the window just as you’ve woken up, everything is covered in a blanket of white. For a minute, the world around you is silent and still. But all your memories triggered by the sight of the snow are loud and colorful. Waking up on the first snow day is like a trip down memory lane; a smile comes to your face without you even knowing it, recalling all the fun you’ve had in previous years.

Snow holds memories—so many of them, each very different from the next. Articulated by the famous Disney snowman, “Water has memory”—and snow has memory too. Water vapor in the atmosphere freezes into tiny ice crystals. Beautiful and unique snowflakes are formed. Their intricate structure is destroyed shortly after, as millions of tiny crystals are packed into snowballs. As the snowballs multiply faster and faster, ammo is being created.

The tricky part is finding a hiding spot for the substantial number of snowballs. Making snow forts is the best way to prepare for the annual snowball fight. At first sight, snow seems soft and beautiful, but it can get quite chaotic. Fun is always had in the snow, but in your adventurous and fun-loving family, chaos is always evident. As the snowballs are packed together tighter and tighter, they are thrown harder and harder as we get older.

Once your day of fun is over, you go inside and thaw from the inside out with steaming hot chocolate. The warmth seeps into your fingertips as you cradle the mug, and your ears and face are still red from the cold outside. As you settle into the cozy indoors, the snow outside fades into the background, but the echoes of laughter and the sight of rosy, smiling faces remain vivid, transforming into cherished memories that leave behind nothing but warmth and smiles. It’s funny how snow transforms from a battleground to fun memories surrounded by white in a matter of moments.

The top layer of snow melts in the winter sunshine during the day and freezes in the chill of the night. Waking up to the driveway turned into an ice rink. Falling and slipping, but most importantly, laughing and smiling. Snow brings the coldest winters but also brings the warmest of hugs, smiles, and laughs.

Fiona Bianchi ‘25

           I love winter; I love whatever season I am living in. I love the wind, the cold, the rain, ice, snow, and darkness; I love the quiet. I love the dark because it makes me enjoy what little light there is all the more; I love the quiet; it makes me excited for spring when the birds sing again. The cold allows me to bundle up and I can enjoy nice warm drinks in the coziest of places better than if it were summer or any other season.

           You say you hate the winter, hate the cold, the dark, the rain, and quiet. Sometimes I wonder if only you say that to be agreeable with the people you are around. I see you find yourself longing for the next season for all the things you can do in it and never enjoying the one you’re in. You say you hate how you can never warm up, never dry off, never get cozy. You say you miss hearing the birds, looking for them wherever we go.

           I love Christmas because of the gifts and jokes my household family gives to each other, and the empty time I can fill with them over the break.

           You say you hate Christmas because your larger family never gets along long enough to be together for an evening. You hate all the extra time because you are afraid to waste it on things you fear you won’t enjoy. You don’t know what to do with yourself.

           I love the snow, and you love the snow, yet you still say you hate winter. You are sad for the birds and say you miss them, but once they come back in spring you get annoyed when they wake you up with their shrieks, melodies, and greetings.

           I hate school and its rigid schedules, conflicts, and petty disturbances, but you, you love school; you love its schedule and assignments that give you things to do, keep you on a routine, and keep you talking to the same people; you like the repetition. I hate it; I hate it in all its lumbering hindrance, but I love you.

Jimmy Nguyen ‘25

Soft, slushy, snow. Snow is like a once in a lifetime experience in Seattle. It snows once every blue moon; that is how rare it is, sort of like a random Pokémon card that you unwrapped, trashing it away, not realizing that it was an extremely rare card that cost a pretty penny.

***

The cold nights sipping hot cocoa, a heavy weight filled with boredom dropping on the computer mouse repeating over and over and over until the show “Snowdrop” caught my eye. I dropped into the first episode and realized that I might’ve dropped too far down when I became disinterested immediately after the first episode.

***

Snow. I remember the feeling in the winter of 7th grade seeing the shiny, sparkly, almost ethereal droplets of white balls and the occasional snowflake, before any people dropped like snowflakes due to COVID-19. The COVID-19 virus affected everyone no matter what. Family members departing, social events decreasing, school interrupted. This was truly the worst. As I reflect on this moment, was the snow a gift to Seattle before COVID-19 spread throughout the whole city?

***

In Bruges. Two hitmen, Ray and Ken, fled to Bruges, Belgium after a hit mission on a priest was successful but accidentally killed a little child in the process as well. Ray was the one that shot. The boss (we’ll call him Harry) wasn’t too happy about it, because it broke his code on not harming any children. Harry wanted Ray in Bruges during Christmas time to have a happy moment before his inevitable demise, dropped by the crew of hitmen. Through the final moments of the movie, it cuts to a scene. Bang, bang: Harry chases Ray while Ray stumbles to get away; it was snowing, a contrast between the hot, steaming blood and deep exhalation of each breath Ray took, to ultimately having Ray being shot in the back several times.

