I notice the smallest things: voices cracking, fingers worrying a plastic fork, darting eyes. Those tiny details tell me stories long before the words do. What’s unsaid often reveals what matters most.

My grandfather has lived with us since I was born. He’s quiet and calm yet thoughtful, observant and caring. Two winters ago, I asked about his life; why he’s the person he is. We sat at the dinner table switching between his broken English and my broken Korean. His voice softened as he described his early years as a homeless orphan and excited when he recalled being adopted after eating from a dumpster. I couldn’t translate every word, but I didn’t need to. His tone, the way he smiled when he remembered kindness, told me everything. Through him, I learned that gratitude is active. Gratitude was staying up late to finish an article because it was an opportunity he never had. One time, after a concussion during lacrosse playoffs, I could’ve slacked off from everything – classes, journalism, practice – but I didn’t. He never quit on his duties, and neither could I.

Listening to him taught me how to listen to everyone else. Last October, I sat across from Wyatt, a senior I was interviewing for a feature on Breast Cancer Awareness. Before we began, I could see his unsettling nervousness: his hands tapped the plastic tray, his foot bounced. Eventually I asked, “Do you ever think about what your life could’ve been like?” He looked down at his hands and said hesitantly, “My mother has been a guiding light, though I only know what she looks like through pictures.” The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was dense but inviting and powerful but vulnerable. That moment reflects what journalism means to me. Listening isn’t collecting quotes. It’s noticing what wasn’t said: the way someone’s voice chokes up or shoulders relax when speaking a name. That is what makes an article feel real.

When I wrote his story, I didn’t flood it with stats or facts, drowning him out. I tried to capture the pauses and strength behind his words. When it later won second in a feature competition, I wasn’t as proud of the award itself but of having honored his story. Community is built one story, one conversation at a time. The more I listened, the more I noticed the unsaid ways people communicate emotion. A simple silence can speak louder than anything.

As I grew on staff, listening stopped being passive and became structural. During my rookie year, I followed the direction of older editors and absorbed everything: how to manage interviews and deadlines, how to take criticism, how to design a page. As Life editor, my role shifted. I began asking why decisions were made instead of just accepting them. I replaced routine section fronts with feature stories about overlooked members of our community because our school is full of people whose stories deserve space. I stopped slotting filler and started asking whether I would feel proud to write the story myself. I used to fear design because it was unfamiliar. Experimenting during my newspaper redesign this past summer taught me that creativity isn’t decoration; instead, it changes how readers enter a story. A good design breaks the labor of reading and invites attention.

Mentorship shaped me, and I realized not every rookie receives that same structure. Joining staff as a sophomore surrounded by older students I didn’t know was intimidating. I became comfortable only because someone took the time to guide me. That experience pushed me to think beyond my own work. A newsroom isn’t strong because of one editor; it’s strong because every member understands how to contribute. I wanted rookies to walk in already knowing they belong. Confidence produces better journalism.

I believe my greatest strength is work ethic, though it feels strange to call it a strength because it should be expected. There have been mornings on Work Saturdays when I arrived before anyone else to revise late pages or unfinished stories. 5AM, 6AM, 7AM… Those hours aren’t sacrifices; they’re responsibilities. Journalism taught me that reliability is a form of respect for my sources, my staff, and my readers.

I want to keep being the listener who notices silent ticks, the unspoken hopes, the things people believe but don’t say. Every newsroom problem I’ve tried to solve — redesigning a section, mentoring rookies, tightening deadlines — comes from that same instinct: pay attention. Someone always deserves to be heard, and a newsroom works best when everyone feels seen. Journalism allowed me to build a platform so other people can tell their stories. Listening has taught me empathy, discipline and leadership, and those lessons carry into how I engage with people and the messages I adopt. One person’s experience might be the solution to another’s problem, but only if someone takes the time to listen.