Editor’s note: This column contains mention of overdose and drug use. 

I had a good friend named Nick — I called him Nikki. He had a wide smile and a hearty laugh that I can’t hear in my head anymore. I listen to old videos to hear it now. Nick died in 2022 from an overdose after being accepted to UNC-Wilmington. He is part of the reason I am who I am today. 

I began using drugs at the age of 15 and by the time I reached my senior year of high school, it had ripped through my meticulously scheduled life plan. In my passions, friendships, family and academics, I stripped myself of the ability to care. App State was the only college I was accepted into, and at that moment, facing so many rejections, I felt like I had completely given up. 

But I got sober. I forced myself to care again, even though I lacked the dopamine to physically feel it. I put myself out there over and over again, joining the orchestra, taking ballet classes and meeting new people. Finally, I found The Appalachian. 

It was in this newsroom, surrounded by these people, that I found myself again. It was here that I felt endless support. It was through countless interviews with locals, police officers, protestors, students, professors and more that I rediscovered the power of having a passion and really, truly caring about something. 

Journalism, the power of storytelling, is my newfound calling. To all the people who helped me discover it — inside and outside the newsroom — I am forever grateful. 

To Nikki, I think about you every day. You were the person that pushed me to come to App State, to college in general. I miss you. Every time I am scared to put myself out there, I emulate you: your compassion, spunk and endless enthusiasm. Wherever you are, I hope I made you proud.