***

This is all over the place, I thought; as I looked out to the road and saw solid, hard and compact snow brushed up to each side of the roadway, I realized that maybe I didn’t want snow and that I was entranced by the magical idea of snow. It proved to me that it is merely a nuisance to everyday life; when the roads get icy and mushy, it forces us to stay in quarantine against the world. I’m realizing that it was uncommon in Seattle, for sure, but is it a pretty penny, or just a regular nickel?

Marcus Kwon ‘25

           The sound of a basketball bouncing on pavement is like music. Rhythmic, steady, imperfect. The echo carries through my memory like a song I’ve always known. I’m 18 now, but I can still see my 11-year-old self chasing that ball down the driveway, the hoop bent slightly down from dunks by kids with bigger dreams and stronger arms than mine.

           I’ve always loved basketball, not for the glory but for the reliable sport. It started with neighborhood games. My dribble was weak, my shot flatter than it should’ve been, but I showed up. That’s what mattered. Kids I’d never spoken to became teammates. Each pass and rebound stitched us closer. Winning didn’t matter as much as laughing together after a bad play or cheering for someone else’s good one.

           By middle school, I knew I wasn’t going to be an NBA star. Genetics dealt me a hand too short and too slow, and my heart, though full of passion, wasn’t ready to endure the grind of endless drills and conditioning. I’d watch my friends sweat and hustle, their eyes set on varsity dreams, while I lingered on the sidelines, happy to shoot hoops during lunch breaks and pick-up games.

           There’s a kind of beauty in knowing your limits. I stopped trying to measure up to the impossible and started playing for the joy of it. Each jump shot was a small victory, each layup a moment to savor. The court became my sanctuary, the orange rim a quiet therapist that never judged. High school brought more struggles, responsibilities, and things to worry about. Stress mounted with each exam, each expectation. Some nights, it felt like the walls were closing in, like there wasn’t enough time in the day. Sometimes I would wish that time would stop and give me a break. But then I’d grab a ball and go shoot around. The troubles of the day faded into the background, replaced by the simplicity of the game. A basketball is the most reliable thing in the world—you bounce it, and it always comes back. It doesn’t argue with you or complain, and it always listens.

           I met people there too. Strangers who became friends, if only for a night. We didn’t need to know each other’s names. We just played. They taught me new moves, and I taught them my old ones. There’s something universal about a sport that needs no words, just a ball, a hoop, and a willingness to play. 

           Even now, basketball is my constant. It doesn’t matter that I’ll never be the fastest or the strongest on the court. It doesn’t matter that my jump shot sometimes veers left or that I can’t dunk. What matters is the freedom I feel when I step onto that pavement, the way the world seems to shrink to the size of a basketball, and nothing else exists but me and the game. I’m not playing to win trophies or make headlines. I’m playing because it reminds me of who I am. A kid who’s still learning, still growing, still chasing that ball down the driveway. And that, I think, is enough.

Blake Koehler ‘25

           In my opinion, winter is the most interesting season of the year, yet also the calmest and most boring season. I see winter as the season to put in the hard work, the season that you can put in your blood, sweat, and tears to accomplish your goals. It can be very monotonous at times to do the same thing every day, not to mention the gloomy weather that makes you feel as if you have no hope left in your soul. A trend I have been seeing on social media recently is going on your “winter arc.” This means you will try as hard as you can to accomplish your goals during the winter and stay away from things that might be dragging you down. Winter is interesting to me because I find myself alone with a lot of time to reflect on myself.

           Spring is my least favorite season of the year. Most of spring is still quite cold but never enough to cause a raging blizzard. I see spring as a lesser version of winter. Spring is like the end of a cross-country race going in with one mile left ready to give it your all to finish. One thing that I do like about spring is how as the days go on the weather starts to get warmer and warmer. Every year during this time I remember my days in elementary school and how they would always say, “April shows bring May flowers.” As the school year is coming to an end, running low on gas, each day feels like we are getting one step closer to the finish line. Once you get there, you can cool off and take a deep breath knowing you have finished the race.

           For me, summer is a time to relax. A time to bask in the endless sunlight and take in the fresh air. It is a time of fun from the chaos of beaches, barbecues, and fireworks. Time feels slippery during the summer, melting away like popsicles on the pavement. From vacations to summer football camp, there are always places to be in the hot weather that will burn you to a crisp. Summer is loud and there is always something new and exciting on the way. It’s as if the sun’s intensity demands a version of myself I’m not always ready to give. Even with all its brightness, there is a shadow of exhaustion from the school year that lingers, reminding me that balance is necessary.

