I spent a majority of my time at The Daily editing stories that weren’t mine. Tightening ledes, reworking endings, cutting quotes that softened the point. The best edits were the ones no one noticed.
That’s what most of college felt like, too.
Some of the most meaningful things I did here didn’t come with bylines. They happened in Slack threads at 1 a.m. In buried Google Docs. In side conversations that didn’t make it into the piece.
There was no credit for it. No applause. But it mattered. And if I had to do it again, I would—with the same people, in the same windowless room, at the same absurd hour.
Because even when I was tired, frustrated and halfway through a sentence I didn’t know how to fix, I still cared. About getting it right. About giving people space to tell their stories. About building something worth reading, even if no one knew I touched it.
That’s what made me love journalism. Not the bylines or holding the finished paper. But the quiet conviction that stories—when done right—can mean something.
That’s what kept me there. And that’s what I’m taking with me.
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