If you told me my freshman year that I would be ending college as the president of Her Campus at SLU — after writing over twenty articles, drinking one too many energy drinks and regularly submitting pieces at 11:59 PM — I would have laughed and then nervously checked my Google Calendar.
But now, as I write my final article, I am thinking about all the versions of myself that live inside these stories. They each captured something — a moment, an idea, a heartbreak, a cultural awakening. So, in true dramatic fashion, I decided to let my favorite articles do the talking. If they could speak, here is what they would say about the girl who wrote them.
“I was your chaotic debut, written half as a joke, half as an investigation. You were still figuring it out, but you took a risk. You made people laugh. You captured something weirdly sacred. You learned that storytelling matters, even when it is about a dorm.”
“This was when you realized your voice was not just funny, it was powerful. You saw yourself represented on-screen for the first time, and instead of just feeling it, you wrote it. And readers felt it too.”
“You were scared to publish me. But you did. And in doing so, you created space for people to feel seen in their decisions to leave, to grow, to redefine sisterhood. I might be your most iconic mess.”
“I was petty. I was cathartic. I was a hit. You gathered every red flag into one chaotic list and gave readers the validation they did not know they needed. If the shoe fit, it ran — because of me.”
“You used me to channel your inner therapist, and maybe also to roast a few ex-situationships. No names were named, but the vibes? Oh, they were specific.”
“You were angry, articulate and done with the aesthetic erasure. You unpacked it all — TikTok, trends, tokenization — with facts and feeling. You proved that you could be smart and spicy.”
“You treated me with care. You knew the weight I carried. You triple-checked every source, rewrote me until I felt right. And through me, you showed that college students can handle complexity and write with compassion.”
“You thought I was going to be a joke. I mean, I am about a betta fish. But I became something surprisingly tender. A quiet lesson on tough moments, change and how even a fish can teach you how to survive.”
“You did not shy away from the hard stuff. You researched until your eyes hurt. You told truths people did not want to see, and trusted that your readers could handle them. I was the moment you stopped being just a student journalist.”
“You wrote me from a place of power. Not the flashy kind, but the kind that grows from community, heritage and showing up. I was the voice of your younger self and your future self, colliding in one article.”
“You could have coasted. But you chose to write this. You chose courage, clarity and campus accountability. I was your final mic drop—the last, loudest reminder that your voice always mattered.”
What they would all say together:
“You wrote us with trembling hands and stubborn confidence. You second-guessed yourself, then hit publish anyway. You stayed up late to finish edits, cheered for your fellow writers and somehow kept everything together, even when you were falling apart a little too. We have been with you through seasons, soul-searching and so many late-night coffees. And now? You are leaving us better than you found us. You wrote your story here. And it mattered.”
I do not know who I would have become without the Her Campus community at Saint Louis University. These articles were not just assignments, they were love letters, callouts and confessions. They let me be curious and chaotic, political and personal, unfiltered and unapologetically myself. To every reader, editor, writer and friend who ever clicked on my stories or hyped me up in passing: thank you. I have written about heartbreak and heritage, betta fish and ballots — but this is the story I am most proud of. The one where I found my voice, and finally, learned to trust it.
Signing off for the last time (and trying not to cry),
Kirti