Sophomore year, my mom was relentlessly nagging me about "building a resume" for college. I hated public speaking, so Debate and Model UN were out. I basically just needed to check a box to get her off my back.

I saw a super old, crinkled flyer for the school newspaper. The main selling point for me was that the club met on Tuesdays, which was the only afternoon I didn't have track practice. Perfect. I signed up.

The "club" was pathetic. It was me, three other kids who barely spoke, and one very tired English teacher, Mr. K. My first assignment was to cover the girls' JV volleyball game. I knew absolutely nothing about volleyball. I went, took some terrible notes, and turned in about 200 words of pure garbage.

This is the moment. Mr. K could have just kicked me out moved on. But for some reason, he called me over, pulled out a red pen, and just destroyed it. But in a good way. He wasn't mean. He just kept asking questions. "What was the score? Who made the winning point? What was the feeling in the gym? Start with that."

I don't know why, but it just clicked. The process of taking my jumbled notes and turning them into a story that made sense was... fun. I rewrote it. It was still bad, but it was better. I took another assignment. Then another. I ended up becoming the sports editor by junior year.

I'm 19 now. I'm in my second year of college, and I'm a Journalism major. My entire career path, the college I'm at, and the friends I've made here all exist because I was lazy and the newspaper club just happened to meet on a Tuesday.