There is that particular kind of afternoon quiet that only happens after school when the campus is empty. You know, the one. Hours past the last bell, the hallways are keeping their breath. Lights in the classrooms flick off one by one. Somewhere, a door slams closed. And it’s quiet, other than the shake of a camera lens cap or the clunk of keys as I finish another article or event to the buzz of fluorescent lights.
I’ve lived many of my high school afternoons in that silence. To be fair, Arcadia High School does not often remain stationary. It is the site of flash mobs and finals, of APs and deafeningly loud lunch announcements, of fire alarms and assemblies and unexpected eruptions of spirit week glitter. I’ve seen this school on its most boisterous days, but my fondest memories tend to originate from its quietest moments. The quiet moments that made me, me.
When I think of high school now, it’s in vignettes. They don’t run in sequence. There’s me, sweating profusely from chasing an interview on the rally court, lugging a DSLR and a granola bar. There’s a group of friends, all of them together around a Starbucks cup on the red benches. There’s a burst of drama, tears in a bathroom stall, phones flashing with screenshots and doubt. There’s laughter so deep it shakes the table in the library’s back. And there’s senior year, when I finally look around and think, these are my people. The ones I’ll text from thousands of miles away. The ones I’ll know forever.
I used to think that every person I met had to stick around for good. I was so afraid of falling out with someone. But growing up in Arcadia has taught me that losing people doesn’t have to be a loss. The thing is, I needed the drama. I needed the tension, the hurt, the not knowing. It all brought me closer to the people that stuck around. Who understood. Who showed up for lunch even when they were tired. Who told the truth when I did not want to hear it.
By senior year, I’d lost whoever wasn’t important. I’d discovered my crowd.
And along the way, I’d found my niche as well. In between the belts of camera equipment and my laptop, the official interviews and after-school editing marathons. Journalism got me inside the game, and off the bench. It provided a purpose for being there, to capture the heartbeats of this school. Whether I was writing about a fresh club or covering a district event, I was learning something. How to use a camera. How to pose the perfect questions. How to listen to a story that no one ever gave voice to. How to have confidence. And beyond journalism? My teachers taught me to listen.
Mr. Green, for instance, didn’t just teach APUSH, he spoke it.
Every unit was followed by real stories: politics and people and his own experiences that broke history down into something recognizable. Mr. Woodin, additionally, gave us little pieces of his life such as sharing pictures from moments he is proud of. Some day it was his rabbits. Next, the photograph of students who started like me and became his close friends. Such educators did not educate us based solely on the curriculum, they taught us about themselves. Learning was made human by them. Through them, I learned that learning sticks with you when it becomes personal.
Through my friends, I learned to say “no” when I needed time for myself, and “yes” when the moment was precious. Through my failures, I learned embarrassment passes, but experience doesn’t. Most importantly? I learned that the world doesn’t wait, so you have to get your shot when the light is golden. Applying for something that terrifies the mess out of you, signing up for a class that makes you anxious, or just putting your hand up when your heart is racing. I’ve chased things that didn’t work out. I’ve also made leaps that changed my life. And even the flops gave me stories I’ll treasure forever.
So yes, I’ve grown. Not always upward. Sometimes sideways. Sometimes in spirals. But growth is all the same.
I’ll miss the quiet of this place.
I’ll miss the loud, too.
The chaos and color. The awkward glances and spontaneous karaoke. The fire drills that always interrupted fifth period. But most of all, I’ll miss who I became here: a student, a storyteller, a reflection of four years that slipped by but somehow shaped something real. In a couple of months, I’ll be listening to music on a road trip. And maybe I’ll hear the same song that brings back memories of this segment, maybe not ABBA then, but maybe something chill, something nostalgic. Something that summarizes how grateful I am to have made it through it all: the drama, the deadlines, the jokes, the late nights.
Because now, I get it. You don’t have to be good at everything. You just have to show up. And sometimes, showing up is the most ambitious thing you can do.