Finding A Voice

An editor-in-chief reflects on the writing exercise that exonerated her fear.

Yuriana Espino Sosa

Journalism adviser Ivan Miller likes to assign “sit spots” every once in a while. This involves going outside and sitting for up to 45 minutes, then reflecting on whatever thoughts come to mind. My very first sit-spot came during the first week of class, and I honestly did not go outside or actually want to do it, for the thought of sharing my thoughts in front of the group scared me. Instead, I sat in my room and wrote about what I did that morning.

Most of the students had been there a couple years. They knew each other and knew what was going on. Once the first student read their sit-spot I was speechless. I was surrounded by people that I had never talked to before, but their stories were so personal and my stomach sank, nerves taking over.

“What if my story is not good enough,” I thought to myself.

Near panic, my mind started racing. Smiling, Miller gave me the “it’s your turn” look. I suddenly forgot how to speak English altogether. I fumbled through some words and others I made up, at some point I was just improvising. Finishing my face turned red, my hands shaking, then everyone started snapping their fingers and Miller said something positive about what I wrote.

It takes a lot for me to come out of my comfort zone, which has made it really hard for me to make friends, or keep them in general. I get nervous around people and I never know how to start a conversation, or how to keep it going. In a way, I have always been better at writing what I feel or think. Writing has been my escape for everything. It’s just me and my pencil. When I wrote my first story, Finding A Sense of Place, exploring my journey moving from one country to another, everything changed. I was scared to even share it with Miller, my story, my life. Then two other people read it, then four, and six.

From that moment on, I started slowly punching holes through what I thought was my comfort zone. Towards the end of the year, Miller started talking about a “big trip,” insisting I come. I lived on a ranch for half of my life when I lived in Mexico so I didn’t mind the outdoors. I was carrying a backpack twice my size, and wearing boots two sizes too big, and I had no idea what to expect.

I didn’t know what to make of the crazy teacher talking about “adventure time.” After a couple miles of carrying my backpack, I was ready to give up, but I kept walking. We sat around the fire, played games, laughed, and even made Miller dance. It was amazing. I felt safe, like I fit in. I was so caught up in the moment that the bubble suddenly popped completely. We wrote a sitspot but this time, I wasn’t nervous, I was excited to share.

The Miller Integrated Nature Experience (MINE) has a lot to offer, but to me it is not about the field trips, the backpack trips, or the magazine. To me it’s about the community it builds. You cannot do it with just one person, it takes a team to build a meaningful publication. Everyone takes on a role, and the connections you build mean a lot. We operate in magazine cycles, designing, taking pictures, editing profiles, or learning the art of storytelling. Sometimes I stay after school to get more work done, and those are moments I cherish. We’re all in our own world, but together we work as a team. MINE brings people closer, regardless of their backgrounds, and becomes “MINE.” I reached out to a couple of old editors-in-chief during the initial transition into Covid in 2020 and asked about what MINE meant to them.

Kindra Roy said: “Everyone takes something different out of MINE, and I think that is what is so great about it. For some, it’s a creative outlet, a way to get involved, to try a new skill like photography or graphic design. For others, like me, it was a home away from home. It was a place to challenge myself and to be able to lean on others without any shame. I was barely keeping my head above water in my personal life but the program was an escape where I could just let go. It helped build my confidence and prove my resilience and those two things were really integral to my development.”

Trevor Palmer said: “What I needed was a life-preserver, something to hold onto while my life was sinking. MINE meant forming connections with people when I was terrified to let anyone into my life. It meant breaking down the walls that I had worked so hard to build. It forced me to be vulnerable, which is far from what I wanted. MINE meant the world to me, and it was the first step towards building a life where I feel genuinely connected to what I’m doing and the people I am with.”

MINE has changed the lives of a lot of people over the past decade. Miller created the program with the hope of breaking down the walls of the education system and taking kids outside. The dream of making a book, instead of a magazine, started four years ago. Then we went into Covid. This year we made a book, but more importantly we found a community. MINE will always be in my heart and if I ever made a good decision in life it was writing that first sit spot.