In Beirut, I didn’t have a newsroom. I had a notebook, a phone and a need to make sense of the destruction around me after the 2020 port explosion: broken glass, collapsing buildings and lives unraveled in an instant. That instinct to document, to understand, to share – it’s what pulled me into journalism. But it was never about just the story. It was about the people behind it.
At Texas State, I found a newsroom that looked nothing like where I started: whiteboards scribbled with mock-ups of week’s paper, a conference room that slowly seemed to shrink as our staff grew and a team of students who showed up week after week because they believed this work mattered.
The University Star became more than a student paper. It was a place where I learned how to hold power to account, report in real time and sit in discomfort until I got it right. I wasn’t just covering stories. I was serving a campus and community that trusted me to ask hard questions and chase honest answers.
I joined The Star as a sophomore who was terrified of messing up a byline. Two years and 105 bylines later, I leave as someone who understands the stakes because every interview, every late-night rewrite, every pushback from an administrator reminded me of one truth: journalism is never about us. It’s about the people we write for, and the people we write with. Student media is not a sandbox for practice, but a frontline for impact.
That focus followed me into every newsroom I stepped into: The Austin Chronicle, KUT, Texas Monthly, Austin Woman Magazine, KXAN and The Borgen Project. Each taught me something different: how to write with authority, chase sound, pitch stories that stick and double-check everything twice. But through it all, one lesson carried to The Star: good journalism doesn’t require a big budget or prestige. It just takes people who care.
And our newsroom was full of them. We didn’t have a full-time staff. We had each other. On election night, I oversaw our reporters covering polls live while editors stayed late piecing together briefs in the newsroom. Blake, Marisa and I covered the November counterprotest on the ground. Ryan, Jacquelyn and I spent hours combing through conflicting public records.
It wasn’t just commitment – it was community. And that made all the difference.
There were moments when the work weighed heavy – when we published something that sparked backlash, when we couldn’t get a comment, when we felt like we were shouting into the void. But even then, we kept showing up. For each other. For the story. For the people.
To Blake, Marisa, Rhian, Jen, Carson, Mandalyn, Jackson, Meg, Sophie and Carlene: thank you for building this newsroom with your heart and grit. Ryan, thank you for being my right hand in this final semester. Diego, you’ve been my rock. You reminded me to breathe between stories, but also pushed me to keep going.
Now, as I step back, the years blur into the rhythm of a newsroom that moved because we moved it. And I know this: I am leaving not just as a better journalist, but as a better listener, a better teammate and a better person.
To the next reporter walking into The Star, wondering if you’re ready; you are. If you lead with curiosity, humility and people first, you’ll find your way.
And as I leave San Marcos, I carry everything The Star gave me: clarity, conviction and a deeper understanding of what it means to report for people, not just about them. When I started in Beirut, all I had was myself. I didn’t have a newsroom – just a sense that stories mattered because people did. Now, years later, I leave with a newsroom full of names, voices and moments that remind me every day why this work matters.
It started with the people. It still is. It always will be.
