I can’t help but feel like a Roman gladiator standing at the edge of the arena.

The gates are creaking open. Sunlight is streaming onto the sand. Then there is the crowd — cheering, expectant, their eyes locked on me. And there, just a few feet away, is the lion.

The lion of the unknown, what lies beyond graduation.

I know I have to face it. There’s no turning back now. It’s going to take everything I’ve got — every ounce of strength, courage and resilience I’ve built during my time here. And I know it’s probably going to hurt. The arena, terrifying as it is, isn’t the end — it’s the gateway.  I’m ready to be done, to close this chapter, to walk across that stage and grab the diploma that represents years of hard work. But in the same breath, I’m not ready to leave.

For years, my life has been defined by the persistent rhythm of classes, the crushing weight of projects and so many late nights filled with caffeine.

My time here at Park has been one of creation, legacy, and community. Through working with The Stylus, rebuilding KGSP 90.5, and starting the Broadcasting Club, I’ve learned again what it means to fight for something.

When I joined KGSP, it was teetering on the edge of being forgotten, relegated to the dusty pages of yearbooks as a relic of the past. Just another victim of the pandemic. Without outside help from people like Todd Nixon, and without the collective effort and determination of everyone involved, we might have lost it entirely.

One of the biggest challenges I witnessed in my time here was the transformation of The Stylus. Once a proud print publication, it made the difficult transition to digital media. It wasn’t just a simple switch — it required us to rethink everything. The transition demanded determination, creativity, adaptability, and a willingness to let go of what we thought we knew. But we did it. And in doing so, we ensured The Stylus could continue being the voice of the students, proving that even in the face of change, we could adapt and thrive.

Much like KGSP and The Stylus, the Communication Department itself has faced its share of challenges. Yet, through it all, it remains steadfast, tucked away on the second floor of Copley-Thaw Hall. It’s easy to overlook it, but for those of us who have passed through its doors, it’s a place where even a lamb can become a lion. Despite the pressures of time, budget cuts, and shifting priorities, the department stood tall — proof that sometimes, all it takes to keep something alive is the determination to keep going.

That determination was one of the biggest lessons taught to me by my professors and other faculty and staff.

The classrooms and hallways weren’t just places where I’ve studied; they’ve been arenas where I’ve tested myself. Professors, classmates and friends have become my allies, mentors and challengers. Through it all, I’ve seen what happens when teachers raise the bar higher than you think you can reach. It’s easy to feel like they’re being unfair or harsh in those moments.

But the truth is, most of the time they see potential in us that we don’t always see in ourselves.

They know we wouldn’t grow if the challenge weren’t just beyond our comfort zone. It’s here at Park University that I’ve stumbled and succeeded, doubted and grown … and I have to admit I have them to blame for it.

You are like the potted plant in your dorm room. You could stay in that small pot, and you might survive. You might even thrive for a while. But eventually, your roots would outgrow the space, and you would stop flourishing. You will stop growing. Growth requires more room, more challenges, more effort.

My teachers, mentors and peers at Park University have been the ones who recognized when it was time to move me to a bigger pot, to give me room to grow. There were moments when it felt like the challenges they threw at us were insurmountable, like stepping into the arena to face yet another opponent. I’ll admit, there were times it felt unfair, even cruel. To top all of those off, they’ve challenged me to take on the master’s degree path. Weirdly enough, almost like I am a glutton for punishment, I am considering it.

The truth is, to me, graduation feels bittersweet. I’m ready to embrace the future, to take on new challenges, to forge ahead into the unknown. But it also feels like stepping off a stage where I’ve performed my best, only to wonder what’s waiting behind the next curtain.

To my fellow gladiators in this arena, I salute you. Whether you’re just starting out or nearing your own finish line: embrace the mixed feelings. They’re a reminder that the experience has mattered. That the friendships you’ve built and the lessons you’ve learned will carry you forward. Our time in this particular flower pot is over. The world is our bigger pot now. It’s daunting, it’s exhilarating, and it’s exactly what we’re meant to feel.

Embrace the challenge, because everything we’ve worked for is on the other side of it.

To those who challenged us: we who are about to graduate, salute you. Thank you for giving us the tools to fight — and the space to grow.