As a military brat, change has been the one constant in my life. I have lived in more states than I can count — and even more houses and apartments. I don’t have childhood friends I grew up with or a home that stayed the same long enough to reference it as one.

From coastal cities to here in Kansas, I have lived in a dozen different communities and environments.

The Sunflower became the one exception. For almost five years, it has been the most constant thing in my life besides my family. And now I am finally graduating. It feels strange to type that — to say it in my thoughts as I press on the keys — because a part of me was convinced I’d jinx myself by putting it into words.

Sorry, Mya, for the procrastination — I just wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

I still don’t even have my cap and gown yet, which is crazy considering I am so eager to walk the stage for the first time.

Amy DeVault, The Sunflower adviser, came to Maize South years ago when I was the editor-in-chief of our low-budget, barely back newsmagazine. She brought former Sunflower editor-in-chiefs Matthew Kelly, Kylie Cameron and Chance Swaim with her, and the four of them gave constructive criticism in a way that made me just want to do more.

I took notes — in pretty markers and pens, because that’s who I am — and I kept thinking about how rare it was for professionals to invest in a group of high school kids the way they did.

When COVID-19 erupted, I was a junior in high school. My senior year was still chaotic.

By the end of my senior year, I was panicking. My dreams of going back to Boston to be with my family were slipping away, and every college I’d hoped for was shutting down or locking students inside dorms.

So I remembered that visit — the leadership, the mentorship and the way Amy and her trio made journalism feel like a path I could actually walk. One random day in May, I applied to Wichita State to major in journalism.

Two days later, I was accepted.

I planned to transfer after a year, but I stayed. The Sunflower — and Amy — taught me more than any plan I had made for myself. Without them, I might never have become a Shocker at all.

Then, weeks later, it was time for me to graduate from high school.

I was the only student in my class who did not get to walk at graduation because of exposure to COVID-19.

I sat on the edge of my bed, door closed, wearing my cap and gown. I felt stupid, embarrassed — but I wanted to at least hear my name and see my friends graduate. My family had to cancel their flights the week before. I was already sad. I watched the livestream as they skipped right over me. I sobbed, ripped off my ridiculous cap and gown and threw them into my closet.

My principal, who retired that year, then gave me a small, unofficial ceremony outside of Maize South High School. I wore my cap and gown. He handed me my degree. Someone took cute pictures of me to make the moment last a lifetime.

I felt genuine community and kindness in that moment — gestures I hadn’t experienced much because I moved around so often.

Fast-forward to now, and I have found that same sense of community again at Wichita State, in the city — and through The Sunflower.

I have interviewed fellow students, staff, local leaders and members of the homeless community. I have been in the middle of breaking news, either on the scene or literally in the middle of three police scanners, trying to get an officer to tell me more details over the phone.

Then there was managing social media, the hours of page design for the print paper and my time as opinion editor last year. I have even delivered stacks of newspapers in my little, beat-up car. Apologies to anyone I accidentally startled as I drove on the sidewalks before the sun rose on campus.

And to the old bus driver who once stormed off his bus to yell at me last year at the Hubbard Hall stop while I was delivering newspapers and threatened to call the cops: I told you, “Go ahead, call them. I am legally allowed to do what I am doing.” I was legally allowed to park there during the job because it sits around a corner, on an uphill slope and right before a small intersection. There was nowhere else to park, even if I wasn’t allowed to be there.

There was not even someone waiting at the stop. There was nothing but a tired college girl doing a low-pay job before sunrise. I still have some unedited and unprofessional thoughts.

In Wichita newsrooms, my love for journalism grew in ways I did not expect.

From newspapers, television and radio, I have explored so many mediums and how they reach audiences. I have stepped outside of my comfort zone countless times, and yet, I still have more curiosity. I have not explored enough.

Even growing up, writing was always the one place I felt grounded. It is the way I hold on to people, places and memories after I left them behind. That instinct eventually grew into a love of storytelling, curiosity and community that journalism brings together perfectly.

I could never recommend The Sunflower enough, but to work at the newspaper, you have to be a student at Wichita State, which I will no longer be

Still, I could never recommend journalism enough.

I don’t care if you think you are too young or too old, or if you’ve already had another career and want something new.

What I can say is that journalism, and The Sunflower, changed my life. And if you let it, it can change yours, too.

The Sunflower made Kansas feel like home, and for someone like me, that means more than I can ever put into words.