Author: Hannah Webb

Hannah Webb is a sophomore University Scholars and Political Science double-major from New Braunfels. After graduation, she hopes to go to law school to be an attorney. On the side, she’s an aspiring children’s book author, hopes to make the New York Times crosswords someday and has a growing collection of Pride and Prejudice books. Ask her about Paisley Pender: Playground Defender!

It is not uncommon to hear someone say, half-laughing, that they didn’t even last a week. The remark is meant to be humorous, but it reveals something deeper. Failure in Lent has become social embarrassment rather than spiritual reflection. Success has become a badge of religious credibility. The language of repentance has been replaced by the language of achievement.

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If we are not outraged enough about the Epstein files, it is not because the crimes were unclear. It is because outrage requires something of us. It requires attention, courage and to care more about exploited children than about the comfort of the powerful.

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We would argue that the egregious spending is not the result of increased love this year — it’s a crutch. It’s less effort (though not for your wallet) to lavish someone with gifts to make up for where you’ve fallen short than to simply change your behavior. But, as many a boyfriend, girlfriend, husband and wife will learn come Feb. 14, conversation hearts don’t equate to real conversations, and a dozen roses still come with thorns.

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Dorm rooms and shared apartments function like small laboratories of adulthood. They are imperfect, crowded and often uncomfortable by design. You learn quickly that no one is coming to enforce bedtime or remind you to eat vegetables. In that absence, habits quietly step in to fill the void. How you wake up, how you respond to mess, how you treat shared space, how you handle tension — these patterns begin to solidify long before you realize they are becoming yours.

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We treat friendship like background music: comforting, constant, easily taken for granted. Yet friendship is the architecture holding most of us upright. It shapes us, steadies us, reminds us who we are when everything else feels unsteady. And still, with the people who show up for us most consistently, we hesitate to offer the simplest words: I love you.

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Every fall, Baylor Homecoming begins in the heart of campus, where the glow of the Eternal Flame stretches across Fountain Mall. The Ten at Ten: A Mass Meeting Experience marks the start of the weekend as a moment when the Baylor Family gathers to celebrate tradition, renew community and reflect on the university’s motto: “Pro Ecclesia, Pro Texana, Pro Mundo” — “For the Church, for Texas, for the World.”

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The nation’s capital feels half-awake. The marble monuments still gleam under the fall sun, but the museums that give them voice stand dark and locked. Tourists wander quiet streets where government offices sit empty—a city paused by a shutdown now stretching into its third week.

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The hardest lesson may be permitting yourself to grieve in a place that constantly tells you to achieve. Grief does not fit neatly between midterms and extracurriculars. It interrupts. It blurs. It breaks schedules and refuses productivity.

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From Truman to Trump and Reagan to Obama, Baylor and Waco have played host to some of the nation’s most powerful political figures. Governors, justices and presidents alike have stepped into the green and gold spotlight — each leaving a mark on campus history.

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Somewhere along the way, the word “feminist” got a bad reputation. It has been twisted into something extreme, something controversial — something people hesitate to label themselves. How many people have you heard say, “I’m not a feminist, but…” before voicing beliefs that align perfectly with feminist ideals? This just goes to show how misconstrued the word has become.

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