           Fall starts out loud, but as it goes on, it gets progressively quieter. I associate fall with American football: in the beginning, everyone is excited for the season to start, but as the season progresses I find myself losing interest. The crispness of fall air feels like an alarm clock going off after the lazy days of summer. Fall can set us back on our feet. Fall feels like a time of preparation, a middle ground between summer chaos and winter solitude. Fall holds October, the spookiest and scariest season of the year. In the fall I enjoy making my way through a corn maze without taking the map to guide me. After feasting at Thanksgiving dinner, the last leaf falls from the tree outside your house.

Beckham King ‘25

           The sound of an old-fashioned phone ringing loudly, echoing across my mind which was not fully conscious yet, but the only call was the one that was waking me up, my alarm. 6:00 am, I looked at my phone only to realize I was late; this was the second time this week I was going to be late to my morning basketball workout for school. I had to rush out of bed, skip breakfast, and speed to school. The workout was hard, and before I knew it my favorite part of the day was already over before the sun had even risen.

           School has been moving lazy; it’s the earliest part of the year, and even Halloween is still three weeks away. Life seems dull, boring, and there isn’t much to occupy myself with other than basketball and the occasional homework assignment. I was just waiting for something to happen, waiting for a change of pace. For things to finally pick up the pace again.

           One day I was enjoying my time at recess, the next I was on vacation, and before I could know it, it was the next year; grade after grade I am growing up, I don’t really realize it though because I am just having so much fun, not caring what comes next or what has happened but rather being pulled through time and instead of fighting it, savoring and enjoying it. But why must everything amazing move so fast? I am not sure what to think, everyone in the crowd cheering for me and my teammates, parents all screaming, whistles blowing, and yet I can’t hear anything, I’m not thinking, no stress, no care in the world other than winning. The biggest basketball game of my life and the only thing I can feel is euphoria, as if I have taken a drug, except it was doing the thing I love most.

           I am making shots I usually don’t consistently make, playing better defense than usual, using moves I’ve never even tried, and yet doing it all with no fear but unwavering confidence despite the 1000 mph winds of pressure raining down on me. I am in a trance, an unstoppable rhythm.

           Once we win I am drawn back to reality with amazing excitement for me and my teammates and all I can do is celebrate. It feels like 100 years’ worth of amazement in one moment. The first and only thought then enters my mind, “why can’t everything be done in this state of mind? Why can’t everything be at this perfect pace?”

Savannah Stack ‘25

           The rain is tracing down your face, and you smile because you get to experience something you know won’t last forever. That sensation, that moment you experience in time, is a fleeting instant that shall soon come to pass.

           This is September.

           It wasn’t like I wanted it to end. It had to end.

           October comes and goes. It is a weird sensation, slowly losing time knowing there is absolutely nothing a single person can do to keep it from fleeting.

           You carve dates on your brain like a knife into stone. In that instant, you hope to remember such a pleasant day forever. But in the next year, those starred boxes in your calendar roll around, the ones you forgot to erase, providing you with a stinging reminder that such a moment will never be lived again. You are burdened to remember the very things you wish you could forget.

           Here, it is November, December, and January.

           Looking back on what once felt endless to me, leaves me to scrunch my nose and furrow my brows. Thinking what I had was infinite was incredibly naive. There is nothing on this earth that truly lasts forever.

           I didn’t want it to end. Yet it was fated to reach a final page.  

           This is February and March.

           The worst type of pain is not a heart finally shattering, or the day you finally wake up knowing what you have is gone. The worst pain is not the final petal falling off the roses next to your bed, or reading the last page of your favorite novel. The worst pain is the process of watching the thing you love come to an inevitable end, with no way to gauge how much time it has left. It is the pain of choosing to keep space in your heart for something you are well aware won’t last your whole lifetime.

           When a flower sprouts from the ground, it requires a painfully delicate balance to live one more day. The sun and the rain must work together, or else that once tragically stunning plant will soon cease to exist. If there is too much sun, the flower dries out, leaving a shell of what it once was. If there is too much rain, the flower drowns in what it thought it needed to stay alive. Without an alike sense of dedication and intent, the sun and rain kill the flower, even if they are desperately trying to save it.

           I never thought it could end. But there I was on the other side of that door, willing you to come back, waiting for the sound of you knocking down the door. You never did.

           This is April.

