Some people spend four years of high school trying to figure out where they belong. During my four years, I somehow ended up in two places: the Yearbook and the Newspaper. While my classes and experiences changed from year to year, The Key and The Evanstonian remained a constant. Being involved in both publications allowed me the chance to do more than just write—I got to listen, observe, and tell the stories that make ETHS what it is while becoming more connected.
At first, I didn’t fully comprehend just how rare—and rewarding—it would be to be part of both. These spaces were distinctly different, yet they left remarkably similar marks on me. The Key allowed me to uncover the hidden stories behind the smallest details. Like who knew the most people on the water polo team, who had a bad senior quote, who showed up in ten different club photos. The Evanstonian allowed me to pay attention to what people said and didn’t say out loud—what we avoided covering, what we were afraid to write about, or what we wrote a little too much about. With the differing lessons each publication offered, both required me to learn the art of storytelling. How to listen. How to sit with someone and ask, “What do you want people to remember?”. Every time I walked into what used to be S103/105, now H208, I got to do that, surrounded by people who challenged me, supported me, and made everything a little more fun. What began as simple interactions within the staff soon blossomed into strong companionships, which evolved into friendships, and in some cases, the best of friends. In both spaces, I grew closer to people I already knew while also meeting people I never would’ve crossed paths with otherwise. The spaces were different, but the feeling was the same: I belonged.
Over time, I came to understand that the sense of belonging wasn’t just about the place—it was about the people I shared it with, too. In the Evanstonian, that sense of belonging was found during layout nights in S103—music playing, munching on food, all of us pretending we weren’t behind. I think about Ms. Young, who never let a bad design slide (thankfully), and the people who made me better: Ethan, always asking the hard questions. Sam, crafting headlines and making art pieces in 30 minutes. Ryan, bringing personality to every conversation, and Izzy, keeping me laughing when the layout becomes a little too long for us.
The Key has its magic, too. People like Talia, who helped me figure out what it means to lead while also providing support. Margi, who somehow managed to be both a sharp editor and a turn into an even better friend. Thad, who never failed to make me laugh. And Phoebe, who somehow always knew the exact right Bob Dylan song to play on a deadline night.
Being in both spaces for nearly my whole high school career allowed for many layouts and deadlines, which came with many shared conversations, glances, smilies, upsets, and mixed emotions. Yet, I wouldn’t change any of it—because the company made even the worst deadline nights feel worth it. Thinking about where I will be and where I am now, as I get ready to graduate, with some of that company still beside me, some still at ETHS, and some already off writing their next chapters, it’s hard not to look back on those rooms, those people, and those moments with a full heart. It’s strange to say goodbye to a home that shaped so much of who I am. But if these years taught me anything, it’s that stories don’t end—they keep unfolding. And while this chapter is closing, I know the people who filled its pages aren’t disappearing- they’re just a call or text away. I will forever feel tremendous gratitude that this part of my story was written here, alongside the people who helped shape not just what I published, but who I am.
