Victoria Moran


Mothers, be good to your daughters

Although I’m my own harshest critic, I’m encouraged by the knowledge that I’ll probably turn out quite like my mom. Her simple mom-isms are generally enough to talk me down from any self-constructed catastrophe.

Choosing happiness

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when I began to singlehandedly dismantle my own self-confidence. Beginning somewhere near the beginning of fall semester, I fell into a debilitating routine of insecurity and systematic self-doubt—triggered by no one specific event, I somehow convinced myself I was failing as a student, as a friend, as a writer and person. It’s strange how no one really talks how transitioning into your second year at the University can be hard.

See ya en Sevilla

In equating my stay in Spain to a dream, I fail to conceptualize that for many people, those small treasures I cherished comprise a daily reality.

Community confronts sexual assault on Grounds

University students and faculty have responded in full force to an article published in Rolling Stone magazine Wednesday — many voicing their opposition to sexual assault and misconduct on Grounds. The article detailed the alleged gang rape of a then-first-year student by several members of Phi Kappa Psi fraternity in Sept. 2012.

Can I buy you a drink?

I’ve always wondered what reaction I’d be met with if I offered to pay for a guy’s drink at a bar. It’s become a well developed and heavily romanticized image in my head.

Heartbreak humanizes

It’s been a hard semester for me. This is something that has taken me a while – specifically, the bulk of the past couple months - to admit to myself and it’s been a difficult conclusion to draw.

Why am I afraid to commit?

Thus, all things considered, are those who fear romantic commitment really to be blamed for their apprehension? Or are we just reacting naturally to the objectively daunting circumstances monogamy presents?

Exercises in empathy

I finally know what “sunken eyes” look like. After having thoughtlessly skimmed past the overemployed phrase in works of writing and repeatedly dismissed it as a feature that only exists in the reality of ink on a page, I learned what it means to have sunken eyes when I sat across from a homeless man on the free trolley.I sat and studied the man in front of me – a dingy, bandana-clad ellipse with a white tufty beard who might’ve resembled Santa if he were even vaguely jolly (or just less asleep.) At one point, the shrill driver stopped the bus to implore bandana man to stay awake because sleeping is apparently not a permissible activity on the trolley.

Treading water

There are several narratives of my experiences I could use to preface a column that attempts to explain my feelings about the rampant presence of sexual objectification on U.Va.