I have always hated goodbyes. I feel like as a writer I am supposed to avoid hackneyed and trite phases such as that one; I should think outside the box. However, I don’t think there is a better way to say it than I hate goodbyes. One, I have a super power of making everything awkward. You know that uncomfortable feeling you get when you say a big, sad goodbye to someone, then see them again in the parking lot? Well, that’s me in a nutshell. Two, they feel so finite. So official that whatever time I have spent with a human or humans is complete. I hope I’m ready for this one to be complete.

     Having two older sisters, I always dreamed of being in high school. Watching the older kids as they drove their cars and worked on their hard class work… I wanted that. I kept that “little kid” feeling in the back of my mind all four years. I could never say “I hate school” with my chest, simply because I didn’t. I have been picturing what I would write in this, my Senior Goodbye, since I heard the first one read as a freshman because I knew that I would be sad. I am sad. I couldn’t say “I hated school” when part of school was the journalism room. 

     That may sound sappy and silly, but alas, I had found my home within the school. Granted, I did manage to find about thirteen others because I guess I could be considered a social butterfly, but the journo room was always my home base. The place that I could find people that accepted me for who I was. While not everybody every year did that, somehow, all four years, I was able to connect with people who saw my anxieties and understood them, witnessed my chaotic energy outbursts and joined in, understood that when I am crying at the computer because I have been working at the same InDesign problem since seven that morning, that all I really needed was a hug. (Thank you for the head scratches Emalee and Allie). The aforementioned “attraction” to this class of good people, I am absolutely convinced comes from the good person in charge.

     I came to the district in seventh grade. I altered what I wore, what activities I was in, and even how I acted so that I could fit it. It all kind of felt fake. I felt like I was playing a game, and I needed to figure out the puzzle pieces until I won. Because of the changing that I did, even my relationships felt untrue. However, never underestimate the power of a good teacher. Mundorf had a passion for what she did that I had never witnessed before. She cared so deeply about these twelve and thirteen year olds; it was inspiring. Making sure we were engaged, having fun, getting a proper education, while only screaming at us and threatening us with grammar packets when we really deserved it. Mundorf felt real in a pool of the opposite. For some reason, I cried out of sadness when she said she was leaving seventh grade and coming to the high school. What a weirdo I am because her coming here was the best thing that could have happened. Here, Mundorf remained real and became my rock. I have a farewell letter I will read to her on my last day, so I won’t say too much now in fear of not being able to get through it, but overall, there are not enough thank yous in the world to express the gratitude that I feel.

     Being an editor was really hard. Countless hours spent outside of school, countless tears shed when, again, InDesign simply would not work. But I have the ability to walk out of this room saying that I gave it my all. Every ounce I had. I pride myself in knowing that I did my best to give voices to those who can’t speak up for themselves, and I hope I did my title justice. I leave high school, in general, proud. While I will miss this place with my whole heart, it is what I learned here about resilience, tenacity, determination, and learning when to never give up that floods me with a sense of peace. I feel prepared to write my next chapter, knowing that the words written in the previous are ones that have given me all the lessons I need to succeed.

     I have always hated goodbyes, and this one is no different. I will miss the laugher, I will miss the tears, I will miss all of the people that have shaped me into the person I am. I believe that each human is made up of footprints that other people leave. I am made up of footprints of each of the humans in the school, each of my friends, each of the people that I am no longer friends with, every interaction. I am shaped, and as I say goodbye, I am happy to carry those footprints, those memories, with me as I open up a new door.