The old adage states that in polite conversation, there are three things you are not to discuss: money, religion and politics. And it makes sense. No one wants to know how much is in your bank account or who around the dinner table you think is going to hell.

I cannot pinpoint the exact moment when my obsession with politics began. There was no real draw for me to begin with; my parents never took me to rallies or conducted fervent political discussions at the dinner table.

I kicked the frozen dirt as I walked my usual 30 paces ahead of my family. Between the gray sky and the twisting branches, the path was dark; though the trees were empty of leaves, they still dimmed the day.

As a columnist, I have developed a more durable self-confidence grounded in appreciation of my abilities, and an acceptance of my weaknesses and capacity for error.

We’ve all done it: riding around in a car, going down a street that has seen better days and saying something like, “This isn’t a nice neighborhood.”

As I wrote through a draft of this column, I began to wonder if I should apologize for bringing up a subject people have discussed for years.

The day after Christmas, I took a trip with a couple of friends to Midtown in Detroit.

Fall semester of sophomore year, I was feeling pretty good about how things were going. I had finally finished my first round of required art studios, and had moved on to elective academics on Central Campus, a totally new world.

When she was 10 or so, my little sister received some of the worst advice of her life. It was written in the comments section of her fifth-grade report card underneath the part that graded her behavior in class.

With all the positive changes in my life, I finally feel true happiness in relation to my college experience, and I no longer worry about the good vibes disappearing.