Finding My Voice in More Ways Than One
Spring has arrived, and the cherry blossoms have burst open across the city, delicate pink petals drifting onto sidewalks, clinging to the backs of jackets, dissolving into the air like quiet confetti. The routine of university has settled deep into my bones—the early mornings, the train to Central, the familiar walk down to campus, past cafés humming with half-awake students, past sandstone buildings that have stood longer than any of us. I love especially walking down past the Abercrombie knowing one of these days it’ll be much warmer out and we can have our ciders and play pool in the courtyard. I also hardly take the train home alone these days since I have two new pals who despite getting off at different stops, it breaks up the journey for us, or as we say ‘chapters’ as we debrief the day away.
I haven’t written in what feels like a small lifetime, but life really does pass you by, and all else that Ferris Bueller said. I turned eighteen in April and had a bowl of strawberries and champagne and then felt upset because I wanted to be seventeen, dancing queen forever, but I guess I’ll settle for beauty queen of only eighteen.
I am busy, but it’s the good kind of busy—the kind that makes you feel like you’re becoming something.
My days begin with Monsieur Albert, my radio journalism lecturer who refuses to enter a room like a normal person. Instead, he arrives on his bicycle, weaving between the lecture hall seats like some eccentric character out of a French novel. He tells stories of his life in Paris, of long afternoons in Montmartre, of chasing interviews through the streets of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. He doesn’t believe in grading below a distinction because, in his words, “True journalism is about passion, and passion is immeasurable, my children!”
His lectures are at 8 AM, which should feel cruel, but I get up willingly, almost eagerly. Not just for Albert’s stories, but for the way they make me feel—that writing, when done right, when done honestly, has the power to shake people awake.
Investigative journalism has taught me this too. My essays have been heavier, sharper, and I’ve worked harder on them than anything I’ve written before. I spend hours in the library, surrounded by stacks of notes, research sprawled across the long wooden tables like some private battlefield. I finish assignments well in advance, polishing them under the dim library lamps, watching the city darken outside the tall windows. The weight of stories—of truth-telling—sits in my chest. It is good work. It’s made me feel mad, at the injustices, but finding evidence and uncovering what lies beneath is something that’s kept me up some nights.
And then there is film.
For our first assessment, I was the editor—a role that suited me more than I expected. I haven’t edited a lot before, but I thought what ever I don’t know, I’ll learn. I liked the quiet control of it, the way I could stitch together a narrative from scattered moments, shaping it into something whole. Sound editing is something else entirely. It’s intuitive.
Our crew was chaotic in the best way—late-night shoots, bad coffee, endless debates over lighting and camera angles. We turned hallways into sets, borrowed costumes, made something from nothing. Watching the final cut, seeing our names in the credits, typing our names up in the credits. I felt it—that unmistakable rush of creating something that wasn’t there before.
But nothing has surprised me more than theatre.
I never even took a drama class in high school. Never once thought I would stand on a stage, let alone perform a monologue. And yet, somehow, I found myself here—paired with two of the most experienced students in the class, assigned a performance that made my stomach twist with nerves.
Theatre has been all Russian literature and movement exercises, emotion pulled from somewhere deep and unspoken. The room itself feels like another world—dark, moody, the golden afternoon sun filtering in just enough to illuminate the dust particles swirling in the air. My tongue and mouth feel foreign and almost sore, learning different accents. The furniture props are old and worn, soaked in past performances, past voices. It is surreal, almost sacred.
The day I performed my monologue, my hands shook. I memorized every line like a prayer, like a spell. My partners, both so much more confident than me, could see my nerves, but they were kind. One of them nudged my arm before we went on stage.
"Just let it happen," they whispered. "Trust yourself."
My first year is nearly over, and I have built something here—routines, friendships, words on a page, footage on a screen, a voice that feels more like mine.
Time is moving, reshaping itself around me. I see the seasons change and I am changing, too.