When I was in the fourth grade, I wanted to be an author. I memorized a 10-minute presentation after being assigned to imitate my favorite author, J.K. Rowling. I amazed my parents with my presentation at the Taylor Elementary Author Open House because I was so shy as a child that they couldn't believe how loud and excited I was to talk about the “Harry Potter” series. I broke out my shell, so to speak.

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Later, I wanted to be a teacher. At other times, I wanted to be a veterinarian. Then, in middle school, I read "Last Shot: Mystery at the Final Four" by John Feinstein. The story followed an aspiring teen sports writer who won a competition to cover the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament. I remember being so thrilled by the prospect of covering an event on deadline, being surrounded by spectacular athletes, and finding stories everywhere. For a while, I wanted to be a sports journalist.

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Then, in high school, that dream somewhat disappeared. Without a school newspaper to write for, I had no chance to gain experience in print journalism. People told me that I wouldn’t make money while writing, always insinuating that a career that didn’t pay well wasn’t worthwhile.

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Fast-forward a few years though—I’m not even sure how it happened to be completely honest—and I'm covering a college basketball team that has the potential to make it the Final Four, salary be damned.

Maybe I could even cover it like the main characters did in "Last Shot."

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A few weeks ago, I had to schedule all of my classwork in advance so I could make an 11-hour car ride to and from North Carolina just to cover a Tuesday night basketball game. It sounds crazy, I know. It sounds even crazier when I detail the drive back. The roads in the mountains of West Virginia weren’t conducive to flash-flood drainage, so we spent a considerable amount of time driving on a two-lane highway through the mountains with a car that was hydroplaning. Did I mention the dense fog that complemented the flooding? Forget about using the car’s brights, those weren’t going to help anyone see well in that fog. It was a nightmare.

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But at the same time, the trip made a positive impact on my life. I filed a story from a court in Raleigh, gained some confidence, and spent time with people who became my friends. I wouldn’t trade those memories for the world, and when I go home for holiday break, my friends won’t ask me about the parties I went to, but instead the road trips I went on.

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It's kind of weird how life works out. Just as I gained confidence in the fourth grade from talking about books, I gain confidence now from telling stories. I like being a storyteller. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I liked the “Harry Potter” book series because it told great stories. By giving my own account of J.K. Rowling’s life, I also felt like I was telling a story.

Now, I like giving my account of the news, the one that wouldn’t have been told if I hadn’t picked up the metaphorical pen. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell stories because the fear from telling it incorrectly can be crippling. I don’t ever want to tell a story the wrong way, so I'm most proud of those “a-ha” moments, when an article works itself out after I’ve struggled with it for so long.

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My parents don’t like the fact that I was on the road for 22 hours during a school week so I could see the story unfold in front of me firsthand. But if I’m not there for part of the story, or part of the season, how can I tell the full truth? I need to be there so I can connect all of the dots in an undetermined amount of time from now when something similar happens.

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At the same time, my parents have seen me grow as a person because of writing. Just as they saw me gain confidence in elementary school because of storytelling, they know it has done wonders for my spirit. I’m able to identify as something now—a writer—and that helps me feel secure with my life choices.

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I often wonder what my love for writing says about me. Sometimes I wonder if it makes me a narcissist who likes to shove my opinions down others’ throats. Other times, I wonder if it makes me the opposite because I enjoy telling stories about other people.

 

One of my proudest college moments is what happened in the aftermath of my first feature, a story about the captain of the Michigan women’s basketball team, being published. It isn’t memorable because the story was high-profile, but instead, what felt like the most meaningful. I talked to her parents, coaches, friends, and teammates to figure out who she was and to develop an angle. I felt like I uncovered an incredible story, but I was scared out of my mind because I didn’t want to tell it the wrong way. As that idea terrified me, it also moved me. I had the ability to tell a story that might go untold.

 

A week after the story was published, she simply smiled at me and said “Thanks” at a post-game press conference. That was by far enough of a thank-you for me, but a few months later, she sent me an email with a picture of a framed newspaper article hanging on a wall. The message read: “Your article hangs in my parents’ house. Thanks again for the amazing piece. It was pretty special to us!”

 

I was moved. Not only was I given the opportunity to tell her story, but now I also have a story of my own to tell.

 

In a way, I guess that makes me a narcissist. I’m excited to tell her story, but I’m also thrilled to tell people the impact it had. I like to talk about my life and hash out what’s valuable to me. When I write, or really even struggle to write, the experience helps me figure out who I am, and that knowledge is integral to the person I identify as. I want to think that I’m important and that my opinion matters, but I also don’t want to forget that at times it doesn’t. I have to be careful to not forget that last part.

 

I’m enthralled by other people’s stories, and that’s why I enjoy writing and that’s why I need to improve at writing. I’m not sure if I’ll ever come to a conclusion of what being a writer or storyteller truly means to me, but at the very least, I know that I need to keep writing so I can keep getting better. The more I write, the more I can connect with others and the world around me.

 

So that’s my story. It’s still being written as we speak, but I hope it turns out okay.