LITERARY | If I Had One Wish, I’d Be Your EIC Again

During my term, people said they were proud of us.

They said the publication was productive.

They said The Clarion that year was strong.

They said we did well.

I heard those words, and I held onto them—not for praise, but for proof that what we did mattered. And yet, pride often floated without names attached. Success was spoken of broadly, carefully, as if it belonged to everyone and no one at once.

But the lingering thought kills me: I could have been a better Editor-in-Chief.

I wasn’t perfect—but I was learning.

There was a point in time when I thought writing—let alone journalism—was not my place. I quit for a few years, convinced that passion was something loud and certain, something that did not hesitate the way I did. I walked away because I told myself it simply wasn’t meant for me.

I found out about the Literary Writer role in eleventh grade.

I came back quietly.

Not for leadership,

Not for recognition.

I came back because I wanted to write poems—that was all.

I wanted words without major responsibility. I hated responsibility.

Somehow, I stayed long enough to be entrusted with you.

I led you while still figuring myself out. I tried to play it as safe as I could even when I felt unsure. I tried to be an ate who guided, even when I was still learning how to do everything.

I remember telling all of you that being a Senior, being your Editor-in-Chief, did not make me better than anyone else. I said it because I believed it. I looked at the people around me—my “children”—and saw talent that intimidated me, dedication that made me question if I genuinely deserved this position I was given.

You were never just an organization to me. You were shared stress before deadlines, collective relief after press release days, quiet encouragement passed between articles. You were the kind of family built not by blood, but by choice—by publication materials, by shared collaboration, by caring enough to still show up the next day despite academic responsibilities.

If I could restart my high school life—if I could restart my JOURNey—I would.

Not because I regret loving you, but because I wish I had loved you more bravely.

I would have done more for you.

I would have done more—but I didn’t.

Not to chase credit, but to show up with more courage.

Not to change the outcome, but to change how boldly I stood in it.

I would have fought harder for that publication office.

I would have trusted my decisions more, defended my ideas longer.

I would have given the proper accreditation to that one poem.

I would have done more…

but graduation did not wait.

Graduation has a way of doing that—it drifts you away from the very things that taught you how to stay. One day, you are part of a family built on shared words and shared weight. Next, you are watching from an outside perspective, carrying memories that no longer have a place to return to.

Leaving was not dramatic nor unexpected; it was meant to happen. Caps were thrown, names were called, and suddenly, I was no longer part of the family I helped lead. That is the quiet cruelty of endings that are celebrated—you are congratulated even as you are being removed, redirected someplace else.

And still, I am proud.

Proud of what we built.

Proud of who we became.

Proud of MY family that continues without me.

If I had one wish, I would be your EIC again.

I love you forever, my Clarion babies.