One thing my parents always taught me was to stop, take a step back and look over my work.
To them, it was probably an inconsequential phrase they would repeat to me as a 4-year-old learning how to tie my shoes, or in middle school, when I started to struggle with algebra, or even in high school, when I was writing my college essays.
But to me, it’s become my mantra. Take a step back. Breathe. Check over everything I’ve done and continue.
If you sought out the heart of my motivation, you’d find that the reason I’ve spent some part of every day this year at the Alligator, thinking about the Alligator, writing or editing for the Alligator is because I knew it was a stepping stone to my next journalistic endeavor.
I thought: Every journo starts out at a student newspaper and then moves onto internships and, finally, jobs. Working at the Alligator was purely an act of logistics.
Who would have thought that I would have some of my best college experiences — some of the best experiences of my life — in this shitty, renovated frat house with a leaky roof and the worst Internet problems in North Central Florida?
Who would have thought that I would voluntarily eat most of my meals here, nap here, become inspired with my most creative ideas in a place we share with two old, rattling vending machines and the occasional rat?
And who would have thought that I would find some of my favorite people while sitting on the stained gray carpet in the editor-in-chief’s office, eating spaghetti and meatballs from Leonardo’s, people who would hug me when I got the flu the same day I was rejected from my dream internship, people who would go for walks with me and my dog?
I know it’s all so cliche, but I’m nostalgic today.
When I stop and look over this year, I remember starting out in January at the lowest-paid position, thinking I wasn’t going to make it because I wasn’t good enough, that the students around me were all so much better and more confident than I was.
And I was right: They were better and because of that, they were more confident. But the one thing that will always stand out to me is how impressed they were by hard work, and I thought, “I can do that.”
During the Summer, the constant flux and flow of sharp writers and supportive editors only proved to me the importance of the family we create for ourselves during this point in our lives.
Some girls have their sororities full of best friends and memories; I have our newsroom with its creaking chairs and rickety desks, every bump and groan of the floor, a different story, a different laugh.
This semester, my most mentally and emotionally exhausting so far, will always be my semester of sharing: sharing pug photos on Instagram, sharing complaints over coffee, sharing hugs in the parking lot, sharing gossip in the parking lot of Taco Bell.
What I thought would be a minor job at just a college newspaper — a stepping stone if you will — turned out to be an entirely new route, a path I never knew that I could take.
Of course I got the stories I need for my portfolio I thought would only be important in getting me to the next destination.
But these stories opened me up to new facets not only of the world I had never understood before, but also of my colleagues, my friends, whom I can trust to help me with my problems and make things better, even if it’s just a little bit.
When I stop, take a step back and look over this year, I’m so proud. I’m proud of our newsroom because we continue to produce a newspaper every day, even though the interest in journalism has plummeted. I’m proud of the clever, articulate writers and thorough, intelligent editors who have come and gone on to better things.
And I’m proud of our family for making it through the ups and downs of running a newsroom without killing each other.
Who knows what my next step is, and who really knows what yours is either?
But the one piece of advice I can pass on is this: Take a break, breathe, reflect over what you’ve done and move on.
Emily Cardinali is the editor of the Avenue, the Alligator’s entertainment section.