           You prepare for this moment for as long as time itself. You don’t close your eyes when you should be sleeping because maybe you can slow down time for just a moment. You fantasize about scenarios of when that anticipated instant finally catches you. What will you do? What do you say? What happens after the end? You prepare, but you’re never ready.

           A tear falls down your face, your dog in your arms. You know he would live longer if you just took him home. But you let them insert the needle and squirt a substance into his veins. A part of you is always going to question if you made the right choice. But maybe it is better to let him go now if you are both bound to suffer either way.

           This is May, June, July, August.

           Heartbreak is an odd thing. There is a physical sensation to it where your heart is repetitively stabbed by an invisible dagger, day in and day out, month after month after month. But then one day you open your eyes, and you barely remember that very person holding the knife.

           Then, just like that, it is September again, but when the rain hits your cheek and leaves you to shiver, it is hard to find that smile. The one that came so naturally last year.

           Maybe, somewhere deep inside me, I knew you wouldn’t last forever. Maybe I knew it hurt more to stay. But I wasn’t ready, so I drew out our ending. I’m sorry.

Catie Smolinski ‘25

           As women we are fed opinions about who we are meant to be from the moment we open our eyes. Expectations are plastered everywhere, embedded deeply in the core of the sphere where we reside. Our physical environment and the content we consume—whether that is social media or works of entertainment or education—all seem to have a profound image of what it looks like for a person, more specifically a woman, to find our sense of purpose in the short time we have on this earth.  

           From childhood fixations to classic literature, I now see how the stories I consumed shaped my evolving understanding of purpose. 

           Little Women is a timeless tale of growth and self-discovery through the narrative of four sisters. The story follows the lives of the four sisters—Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy—as they navigate their independent lives in accordance with each other. Each with different passions and desires in life, they search for their place in this complex world. Their distinct paths and identities embody the question of what it means to be a woman. No matter the journey, each sister’s life was equally as important as the others. 

            I am five, watching Disney princess movies in my parents’ room, snuggled up between them under the covers. The screen radiates with images of the various princesses, each damned to a similar narrative. I watch, my mind captivated by the graceful, elegant, and beautiful depiction of these women. Each of them holds wit and talents, but all find a similar path in the end: love. The picture-perfect story, an intelligent woman with unattainable allure either saves or gets rescued. Watching these movies, I was taught the notion that to find purpose in my story, like Ariel or Cinderella, I eventually had to find love while maintaining this standard of refinement.  

 
           “Just because my dreams are different than yours doesn’t mean they’re unimportant. I want a home and a family and I’m willing to work and struggle, but I want to do it with John.” 

           Meg, the eldest March sister, is a vision of class, elegance, and tradition. She dreams of a simple life filled with family and love. She grapples with the societal expectations of the world around her, while balancing her personal desires. Her dreams of a stable, simple home life may not seem as ambitious as the rest of her sisters, but hold just as much importance. A path of love does not mean a lack of strength and power; it is a different form of bravery. 
 

           I am eight, reading my first fantasy series which thrust me into a deep spiral of analyzing heroines in novels. Annabeth the brave and mighty, the daughter of a goddess, a savior in the novel Percy Jackson. Hermione Granger, indescribably strong and resilient, the leading young woman in Harry Potter.  They defy the rules, reach for greatness, and pursue their passions to the most extraordinary extents. Save the world, be intelligent, conquer kingdoms, slay beasts: all somewhat “easy tasks.”  I attempted to mimic this, developing habits where I constantly seek to excel in everything I do, no matter the cost; that was what would make life meaningful. I strove for perfection, guided by the belief that a slip-up or a bad grade would be my damnation. If I didn’t excel, I wasn’t striving for greatness; I was wasting my so-called “purpose.”  

           “I do long to be master of my own fate.” 

           Jo, the second oldest of the little women, holds a fiery spirit that defies modern conventions. She aspires to become a great writer, finding freedom and self-expression through that path. Her refusal of social norms and gender roles are a radical view in her time. Her journey focuses on discovering herself, illustrating the vitality of individualism and passion even in a world that contains us. Her character is for the dreamers, and the ones with ambitious hearts, and for the restless souls. 

           I am thirteen, tucked into the corner of my bed from which I haven’t moved in ages, engrossed with my phone, the world around me going up in flames. Stuck in that room, with only the media to keep me connected to the world around me. TikTok, Instagram, YouTube now replaced the names of individuals I would see in person. Without anything else to do, I scrolled, opening the Pandora’s box of opinions, many unwanted and unwarranted. Scrolling through the various videos— “how to make,” “how to be more…,” “this is how I’m feeling” —I was stuck watching others describe what they hope to do in the future, drowning out my own thoughts. I was told: this is who you are now, this is who you should be, how you should live.  

