It’s cliché, but I like to think that my life started when I transferred to Fordham. Being surrounded by people so endlessly passionate about their studies started to rub off on me, to the point that I finally started having opinions about what I wanted to do with my life.

It’s not something that I’d really given much thought to before — I was never much for planning ahead. I knew I was good at writing essays and loved telling others’ stories. I knew that I’d get a particular flutter in my chest after publishing an article I was proud of. 

But how could I combat the “English majors are future baristas” stereotype? It felt daunting to find meaning in an increasingly hostile world to the humanities. As an English major who dared to dip their toes into journalism and go as far as considering it a dream career, it was even more treacherous. If I had a nickel for every time I heard that I wasn’t going to make any money, or that I would be outsourced to AI, I wouldn’t need a job at all.

I think, at least in student journalism, a lot of the experience hinges on hope. 

You hope you captured someone’s sentiments accurately in an interview and that you remember to ask them their name, school and graduating year.  You hope you’ve shaken hands with the right people, whether they’re peers or professionals. You hope that maybe you’ll catch lightning in a bottle, getting to work on a story that professional journalists live and breathe for. 

There will be moments where you screw up. A missed opportunity, a 60th job rejection or an interview gone wrong. It’s going to feel like the world’s ending, but it’s not. 

I believe these moments are where I feel most connected to the Fordham community, because there’s almost a catharsis in struggling. You may have flunked your finite math midterm, but at least you’ve got plans to hang out on Eddies with friends later. Or you got rejected from an internship you were excited about, but you’ll get to commiserate about it at your favorite club’s meeting tonight.

There’s a kind of peace you may only find lying facing the night sky on the steps of Keating Hall at 2 a.m. with your best friends. There aren’t any stars to gaze at, though, ‘cause of that sweet, sweet NYC light pollution. Maybe you’ll hear a stray plane landing at LaGuardia Airport, if anything. 

I, for one, have had many pensive moments here, where the stress of my academics and lack of career prospects can only be soothed by a stupid joke my friend cracks and a container of soggy fries from Super Best Deli. 

I’ve found that these memories of respite among the chaos are the ones I remember the strongest of my tenure at Fordham, and the ones I’ll miss the most — when I graduate in four weeks, and my future becomes a big question mark. 

I may be biased, but I do believe that all things work themselves out and that Fordham’s valiant efforts to prepare us for the real world will have counted for something. I won’t pretend to know that for certain, but, as I said, hope is something I’ve become rather accustomed to. 

As any senior will tell you, savor every moment you can — especially the tough ones. And for the liberal arts nay-sayers, well, screw ’em. 

It’s cool to go here. It’s cool to be well-rounded, involved, in pursuit of cura personalis, being enriched across so many different disciplines. There’s a special satisfaction in being able to say you’re a sociology major who also happens to be proficient in French, or that you’re an economics major who knows the ins and outs of Jacques Derrida. 

So, if you’re a first-year, or you just aren’t sure if this place is right for you, I’m here to say: stick around. Show up to things. Invest in your community. It might just pan out for you.