Personal Narrative. 

As I sit with my bag of gummy bears and one-too-many cups of coffee, I believe I found my purpose.

If you are a reasonably healthy-minded person, you may believe that being awake for 32 hours is not ideal. I beg to differ. You see, there's no stopping me now; I’ve eaten through all my gummy bears, except the blue ones – those ones are gross – and my heart might stop at any moment from my caffeine intake. 

My work is nearly complete; 1,200 of the absolute most painfully beautiful words I've ever seen grace a Google Doc. Tingles spread down my spine. No. Not yet. I’m almost done. My neck began to itch and my hands shook as I tried to type my thoughts before they left me. 

For me, being a journalist was more than just writing. It's the moment when your eyes threaten to shut, yet you pull them open because you know there are people in your community who need to read your words. July 21. It was a Friday. The opening day of Greta Gerwig’s Barbie movie. Dressed head to toe in pink, glitter falling from my eyes, I remember leaving the theater and waiting by the bathroom for my friend.

“That was awful,” I overheard a man say as his friends laughed in agreement. “There was no plot, the characters had no depth, and the message was shallow. Nothing we’ve not heard before.” 

“It’s people like you who make us need this movie,”I silently screamed. The message in this movie may have seemed so repetitive because that’s exactly it: repetition. Women have been repeating these stories, thoughts, and burdens, year after year and we are never heard. So we continue to repeat our stories for the hope that one day, maybe one day someone will hear us. 

In a way, journalists and Greta Gerwig both constantly attempt the same goal: telling the silenced stories of others. It turns out I wasn’t the only one touched by Barbie’s message. Sarah Karver, a silent girl, often reduced to dumb cheerleader stereotypes, shared my same infatuation for the movie. Sarah's experience mirrored mine. We were both women, victims of the “You can have it all”’ mentality. Spending hours fixating on our looks, acing every report card, and joining multiple after-school programs. We molded ourselves to follow in Barbie's perfect plastic footsteps until we came to the realization together that we’re not meant to be perfect.

I was not even a month into my second time as co-editor in chief of The Prospector, yet I knew the first story I needed to write. It had to be Sarah’s. Deep down, I understood her words were also the voices of all of the women in my community who needed an outlet. The adrenaline rush from Sarah’s words could have pushed me to run a marathon. I wrote for 16 hours yet the pressure of representing not just Sarah's story, but also all the women I pasted in the halls, was a heavy weight. 

In all of its heartbreaking beauty, my Barbie feature was a piece of writing that made me excited to call myself a journalist. I wrapped up my conclusion and sent a copy to Sarah before my eyes shut on their own. 

February 16. Eighteen days before the final deadline and “Life in Plastic is Fantastic” was proofed months ago. I’d barely set my coffee cup down on my desk before my adviser said we have an issue .Issues tend to pop up in the days leading up to a deadline. They are usually solved fairly easily, yet this problem lit a raging fire in my heart.

Sarah sent an email to my adviser early that morning demanding the feature to be removed from the yearbook on account of it being “incorrect.” If we refused, her family  threatened legal action.. My heart broke. After writing her story, we became good friends through mutual classes and we discussed her approval of the story multiple times. Reading her email made me feel as though I failed her as a friend, classmate, and most importantly, as a reporter. 

It took me a long, distressing weekend to rewrite Sarah’s story. A thunderstorm of anxiety and deadline pressure loomed over every word I typed. Eventually, Sarah approved the revised version, but our friendship was in a state of limbo. 

Being part of  publications such as The Prospector and Oro gave me a platform from which I could share underrepresented stories such as Sarah’s, but they also came with responsibility. Every story I write is a reflection of someone's life, and it is my job to reflect their experiences in an impactful yet respectful manner. 

Through reporting, I’ve listened to hundreds of stories: a girl who faces racism for simply not being “Mexican enough,” a friend who overcame her eating disorder through wrestling, as well as students and teachers who struggle to embrace artificial intelligent software in the classroom. Through each interview, I'm reminded we're all just people wishing to be understood. 

Maybe I’ve fallen in love. It is the only feasible way I could explain spending more than 20  hours a week running around with my camera, scribbling out designs on Procreate, or racing across the keys of my chromebook to complete a story by deadline. There’s something about it that's addictive. Maybe it's the joy of hitting the submit button? Helping the community, perhaps? The impact of every word that makes the final cut? I don’t think I’ll ever truly figure out what makes storytelling so enticing. 

My progression from my first yearbook assignment at 12 to leading a high school staff as editor in chief for two consecutive years has taught me that journalism takes perseverance and courage.  As I sit with my bag of gummy bears and one-too-many cups of coffee, I believe I found my purpose. Every day, being on The Prospector reminds me why I joined yearbook six years ago, as I not only wanted to be a part of something but I wanted that something to be bigger than just me.