In seventh grade, I thought about joining athletics. Not because I liked the idea of playing a sport, nor voluntarily sprinting at 7 a.m.

For those reasons, I never ended up joining. Looking back, I realize it was not the idea of running on a track that I wanted. Rather, I was running behind the idea of belonging, purpose and community. I hoped that maybe joining a team would give me that thing I did not know what to name, but was yearning for.  

I tried participating in other extracurriculars, such as debate, and even loved them. Yet, something was still missing. It never gave me that security. I always felt like I had to prove that I was the smartest person to remain in the room. 

Then, I joined The Sidekick in my junior year. The first time I sat in our newsroom, I noticed. 

Everybody cared. That was not a normal experience for me. I was always told to be less sensitive, less caring and to tune out of my high school interactions because, “Who cares — you will graduate in four years anyway.” 

But, the people in The Sidekick: we care about stories. About telling them right. About the people behind them who shape the Coppell community. 

There was something so validating about being surrounded by people who think storytelling matters, who fill whiteboards with deadlines and ideas. People here care. 

I saw it when writers stayed after school, nearly missing their bus to get stories edited and published on time. I saw it when there would be three people hovering around one laptop, debating over how to rephrase a headline. I saw it when editors would spend their release periods in the newsroom to manage editing and deadlines.

I felt it when people I had never spoken to complimented me on the stories I had written.  

And through this caring, I finally found my community, my people.

There is a black, cushioned futon in the middle of the room. Whenever more than two people sit on it, the old couch sags under the weight of student journalists and camera bags. Still, we end up there anyway — sharing editing, jokes and silence. 

The couch, like everything in The Sidekick, just fits. Not because it is perfect, but because we actively choose to be there; we choose each other. 

We fit. 

Not only did I find my own community, but I was also able to step into others’. I went into stories that showed me how people build lives around each other — how athletes and school boards become small worlds of their own. I was in those communities, trusted with people’s stories. 

It made me realize how much the community shapes people, and why it is so sacred to me. It is the thing that you fall back on when everything in life doesn’t go as planned. The thing giving all of your effort meaning. 

I learned that everybody has a story, and these stories connect us. And if you think that is not true, I challenge you to sit down with anybody for five minutes, ask them real questions and then come back to me. In writing others’ stories, I started to understand my own: community isn’t just about proximity. It’s about choosing to show up for each other. Again and again. 

People show up to D115 and give it their all. Just look at the newsroom walls with awards, you will see what I mean. 

Because the thing about The Sidekick is that it gave me a room full of people who all did not just care, but cared loudly. Caring was currency. Passion was not embarrassing. And staying up late for a story was just another Tuesday. 

Now that I am at the end, I think a lot about that girl in seventh grade — the one who thought that running laps might have been the answer. I want to tell her that she never had to chase the finish line.

She needed to chase headlines and bylines. 

And coincidentally, she will find them in a room full of people who feel like home. 

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