April 27, on a city bus in Seattle — talking to Chris Heady, the journalism adviser — that’s when he says…

“If you want to go into news broadcasting — newswriting would be a great way to become a well-rounded reporter.”

 He’s comparing the broadcast contest I’ve entered to reporting for the newspaper.

I can’t get what he says out of my head.

Two days later, I walk into 151 — Heady’s helping a student on her Macbook.

He notices me and swivels his chair toward me.

Then I say… 

“I wanna join newspaper!” 

He sends me the link to apply. 

The next morning, I’m in.

May 14th, I’m sitting in the Northwest library, 30 journalism students and their parents crowded around library tables.

Mr. Heady reads off the names of each class offered at the Gloria Shields Workshop. The Gloria Shields Workshop — hosted in Dallas every year. 

The workshop where journalism kids go to nerd-out for five days during the summer. 

“Specialized writing” Heady reads.

“The reason I went to the University of Nebraska, the reason I started teaching, the reason I hold my coffee mug the way I do, and the reason my classroom is set up the way it is.”

I tilt to the right, whisper to my dad “That’s the class I’m taking.”

Dad raises his eyes with impressed interest.

June 30 at the Gloria Shields Workshop in Addison, Texas — sitting in Mesquite 2.

We read the first part of a three-part series from the Kansas City Star — Sarah’s Hope.

Knowing these stories come from someone in Kansas gives me a sense of pride, as if I wrote the stories myself… I didn’t.

Eric Adler did.

Eric Adler, over the course of five days, completely changes the way I write, as if I had written at all in the past… I didn’t. 

By the end of our first day, my teachers, David and Scott have me in a trance. 

The way they bicker in front of a class.

The way they talk about nothing and everything at the same time. 

The way they have… Every. Single. Student. Completely. Captivated. 

I’m in the right place.

The night before we share our stories — I’m sitting next to David.

It’s 11 p.m. — curfew was 10:30 p.m.

We sit alone, editing my story until it’s perfect.

It’s 30 minutes past curfew, but I don’t care.

The next day, I read my story.

My story was about my dance team experience. And how, after two years, it had completely erased my passion for dance.

By the last paragraph, I struggle through the tears.

Then. 

It sinks in.

This column holds the most vulnerable parts of my life.

This column is something I can be proud of.

This column is the reason I am passionate about writing. 

This is where I’m supposed to be.