Each year, graduating editors are given 30 final column inches – “30” was historically used to signify the end of a story – to reflect on their time at The Hatchet, published in the final issues of the year. In the spring of 2013, I got a disappointing phone call. It was The Hatchet’s editor […]
The Hatchet has been an institution I have poured literal blood, sweat and tears into. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
So whenever things seemed impossible, I leaned on the biggest lesson I’ve learned over the past four years at The Hatchet: I can’t control everything, so I must row my own boat.
When I got hired as The Hatchet’s sports editor, I knew what I was signing up for. What I didn’t know, though, was why I was signing up for it.
Looking back on my time at The Hatchet, I think I finally understand what it means to grow up, and to grow as a person.
There’s two people who run directly into a crisis when they see one, emergency responders and journalists.
There are only 24 hours in a day, and only about 12 of those hours are well-lit enough to shoot a decent video. I decided to use that time wisely.
Life surprises you in every way possible. The best thing you can do is capture it in its rawness and turn it into something beautiful.
Each and every new responsibility I took under my wing was just another inch to eagerly tickmark on my bedroom door with a Sharpie.
I’m more worried about how to say my goodbye than the goodbye itself. The goodbye is easy. I always know it’s coming.