I’m a journalist. People put money in my wallet (not much, of course), so that I can put words onto paper.

And yet here I sit, reflecting on the two years that were, struggling to find the words to describe what this publication and many of the people associated with it have meant to me. I find confidence in a thought before paralysis takes control of my fingers upon approaching the keyboard.

Piecing this together isn’t easy. It wasn’t supposed to be.

Because waking up too early on a Sunday morning to prepare for a Monday newspaper should have given me reason to complain, but it didn’t.

Because spending a portion of certain mornings out in the middle of campus, passing out papers and interacting with people who wanted nothing more than to keep their hands empty and minds unbothered, should have ruined the rest of my day. Nope.

Because sifting through hundreds of thousands of words — fact-checking and editing each and every one — should have tested my sanity. All right, that actually did happen, but I’m better for it.

Truth is, this place opened the doors I believed were permanently locked, before casting a light on opportunities I didn’t even know existed.

But it wasn’t just the roads that had been created, as much as it was the people who were there along the way. I’ll miss coming into the basement of EBA and seeing several familiar, busy faces who were struggling to keep it together as much as I was (yeah, Nick — even yours). Especially the two faces who forced me to refer to California Polytechnic State University, San Luis Obispo as such.