PERSONAL NARRATIVE
I've developed an intense appreciation for a couch that should’ve been thrown in the dumpster years ago.
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The espresso-shot-stained sofa in the back of the high school journalism room was my spot during every marathon-long deadline night for the school newspaper staff. It was a constant, and the saggy cushions watched me go through a massive shift in my life.
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I spent my first day of class sitting on my trembling hands for so long they started to tingle.
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I gazed at the wall covered in national awards — the wall that would eventually include some of my own. I listened to the terrifying array of editors give first-day announcements and hoped none of them noticed my eyes widening with terror — little did I know I would be one of them three deadline-filled years later. But I also noticed the couch in the corner. The beaten up, incredibly well-loved, disgustingly-brownish blue couch.
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The overly plush pillows swallowed me up every time I sat on them — and that was for an average of eight hours every week. I sat there when I first learned how to export an InDesign document, how to tighten a three-hour-long board meeting into 500 words and how to bounce back after tough critiques. Class periods flew by while I tried to perfect my new love of storytelling.
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That couch watched my voice shake and my notepad fill with scribbled-down quotes during my first interview. It watched as I snuck up to the editor’s desk to get their approval, praying I didn’t interrupt anything important.
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The version of me that the couch saw was nowhere near a leader.
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But as the interviews progressed, the stories got tougher and I climbed my way up the editorial ladder, I started to become the opposite. I strived to change my incredibly shy personality into a more confident one through every project. The year I began to speak up in brainstorms and fearlessly blast my playlist in the backroom was the year the janitors finally moved that couch into the dumpster and traded it out for a leather one. The j-room upgraded at the same time I did.
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My non-journalism friends would always nag me with the question, “Why do you keep torturing yourself with this?” as my to-do list overflowed with newspaper-related tasks, and I’d always respond, “You don’t get it; it’s addicting.” Storytelling was my favorite part of high school — I know I'll carry that passion through college and beyond.
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The countless nights I spent hunched over my laptop until 2 a.m. taught me time management lessons far tougher than anything I’d known before. My adviser preached the importance of professionalism, and after interviewing Peace Corps ambassadors and politicians and police officers, I feel ready to present myself in any field I decide to pursue.
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The story I wrote about how faith held a family together while their mom battled a deadly illness taught me how to empathize deeply. I wrote about a woman who trained for years only to be turned down by NASA, and through her eyes, I learned how important perseverance is.
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During a year of social reform, a deadly pandemic and a historic election, I learned the intense power journalism holds.
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The heavy research I did to write about the Black Lives Matter movement opened my eyes to the injustices in our world, our school and our staff. I shared the voice of struggling communities during the pandemic and the intense political issues — a younger me would’ve gone wide-eyed if you told me I would spark adult discussion about topics I hadn't ever considered before.
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But all of these stories and lessons came together as I got the phone call from my advisor that I won. I was named the National Student Journalist of the Year. My eyes were blurry as the tears proudly welled up.
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Freshman-me sitting on that run-down couch would’ve awkwardly laughed if you were to tell her that she’d lead a national-award-winning staff of 70. I sat on that shiny, new couch with shiny, new confidence — I no longer come into the J-room, or any room, with shaking hands and a trembling voice.