Personal Narrative

Hair in a ponytail. Check. Palms un-sweaty. Check. Shoes tied. Check.

In sophomore year, before I walked into any room, I ran through a list of items in my mind. I didn’t trust myself to operate without a plan, so I was always counting, adding, reviewing. It’s what I did the first time I walked into room 1311.

Fairy lights strung on the ceiling. Framed issues on the walls. A life-size cardboard cutout of a student in the corner. It was unlike any room I’d been in, classroom or not.

The bell rang, and one voice rang out, loud and clear. “Alright, everyone. Let’s take a seat.” And so it began.

My first few weeks in Ladue Publications were nothing but chaos. Ledes, frosted boxes, shutter speed — terms that were absolutely alien to me. Slowly, though, I learned. I wrote practice stories and experimented on InDesign, beginning to understand how a newsroom operates.

Months later, in September, I wrote my first real story — a piece about students who felt pressured to grow up too quickly, abandoning childhood comforts in pursuit of so-called "adult" pleasures. As I stared at my 800-word draft, I felt a strong sense of doubt. It was clumsy, unfocused — a garbled mess. Unsure of how to fix it, I called over my copy editor-in-chief. Without a word, he sat down, slipped on his headphones, and began reading.

Within the first five seconds, he heaved a sigh. I started to panic. What if he hated the piece? Was asking him for help a terrible idea?

After what felt like a million years, he looked up from the laptop and stared me dead in the eyes. He enunciated the article’s problems: inconsistent form, undefined phrases, broad generalizations. But it wasn’t constructive or helpful. He’d patronize, acting like I didn’t understand the situation — making me feel small, weak, worthless.

I ran out of the room crying, beelining for the bathroom. Grabbing some paper towels, I locked myself in a stall and slid down to the sticky floor. I’d never felt so defeated in my entire life.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. I stood up and opened it to a fellow staff member — one that I hadn’t really interacted with before. She pulled me into a hug, asking if I was okay and promising me that everything would be fine. Rory certainly hadn’t created the issue, but she was committed to being part of the solution.

I wanted to quit journalism entirely, convinced that this humiliation would ruin any future I had in Ladue Publications. But she refused to hear it, encouraging me to stick with journalism.

So, I did.

As the year went on, tensions with my copy editor in chief only got worse. He belittled the entire staff, acting as though he operated on a higher moral ground. But my friendship with Rory made it more bearable. She’d pull me aside when she saw me struggle, helping me through the toxic atmosphere that had developed.

That next April, I was assigned to work on the in-depth staff with Rory. During the pitch meeting, she stood up and proposed covering gun violence. My copy editor in chief pushed back, but Rory wouldn’t budge. This was right after our school had implemented shooter safety drills, so school safety was at the forefront of everyone’s mind. On top of that, a recent school shooting in Nashville had left six dead; the cousin of one of the victims attended Ladue High School.

Quickly, we got to work — finalizing our angle, researching gun violence history and compiling a list of interviewees. We worked for days, trying to understand school safety from every perspective. But nothing compared to the actual interviews. They were gut-wrenching and arduous, but they were a window into what truly connecting with a source felt like. For the first time, I went beyond the standard 21-question format, asking follow-ups and maintaining casual conversation to make sure my interviewees felt supported.

When working on the story, I found myself confidently emailing interviewees, crafting my first-ever lede and discussing ethical concerns with my advisers. I used to be so terrified of making a wrong move that I’d never make any at all. But, because of journalism, I was turning into an Arti who worked to make herself heard in the words she wrote in articles and spoke to fellow staff members.

After countless hours, Rory and I produced an 1,800-word article about school shootings, detailing their impact on our own community. But the piece’s impact went beyond words on a page. It made me fall in love with journalism — the messy, the confusing, the liberating. It gave me the privilege of uplifting voices that had long gone unheard.

Right after publishing the story, my adviser called for editor applications for the 2023-24 school year. My top choice was simple: in-depth editor, because I wanted to continue producing the hard-hitting journalism I had come to love. But I also stepped into the position of website editor in chief, electing to revamp laduepublications.com’s design and coverage to better account for diverse perspectives.

Together, the two roles were exhausting. I spent all class on my feet, zipping between classrooms to support my web staff and check in with the in-depth team. After school, I parked myself at my cluttered desk, editing and writing late into the night.

Rory made it all so much easier. She’d edit extra stories to take some off my plate, going on walks with me when the newsroom became too overwhelming. She celebrated my work and effort, rather than criticizing it. I wasn’t just another staff member to her — none of us were. She was a mentor, a friend, someone who lifted me up instead of tearing me down.

And then, she graduated. And I started senior year without her.

Now, I serve as Ladue Publications’ executive editor in chief, managing the most amount of publications and the largest number of staff members we’ve ever seen. I knew that I should’ve been excited for the challenge. But all I felt was fear.

I didn’t want to become like my old copy editor in chief, berating staff and making them feel worthless. I wanted to build a newsroom that fostered a love for journalism, supporting the 14 and 15 year olds who were just starting out.

I wanted to lead like Rory did.

Before the 2024-25 school year commenced, I wrote three words on my iPhone’s Notes app: lead to inspire. I reread that entry every time I walk into room 1311, allowing it to guide how I operate as both a reporter and editor. It’s in the discussions I have with staff members, starting each conversation by asking how they are rather than how their story is going. It's present when I lead “Monday Stories” and “Thursday Fun” activities, emphasizing the room’s collaboration and unity. I abide by it when editing a story, providing suggestions rather than demands so staff members constantly feel supported.

I used to be so nervous that I'd maintain lists to ensure that I wouldn’t make a mistake. But, now, here I am — leading class and engaging in candid exchanges with staff members, no check marks required.

Lead to inspire. It’s a simple phrase, but it encompasses everything I do as a student journalist. I was lucky enough to have a mentor who helped me fall in love with journalism. Now, I strive to do the same for every journalist I’m privileged to lead — shaping not only their success but also their development as a reporter and editor.