When I was in high school, The Sunflower seemed like the best of the best. In my mind, the editor-in-chief was constantly in intense press conferences with high-profile people, sworn to secrecy alongside an elite and mysterious group of section editors.
These college journalists were real adults, who drank coffee and pulled all-nighters and sent emails, while I felt like an adult only in legality.
Admittedly, this mindset continued well into my freshman year: the editor at the time, Lindsay Smith, was nearly as prestigious as Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. Even Thy Vo, who was only one year older and now my friend, seemed to have multitudes of experience, like she’d first opened InDesign when she was a toddler.
When Lindsay responded positively to my application, in which I had compiled experience at Bed Bath & Beyond and stories written for my high school newsmagazine, I assumed she had made a mistake.
As a sophomore arts & culture editor, I couldn’t believe my luck. I was in over my head. I had no idea what I was doing, and it was only a matter of time before my secret was found out.
To my surprise, the editor-in-chief, Jaycie Nelson, asked me to return to the role for the spring semester. With sweaty palms, I agreed, but I knew that my demise had only been delayed. I still didn’t drink coffee like a true journalist, and I didn’t even have an email signature set up. There was simply no way that I had been granted leadership for anything other than a slip-up.
The following year, I applied for the role of opinion editor. After practically blacking out during an interview with the new editor-in-chief, Mia Hennen, I was given the role. Again, there had been some sort of mistake. I wasn’t even a journalism major anymore.
This was The Sunflower. The publication that was known for sweeping awards conferences, whose former members went on to do incredibly impressive feats. Even Mia, my best friend since high school, seemed more professional and more adult than I.
By the end of my junior year, I had become more comfortable with my position. I felt like I had something to add to the conversation. I shifted from feeling like I was pretending to knowing I was doing it.
Imposter syndrome creeps into the back of my mind. Through The Sunflower and three major changes, the leadership of four different editors, I have come to understand a few things.
In those moments that I spent doubting my place, I wasn’t just doubting myself, but the expertise of everyone who had worked to get me there. I was doubting my high school journalism teacher, who pushed and pushed for me to apply to The Sunflower in the first place. I was doubting my mom, who thought I was the best at everything I could ever try (still not sure about that one). I was doubting the editors-in-chief who sat across from me and decreed that I was the right fit for the job.
Sitting in a room with fellow journalists, photographers and designers, I realized that I was far from the only one in that room feeling like an impostor in some regard, from freshman reporters to professionals with 50 years of experience.
If you’re writing journalistically, you’re a journalist. If you’re taking photos, you’re a photographer. If you’re designing pages, you’re a designer. If you’re doing something, you’re doing it, and that’s really all there is to it.
Opportunities granted to you are not born out of luck, but because you have laid the foundation for them. Take the opportunity and run with it.
The Sunflower was the main catalyst for recovering from impostor syndrome. Through these experiences, I took the leap from wanting to do something, idly watching by and wishing, to simply doing it. Through learning and making mistakes and realizing that everyone is making a ton of mistakes too, things feel less insurmountable.
Of course, I’m ready for the next chapter of my life, but The Sunflower will always be important to me. Many nights were spent in the newsroom, working, debating and laughing. In that newsroom, whether I felt it or not, I always had a place.
