We Were, and Still Are, Someone’s Baby

There’s something funny about writing your last story. You’d think the words would come easily after four years of doing this—after what feels like a hundred articles, late-night edits, inside jokes in the group chat, layout sessions that turned into therapy sessions. I thought I’d know how to do this. But this one… this one’s hard. Not because I don’t know what to say, but because there’s too much to say. Too many people to thank. Too many feelings I haven’t sorted through yet. Too much heart in my throat and not enough page space. This isn’t just a story. 

It’s a goodbye and I’m not exactly ready. But here goes everything.

We are graduating. We’re leaving. And yes, it’s terrifying, not in the panicked, screaming, movie-style way. It’s quieter than that. It’s a kind of emotional high that feels like standing in a room with the lights on, trying to memorize every shape before you flick the switch and never see it the same way again. It’s hearing the echo of your own footsteps in a hallway you used to sprint through, and suddenly realizing just how much weight memories can carry. Or hugging someone tighter because you don’t know when or if you’ll see them next.

But through all that fear, one thing keeps me grounded: We are still someone’s baby.

Not in a roll-your-eyes, “aww how cute” kind of way, but in the most raw, soul-deep kind of way. Someone, somewhere—your mom, your abuela, your dad, your best friend—sees you not just for who you are now, but for who you’ve always been. That version of you that was soft, messy, honest, and full of dreams. The one who needed reminding to eat, to rest, to keep trying. And in their eyes, you never stopped being that person. You’re still the kid who looked up at the stars and thought anything was possible. You’re still the one who ran to them in tears when your first friendship fell apart.

Even now, with college emails in your inbox and a half-zipped cap and gown on your chair—you’re still someone’s baby. You always will be. And that’s something to hold on to when everything else feels like it’s slipping through your fingers.

Maybe it’s your dad, who stays up late making caldo. Maybe it’s your mom, cutting fruit for you when you’re too tired to care. Or the teacher who asks, “You okay?” and actually means it. Maybe it’s the friend who just sits next to you in silence when they know you’re not ready to talk. Maybe it’s someone who couldn’t stay. Or someone who loves you from far away. But someone, always, is rooting for you. Even when you don’t feel worthy of it. Even when you don’t notice. Especially when you don’t notice.

That kind of love stays. Quietly. Steadily. Holding us up when we feel like we can’t move forward. Holding us down when life feels like it’s moving too fast. It waits. It watches. And it never asks us to be anything more than exactly who we are.

And it does feel fast, doesn’t it?

I’ve been thinking a lot about how it feels like we’re sprinting, almost running, towards the finish line of our so-called teenage years. We blink, and suddenly we’re at the end. Youth is never coming back in the same way, and that truth hits hard. We’re not running because we want to. Time is pushing us. Life is nudging us forward whether we’re ready or not. We outgrow rooms. We outgrow cities. We outgrow versions of ourselves. Change is scary. 

And guess what? We don’t stop loving just because we’re afraid of losing something. We love anyway. We risk it. That’s what makes the memories matter. That’s what makes this life bearable—and beautiful.

Age isn’t something everybody is given. So maybe instead of fearing it, we should honor it. Use it. Let it remind us to say “I love you” more often, to laugh hard even when everything is uncertain, to be a little less careful with our joy.

We remember the moments that made us laugh so hard our stomachs hurt. The moments that shattered us quietly behind closed doors. The nights we swore we’d never forget. The walks around campus when we felt completely lost. The unexpected compliments that made us cry in the bathroom between classes. The ordinary Tuesdays that somehow became core memories. And we know we can’t stay, even if we want to; that’s not how it works.

But what matters isn’t where we’re going or what we leave behind. What matters is that we’re still here. Still breathing. Still moving. Still becoming. Even if time moves faster than we do, even if we feel behind, the fact that we are still trying means everything. It counts. It always counts. And if no one’s told you that lately, let this be your reminder: your effort is enough.

This school, this beautiful mess of a high school, gave me more than I ever expected. It gave me friends who became my emergency contacts. Teachers who saw something in me when I saw nothing in myself. A classroom that became a second home. It gave me this newspaper, my baby. And it gave me a story I didn’t know I was writing, one filled with both plot twists and poetry.

I joined Journalism my freshman year after my counselor, Mrs. Lopez, placed me in it without telling me. I was confused. Scared. I mean, why would a freshman want to be in a class full of juniors and seniors? But that class became the one thing I kept coming back to, no matter what. Through four years in Journalism, two of them as Editor-in-Chief, I learned what leadership looks like. What vulnerability feels like. What it means to write for something bigger than yourself. What it means to give your all to something you love and let it change you.

When I became Editor-in-Chief, I cried so hard and so loud that my parents thought something was wrong. But it wasn’t sadness. It was everything. The joy, the pride, the disbelief that I was chosen after pouring so much of myself into something that mattered to me more than I can explain. It felt like standing at the top of a mountain you weren’t sure you could climb—and realizing the view was even more beautiful than you imagined. 

This paper was mine. I fought for it. I stayed up late editing. I celebrated its wins like they were my own. I lost files and cried. I led brainstorm sessions and laughed. I loved it with everything I had. And now, I have to let it go. I hope others fall for it the way I did.

Some of the teachers who shaped me aren’t even here anymore. Some of us will be gone soon too. But the moments they gave us?

They stay.

Mr. Espinoza, you were the first person to see the passion in my writing, to tell me my ideas were strong and worth something. At a time when all I had were doubts, you gave me permission to believe in myself. You proved my therapist right: writing does help. Journaling does hold power. My voice does matter. With nothing more than your quiet belief in me, you helped pull me out of my darkest moments. No words or actions could ever fully capture what that meant. You didn’t just help me find my voice, you gave me a reason to use it. And I will never forget that.

To The Panther Post staff: thank you. Thank you for trusting me with your words. Thank you for being bold, brave, and brilliant. This paper was only as good as the staff writers, photographers, graphic designers, and layout editors who showed up with their full selves and did the work. You made this paper real. And you left a mark on me that I’ll carry forever.

To our readers: thank you for seeing us. For reading our stories. For telling me when something made you laugh or cry or feel something that stuck. Every message meant the world. You made writing about hard things feel less lonely.

Writing started as a way to survive for me. A way to make sense of what I couldn’t say out loud. It helped me navigate my mental health when everything else felt like too much. But it became something bigger. It became a bridge. I wrote about identity, injustice, love, pain, fear, healing. And in doing that, I found connection. I found a community. I found you.

And now, it’s time to say goodbye. To this paper. To this school. To this version of myself.

But not to everything. Because we’ll carry this with us.

In memories. In moments. In random texts years from now that say, “Remember when we cried during AP World watching that war movie?” Or “Hey, I found our old PIQ drafts; you helped me more than you know.” Or “I saw someone with your laugh today and it made me miss you.”

We’ll carry this version of us. The ones who made it, who grew. Who survived everything high school threw at us and still showed up anyway. Who kept showing up, even on the days it felt impossible. That’s strength. That’s growth. That’s everything.

To the Class of 2025, you made it. You hurt. You healed. You mattered. And you still do.

To the girl I used to be when I first walked into this newsroom/classroom, scared and unsure: I’m proud of you. You kept going.

So here’s my last byline. My final print. My goodbye.

But not really. Because I’ll always be someone’s baby. And so will you.

With all my heart,

Mia Angel Hernandez

Editor-in-Chief (forever, in spirit)

The Panther Post