           “There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind.” 

           Beth, the third sister, is a gentle and selfless individual, often described as the heart or “glue” to the March family. She finds joy in the simple things in life: love, kindness, etc. Beth, being quiet and introspective, is often overlooked, and her storyline is not as highlighted as others. Although her life was short, she found purpose in quiet little lights, and impacting those around her. Sometimes the greatest form of meaning in life is derived from our connections with others and a quiet life. 
 

           I am fifteen, writing papers and taking tests that somehow define the path of my future. Satisfaction comes in the form of a number; happiness comes from success. Social groups seem to matter too, though there is an unspoken vow to ignore how much they impact our lives. Navigating this maze, friendships form and fracture under the weight of all around us. The system we live in tells us we need to know who we want to be and pushes us to unspeakable lengths to achieve that “greatness.” 

           “I want to be great or nothing.” 

           Amy, the youngest, is bold and forward in her desire for both love and greatness in all areas. Beauty, ambition, success, and love were all areas she sought to thrive in. Despite her dreams, she also had an integral understanding of the reality of the world around her, especially for the role of women in society. Her character is often misconstrued as whiny, when in actuality she has a hunger for meaning and is a picture of resilience and passion. 
 

           At seventeen I sit with the voices of Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy, an intertwining cacophony of desires and life paths, and am suddenly at peace with my unknowingness. Their stories assure me that there is no singular path to fulfillment. I am oblivious to what the future will hold, but what I do know is that no matter the path, or life I make for myself, it is worthy not because it’s deemed so by the rest of the world, but because I allow it to have meaning. Similar to how the March sisters found meaning in their unique ways, I embrace the narrative that purpose isn’t bound to set definitions, it is a personal and ever-evolving path for everyone.  

Jules Conklin ’25

I.

           The first snowfall arrives. It’s quiet. Not even the air stirs. The world feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting. Waiting for me to remember something. I stand at the window, palms pressed against the glass. My cold fingertips tracing the frost, tracing time. What is time, really? If time is elastic, as Sartre suggests, then the snow stretches it, linking my memory to the moment it lands. But the snow does not care. It does not think. It just falls. 

           But it’s not weightless, is it? Like Bruegel’s painted hunters trudging through a snow-covered valley, it carries everything—every flake, every moment frozen in air before it hits the ground, vanishing without a trace. 

           Outside, the streets are empty, yet the hum of streetlights seems to be louder than ever. How can silence be so loud? However, the world does not quiet; we do. We shrink, smaller and smaller, beneath the weight of everything buried under the white. 

II.

           “Magic,” we used to say. The snow, the way it melted on our hands and tongues. Each flake disappears in an instant. It felt like the world was offering us something secret, something fleeting. A trick of time, maybe. But was it ever magic? Or was time simply running too fast for us to notice? 

           Back then, everything felt alive. The sharp sting of the wind bites our faces. Did we know it was biting, or did we think it was part of magic too? 

           I felt enchanted, but I was just falling. I remember the snow, soft and deep, how it seemed to wait for me, catch me, protect me. We never thought about what was underneath, did we? What was melting below us, while we played, unaware of how quickly it would all disappear? We called it magic, but maybe that was just to avoid seeing it for what it really was: fragile, fleeting. 

III.

           Soon, everything will be different. The city will change, grow, shrink, repeat. The greenbelt behind my house, where the coyotes once roamed, will be gone. Replaced by rows of houses that all look the same. No more magic.  

           But the snow will come and hide everything, right? Snow is like a mask, perfect in its stillness, covering cracks and scars beneath it. But when it melts, the world reappears. Raw, unchanged, and impossible to ignore. The same snow will no longer feel like it belongs. It will not be the same, not anymore. The plows will push it aside. The salt will eat it away.  

           What’s left? Nothing but my memories. Snow doesn’t stop the world from changing. It only pretends to, covering up everything to make us forget, just for a moment. But I will not forget. I know what’s still beneath — the cold, the emptiness. It always stays. 

IV.

           Maybe it’s not about magic, or the snow at all. Maybe it’s about the silence, the waiting. The held breath, just before something falls, just before something breaks. The snow settles, still and quiet, like a sigh of grief. But it does not last. The snow never lasts. It doesn’t stay. It melts, vanishes, and sometimes it never comes at all. And so, we waited again. For the snow to come, to cover us. For a chance to forget. A chance to bury what we cannot bear to face.

V.

           Maybe it’s not about the snow. Maybe it’s about what we choose to bury underneath it.