I know it’s cliché to say how these past four years have been a blur or a flash, but I’ll be honest: They have been for me. 

Newspaper, high school, and my adolescence – they’ve all come and gone too quickly for me to process. Too quick before I can say goodbye. Hence why I hope that my final piece here won’t feel like it.

As I write, I can’t help but think about one quote that has been running through my head:

“Why do you write like you’re running out of time?” 

Yes, I know that it’s funny that I had the lyrics to one of, in my opinion, the best songs in musical history stuck in my head during one of the biggest moments in my life. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized it’s not just a lyric to me — it was a question.

Why do I write like I’m running out of time?

Well, first, why do I write at all? 

Especially after years of ELL classrooms and many teachers who doubted that I could ever learn a second language. Teachers who doubted whether I could get rid of that accent, whether I was as capable and smart as my peers. Teachers who caused me to be insecure about my way of speaking, thinking, and living.

Until I joined The Blaze, a decision so bizarre even my own mom had to question whether the counselors had mistaken a class of mine and replaced it with ‘Intro to Journalism.’ Hell, I was more confused than ever, too. Why would I join where people could make fun of the way I write?

Yet the torment never came, never from my peers on The Blaze. This staff was so welcoming to me; I honestly thought it was a cult gathered under the supreme leaders of AP style, coffee, and ambition. Yet, they let me in and helped me polish my way of writing, my way of communicating, and my way of seeing and speaking to the world by teaching me new skills like photography, video design, and podcast recording. 

By the end of my sophomore year, I realized writing for me turned from a mandatory must to an activity that even makes me show up to school every day. It has helped me communicate better, express myself more, and connect with friends. My pen isn’t just my sword for attacking corporations or the government, but it’s actually a microphone, one that doesn’t make me feel like I was forced to do something for the sake of it, but rather for the love of it. 

But just as every good thing occurs, it also must end, and I sure as hell am running out of time. I would have four years, 48 months, or 208 weeks to enjoy this before I headed off, leaving the coffee-smelling workroom off to pursue higher education. 

And while I could start a blog or a podcast, it would never beat the feeling that The Blaze gave me.

Community, a family, and a second home where I can just lay out my thoughts, and no judgment would be dropped. This is the place, the room, where I finally found where I belonged and where my best memories occurred, and the place where my indecisive brain finally realized what I wanted to do in the future is the thing I’ve been doing for the past couple of years. 

But as I got older and grew a bit of grey hair too, leaving to pursue something bigger than room 1400 called me to me, and it made me realize leaving behind is okay and that this world isn’t going to go upside down if I do. And most importantly, my second family would always be there. 

My legacy will always be there. Cemented not just in past magazines, websites, and awards, but in the hearts and minds of people, too. I was lucky enough to find people who care about me outside of school and can’t wait to see more of me when it comes to writing, reporting, and overall becoming a journalist.

I cannot be more thankful for everyone who’s been on my journey. Mr. Anderson, who’s been an utmost supporter of my work, even if it seemed too crazy when I pitched it during editor meetings. He could have turned down some of my craziest projects, like Rundown Politics and the investigation of teenage gambling, but instead sent me to research.

To Ms. Greiner, for being my first mentor and for making me laugh during those moments where my insecurity outweighed my ideas. Thank you for approaching an 8th grader, promising me how welcoming the class was and that I would always have someone by my side. Spoiler alert: You were right.

But most importantly of all, thank you to the staff, both current and former reporters. To Sanvi and Arnav, thank you for being my people in this journey. You guys made covering every article feel like an adventure. Sanvi, don’t forget you’re powerful and strong. Good luck in whatever you want to accomplish in life. And to Arnav, you got this, no matter how many people you have to mentor next year, or any story you want to tell, keep your head and shoulders up.

To Melissa, Leif, Aline, and James, I will never forget you guys. Thank you for being the best mentors a freshman could ask for. Your help, patience, and effort have built me into who I am today, but your compassion is what made me stay and share this class with others. 

To Kaushal and Arjun, thanks for making lunch fun. Those long conversations about politics and riddles always kept me on my toes. I wouldn’t be able to joke around without you. Arjun, good luck as an editor next year. And Kaushal, I’ll see you soon, dude; we’re both going to NOVA. 

To Saketh, whom I had to give a special shoutout. Thanks for uploading my work on time. I know I might have woken you up at an unreasonable time at night just for an article, but thank you for always being supportive and kind. I loved talking to you, and I can’t wait to see what you’ll do next.

To my friends and family outside of the newspaper, thanks for supporting me through it all. From listening to my ramblings about an upcoming story to driving me to games, to protests, and internships, just know you’ll always be with me in my thoughts and heart. 

And finally, to everyone else whom I wasn’t able to fit because Anderson told me this article was getting too long, thank you so much for impacting my life. Don’t lose your spark and wonder. Keep shining bright, you guys know who you are

And while I’ll be walking the stage soon, giving my speech, and grabbing that diploma from Principal Duellman’s hands, my work is not over until I say so. I’m not stopping until I have to. And when I do, I’ll gladly “write my way out.” 

Just like I am now.