When I was younger, I was obsessed with comic books. 10-year-old me was certain that a latent X gene would be uncovered in her, that a concerning amount of radioactive waste was waiting behind every door. I realized there were two foolproof methods to obtain my desired career path:

 

1. Becoming a tragically orphaned millionaire, and 

2. Becoming a journalist.

 

Plan A sounded more exciting, but since my parents were lovely people, I turned to Plan B. Clark Kent and Peter Parker, Lois Lane or Karen Page, none would compare to the heroism of Daneen Khan. 

 

At least, that’s how I like to tell the story. 

 

In reality, my superhero origin story wasn’t one of destiny and fate. It didn’t form from mad science or dark magic. It began with the eighth-grade yearbook club.

 

Granted, being in the yearbook club didn’t mean I actually worked on the yearbook. I did perhaps one page total, preferring to spend my time wandering the halls with my friends, taking blurry photos, and holding mock interviews. In high school, I thought I’d recreate my fun in our Leadership in Media class and joined The Gator’s Eye.

 

Over the next four years, The Gator’s Eye went from a spontaneous decision to one of my favorite things in the world. I didn’t know how much I loved writing until I started doing it daily. I made friends quickly, and the classroom became a place of comfort. Despite my casual start, a bizarre sense of necessity took over me until I felt the need to keep writing, working, and improving. 

 

During sophomore year, I took on the role of our Arts Section Editor. COVID was at its peak then, and sitting at home had left me depressed and lethargic. I took my classes buried under bed sheets, skipping meals and ignoring my hobbies. But, somehow, I found I still had the energy to write. In fact, writing was all I could bring myself to do; I sent emails in place of in-person interviews and worked fervently on the Arts section, populating it with dedication and drive that I’d never felt before.

 

The next year, my advisor merged the Arts section and placed me in charge of Student Life. That change terrified me. I’ve always been a very introverted person, so throwing me into the heat of student events and issues was an absolute nightmare. And after a year in quarantine? Absolutely not. I complained about the role before summer even started, but my passive self refused to ask for a switch (I hadn't yet learned the importance that speaking up holds in journalism, but maybe that proved to be more beneficial than it seemed). Instead, I walked into class on the first day and met my section with the biggest smile I could muster.

 

That role was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. I was forced out of my comfort zone and pushed toward reporting. I conquered my anxieties about talking to new people for the sake of the interview–interviews which, now, are my favorite thing to conduct–because I knew I had to do it. I made so many new friends, met so many brilliant students and teachers, and learned so much about myself. Suddenly, people were coming up to me at lunch asking, “Hey, you’re the Gator's Eye girl, right?” and stopping me in the halls to say, “I know you don’t know me, but I read your last article--I just wanted to say that it was so cool!” That year, I realized that my fears were all in my head. The only thing limiting me was my self-doubt.

 

This year, I’m one of The Gator’s Eye’s Co-Editors in Chief. If you told me that back in the yearbook club, I would have laughed in your face. Me? A reporter? Yes, The Gator’s Eye taught me about reporting; I learned how to hold an interview without awkwardness, to write a story free from grammatical errors, and to emphasize the importance of news and why journalism is so relevant to the world. But I also learned about myself and my strengths. I learned that listening to someone talk about something they’re passionate about is the best feeling in the world. I learned that my voice shone through better in text than in conversation, and that wasn’t necessarily bad. I learned how to write, but I also learned how to conquer my fears and discover my passions. Amidst the dead Chromebooks and watery coffee, between card games and sugary snacks and frantic speed-writing, I learned that my journalistic skills might actually be a superpower all on its own.

 

Unfortunately, I still haven’t discovered latent abilities of flight or telekinesis. But I did realize that while the heroism from my comic books may be out of reach, writing is heroic in another sense. Who else could shine light on issues that nobody else is discussing? What other person can say what I’m saying, how I’m saying it? Maybe my comic book addiction wasn’t a hint to a future of multiversal prowess, but a subconscious start to me discovering the power of the press. That still makes a solid origin story.