My mom has always told me that I can do hard things. She tells me I can stop the chattering in my teeth during a panic attack. She tells me I can stay calm at dinner with my aunt, who has made it abundantly clear for almost 21 years that I am an obligation, not a niece.

I heard mom’s words in my head when I left The Quinnipiac Chronicle at the end of my sophomore year. My position on the editorial board was one of one: I was the first female sports editor of this newspaper. I can’t even begin to express how grateful I am to have been that.

I’ve always known who I wanted to be when I grew up. “Sports journalist” has been the answer to any career questions since I was eight years old, still writing synopses of “Wild Kratts” episodes on easel paper.

But when you’re 19, hidden in the back of a routine press conference after a men’s hockey game and you can’t open your mouth to ask a single question, you have to wonder if something might be wrong.

The moment your passion becomes tainted by fear is devastating. I got to a point last year, right around this time, where being a writer was taking more from me than I was willing and, truthfully, able to give.

This industry is unforgiving. I’ve heard that a thousand times. I’ve grown to understand that statement.

It is my absolute pleasure to graduate as a member of this paper. I will never say it was easy.

In late March 2025, I was sitting in class, simultaneously watching a presentation and figuring out who besides me was being sent to cover men’s hockey in the NCAA Regional in Allentown, P.A.

The e-board knew I was leaving at the end of the semester. I’d been through a decent amount of personal and professional shit that was visibly breaking me down.

At that moment, I was completely overwhelmed by the realization that, to be blunt and ruin some dreams, this job has an unbelievably high ceiling, but it also has no end. The work follows you, feeds on you every hour of every day. A lot of people chase that chaos their whole careers. I’d rather not.

I left The Chronicle right after that class, days before the regional semifinals.

Part of living with OCD is understanding that gratification is an illusion. Your brain convinces you to follow a compulsion or entertain a thought, knowing that you will never be satisfied. And you blindly do what it asks because there is always the smallest chance you might actually feel better this time. You never do.

As long as I was the sports editor, I would never be satisfied. I was in a rush to get ahead of something I’d always be behind on.

I couldn’t sit through another lecture from an industry professional who worked 60 hours a week, wondering if they had never chosen this path, would they have a family by now? Was the sacrifice really worth it?

I didn’t leave The Chronicle because I hated the organization. I left because I needed to do the hard thing, the selfish thing, and pause.

Not stop, pause.

For a while, I thought I had just stopped. I had lost my motivation, my purpose as a student. The Chronicle gave me something priceless, and I felt like I gave it all up instead of just changing out my meds and shaking off whatever depressive episode this was.

But then, there was this pretty smart guy named Nick Pietruszkiewicz, an assistant professor of journalism. In Nick fashion, he pretended to look annoyed and begrudgingly waved me into his office to talk me off the ledge. He did this quite often.

This time, he told me: If I didn’t miss the paper, I made the right choice. And if I did miss it, who’s to say I couldn’t try again?

E-board applications rolled around last fall. I had been Chron sober for almost a semester. Surprise, surprise, I missed it. So I did the hard thing. I unpaused and re-applied.

I went for a low-stress role as a copy editor. I didn’t know if my editor-in-chief would give me the time of day after what I’d done. But I knew that if I got the position, it would keep me in the room I so desperately craved and give me the chance to be a mentor again.

I think that’s why I felt so guilty when I first walked away. I abandoned a bunch of incoming Amandas. And I remember that girl. The first game recap I ever wrote was on women’s rugby. A ladybug landed on my laptop, and I just took that as a sign that I was where I was supposed to be.

I genuinely adore being a writer. I’m hesitant to say I’m a journalist, because ultimately — and according to my elementary school self — I am a writer. And at the risk of sounding arrogant, I’m pretty good at what I do.

But I need stability. I need balance. I need a plan. Copy editing made me fall back in love with this field because I had structure. I never once dreaded writing random pop culture reviews, outlandish opinions or the occasional sports column because I went at my own pace. I know I can’t pick and choose the way I work in the real world. Good thing I’m not there yet.

This is nothing like the road I thought I’d take. I thought I’d be getting my Bachelor’s degree with a Quinnipiac Chronicle stole around my neck that read “Sports Editor.”

I’m prouder than I have ever been in my life knowing it will say “Copy Editor” instead.

Thank you to the sports editors before me, Cam and Ethan, for answering a text from a wildly enthusiastic 18-year-old version of myself. Pointing and laughing because we’re all washed now.

Thank you, Cam No. 2, also known as Athletics Cam, to my parents, because we know a lot of Cams. Joke’s on you, I have another year here, so I’m requesting a “She’s back” post. You understood what was going on in my head more than most. If it’s OK with you, I’d like your job one day, or at least part of it.

Thank you, Alex, my wonderful EIC, for not turning me away after everything that happened. I will never, ever forget what you did for me.

Thank you, Claire, Emily and Cooper for inspiring me and reminding me why I love to write. I always wanted to look back on the sports section and see the kind of dedicated, passionate staff I worked with freshman year. I see that in each of you.

Thank you, Nick, for listening and advocating for me time and time again. You’ve always said your students are like your kids. I certainly feel that way.

And finally, thank you to the ladybug that sat with me in Sept. during that match three years ago. I am exactly where I should be. I’m helping people do what I do best. I can do hard things. So can you.