Six years is a strange amount of time. Long enough to grow into someone entirely new, but short enough that it still feels like it all happened in the blink of an eye. As I sit down to write this goodbye, I find myself thinking less about endings and more about all the quiet, unexpected beginnings that led me here.
Because this goodbye isn’t just to The Acorn, it’s also to a school that has felt like home for the past six years. A place that watched me grow from someone uncertain and searching into someone more confident in her voice, her passions and her place in the world. It’s strange to think about leaving somewhere that became so familiar, so constant, so woven into who I am.
My journey with The Acorn didn’t start the way I thought it would, or the way I hoped it would. I joined as a contributing writer during my sophomore year, in the middle of a world that was still trying to find its footing again. Coming out of Zoom classes and the isolation of COVID-19, everything felt uncertain, disconnected. The experience I had then didn’t quite match what I was looking for, and I walked away disappointed, assuming that chapter had closed before it ever really began.
But sometimes the stories we think are over are just waiting for a better moment to be told.
I found my way back during my last year of undergrad, not because I had planned to, but because of the people I met along the way. Through friendship, through shared space, through watching someone else love something so deeply that it made me curious enough to try again, I returned. And this time, it was different. This time, it felt right.
The Acorn became something I didn’t know I was missing. It became a creative outlet in the middle of long workdays, a place where my love for writing and my passion for sports could exist side by side. It became a room I walked into every Thursday, knowing I would leave lighter than when I arrived. Over time, it became a home, and eventually, a responsibility I was proud to carry as an editor.
One of the most meaningful parts of this journey has been the way I’ve been able to bring together two things that have always meant so much to me: my love for sports and my love for this school. Through The Acorn, I wasn’t just writing about games or scores, I was telling stories about teams, about athletes, about moments that brought this campus together. I was able to capture the energy of game days, the pride that runs through this community, and the small, powerful ways sports connect people to something bigger than themselves. In doing that, I found a deeper appreciation for the place I’ve called home for six years. Writing about sports became another way of celebrating this school, of documenting its spirit and of feeling even more connected to it.
There isn’t a single moment that defines this experience, it’s the accumulation of all of them. It’s the laughter that fills the room when we’re supposed to be working. It’s the shared understanding of deadlines and stress, balanced by the joy of creating something that matters. It’s the people, the editorial board, the writers, the conversations that made every Thursday feel like something to look forward to.
And it’s more than that, too. It’s the people who changed me in ways I didn’t expect. The ones who challenged me to think differently, who encouraged me to speak up when I wasn’t sure my voice mattered, who reminded me why I started writing in the first place. The friendships I found here didn’t just make my time better, they shaped who I am leaving as. They turned a campus into a home, a publication into a family and ordinary days into moments I know I’ll carry with me long after I leave.
If there is one thing this experience has taught me, it is the importance of using your voice. It’s easy to believe that speaking up won’t make a difference, that your words will disappear into the noise. But silence guarantees nothing will change. Saying something, anything, creates the possibility that someone, somewhere, will read your words and feel seen, understood or inspired. That matters. Especially now, when the freedom to express, to question, to challenge, is as important as it has ever been.
Being an editor has only deepened that understanding. It has shown me the weight words can carry, but also the responsibility that comes with helping others find and use their voices. It’s not just about writing, it’s about creating space for stories to be told, perspectives to be shared and for change, however small, to begin.
And if I could go back and talk to the version of myself just starting out, the one sitting in her basement, logging into her first college class, wondering if she would ever find her place, I would tell her this: it all comes together. The uncertainty, the doubt, the feeling that you might not quite fit, it fades. You will find your people. You will find a way to turn what you love into something meaningful. You will walk through doors you didn’t even know were waiting for you.
This school gave me more than an education, it gave me a sense of belonging. It gave me late nights and early mornings, moments of doubt and moments of clarity, friendships that changed me, and experiences that shaped me. It gave me a place that, for six years, truly felt like home.
When my roommate graduated, I had every reason to leave too. At the time, she was my closest connection here, and without her, I wasn’t sure if there was really a place for me to stay. I had one year left of my masters, and wasn’t especially close with many of the other people in the room. The easier choice would have been to let that chapter end there. But something in me chose to stay. I came back anyway, uncertain and a little out of place, hoping maybe there was still something here for me.
I’m so grateful that I did. In staying, I gave myself the chance to grow closer to people who I am now so lucky to call my friends. What started as shared Thursdays and small conversations turned into the kind of friendships that make a place feel like home.
For a long time, I think I was still searching for that feeling of truly being seen, not just as a writer or an editor, but as a person. Somewhere in between the deadlines, the article pitches, and the ordinary moments spent sitting in that room, I found it.
This club is more than just a school newspaper. I found a community that welcomed me, a voice I had been searching for, and people who changed my life in ways I know I will spend years trying to fully understand. Most importantly, I found proof that sometimes the most meaningful things in life are the ones we are brave enough to return to, the second chances that remind us who we are, and who we are still becoming.
Leaving The Acorn now, and leaving this campus, I find myself wishing for more time. More Thursdays, more stories, more moments in that room, more conversations that turned into friendships, more people who would inevitably leave their mark on me. But maybe that’s how you know something mattered, when leaving it feels this difficult.
So this isn’t just a goodbye. It’s a thank you, to The Acorn, to this school that became my home, to the people who made both of those things what they are, and to the version of myself who decided to walk back through those doors one more time. I thought I was returning to finish something I had left behind, but instead, I found something I didn’t know I was still searching for. That second chance did more than change my path—it changed me. And for that, I will always be grateful.
Gillian Sampson is a graduate student in the Masters of Education program.