There have been plenty of times in the past four years I’ve woken up confused.
That first morning in Germany after I decided to study abroad without Googling the city I was moving to.
That time I fell asleep tailgating on the plaza because 8 a.m. is never OK.
Those Friday mornings post-Penny Wine (R.I.P.) when I somehow ended up safe in my bed.
And this week, when I realized the days at my mouse-less Alligator computer were dwindling.
The first time I came to the office, I hobbled in on heels my professor convinced me were necessary only to find a room full of bearded hipsters screaming profanities in between bites of pizza.
I never thought I’d be at the paper until Thursday night turned into Friday morning, surrounded by people I trust with my life, fighting over commas, worried about words I didn’t write, feeling lucky to be there and knowing I should be.
The Alligator and I have had our ups and downs. I’ve cried in the office and because of it — most notably into a Taco Bell chicken soft taco, lost on the way to interview some Girl Scouts.
But somewhere in the middle of the bamboo-covered walls of a building that’s only changed minimally from the ‘70s, I found myself.
If you do one thing in college (and please don’t, because these stories need to last you a lifetime of first dates and lunches with your boss’ significant other), it’s this: Find your happiness, y’all.
I’ve spoken to a lot of people in the past four years — because a) I never shut my mouth and b) journalism — and a scary number of them don’t love what they’re doing.
Don’t major in accounting because your dad said so. Don’t decide on pre-med because it’s stable. Hell, don’t choose journalism because it’s what your mom did.
I’m going to be straight with you: Figuring out your life takes leaving the house and putting in the work. I would be a tragedy without Netflix. The $10 Wal-Mart blanket I bought on a whim has gotten me through some times.
But I am who I am because of the Alligator.
Because of the stupid headlines I wrote. Because of the stories I didn’t want to cover. Because of the hours I spent hanging around the office when I didn’t have to but couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.
And most of all, because of the people.
People who have seen me at my best and my worst, who accept me no matter how many times I meow at them in greeting or call something “a lot,” who have taught me what it takes to be a good journalist — and person.
This is what I wish for you: Find a path that feels right even when it sucks.
You’ll get rejected. You’ll get hurt. You’ll debate whether you should drown your sorrows in ice cream or tequila, and one hazy night, decide on both.
But it’s there. I promise.
When I got to Gainesville, I was a reluctant Gator at best.
And now, here I am, sitting at my desk in the apartment I barely see (love you, 202), sobbing because it’s really the end.
It’s not a glamorous life, but I wouldn’t want it any other way.
And it’s this damn newspaper’s fault.
[Shayna Posses is a graduating UF journalism senior and the Alligator’s freelance editor. A version of this column ran on page 6 on 4/23/2014 under the headline "I’m confused, and it’s the newspaper’s fault"]
