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They taped the PressCon posters up this morning. I almost tore one down, instinctively — like it was my beat, my deadline, my job to cover. But I’m not on the list this year. I’m not a panelist. I’m not the one holding the mic. I’m just… graduating. Funny how the sound of a handheld recorder’s click used to set my heart racing. Now, it feels like a goodbye. This time last year, I was scrambling for angles, digging for context, mentally fact-checking every quote as I scribbled in the margins of my press kit. I thrived in the chaos. I lived for the adrenaline — and the silence that followed after filing a story at 11:59 p.m., knowing I made the truth shine a little brighter. Now, I wonder if I chased enough stories. Asked the right questions. Wrote them the way they deserved. Maybe I should’ve interviewed that janitor who cleaned the newsroom late at night. Or followed up on that corruption tip I was too scared to touch. Maybe I shouldn’t have let the bylines define me. But regrets are just edits we make too late. And still, I wouldn’t trade this for anything — the sleepless nights, the burnt coffee, the press IDs faded from too many sunlit coverages. I’ll miss them all. In a few weeks, someone else will be typing their first headline. But my story? It’s still being written — just beyond the deadline. Because I’ve learned: in journalism, as in life, it’s never just about the scoop. It’s about the JOURNey. And mine has only just begun.