After completing my senior year of high school, I wrote two thank-you cards. Following the four worst years of my life, my experience at my small Western Massachusetts high school could be summed up in two thank yous.
Mrs. Whitney, my high school English teacher for three out of the four years, received the first. Dana Whitney fostered my love of writing, offered praise when I needed it most and obliged when I begged for The Handmaid’s Tale to be part of the AP Literature curriculum. Mr. Garland, my high school English teacher, received the second.
Three years later, at the University of Massachusetts Amherst, there is a plethora of thank yous for me to give. Tewnty-eight names have been written on a list titled “thank you cards.” My mom and dad, my little brother Oliver, Pine St. and Sunset, of course, all deserve appreciation, as well as a few others who have left me with a lasting impact. Unfortunately, like most of my schoolwork, these notes of gratitude will probably be written last minute.
My final thank you is to The Massachusetts Daily Collegian. Mrs. Whitney and Mr. Garland taught me how to be a good writer. I wish I could say the Collegian taught me to love writing, but the truth is, I have always loved to write. The Collegian challenged me, forcing me out of my comfort zone and pushing me to break out of my shell, facing my insecurities head-on.
My first year at the Collegian consisted of sitting on the office’s floor in silence. I was terrified to speak at meetings and mainly stuck to myself. I knew my capabilities and yearned to be a part of something bigger, but I was too stuck in my head to put myself out there, writing only three articles in the span of a year.
“You are not good enough” replayed on a constant loop in my brain.
In all other areas, I was also struggling. Freshman year brought me my closest friends but was accompanied by the spirals of anxiety and sadness that had haunted me for years. I begged my mom to drop out, saying school was pointless and maybe UMass was not the place for me.
While my freshman year dragged on, Monday sports meetings were a constant in my life, giving me something to look forward to while everything else in my life seemed bleak.
I came back to school for year two ready for a change. That change started my second weekend back to Amherst when I ran into Owen Shelffo at the club baseball house on a Friday night. Semi drunk, I talked to Owen for longer than he probably wanted to listen, chatting about everything from our Western Mass upbringing to the field hockey beat that we both recently joined.
Owen is now one of my best friends.
This change continued as I entered the Collegian office as a sophomore and started writing like I knew I could. The field hockey beat brought me a newfound sense of confidence amongst my heaps of self-doubt, and when Johnny Depin asked if anybody wanted to write a story for Pride Month, I raised my hand.
Sitting on the floor of Patterson in the room of my best friends, Camryn and Maya, I wrote a story about growing up gay and loving sports, but never seeing anybody quite like me represented. I sobbed on the floor of room 439A, scared of what was to come after my story was published, as I had hidden that part of myself until that point and was terrified to tell the world, or at least the people who knew me.
I woke up on Oct. 11, 2023, with several texts about my story. “I am so proud of who you are,” my mom and dad said. “Your story deserves all the praise it’s going to get,” Johnny said. The Collegian was the biggest driving force in my life to be okay with who I was and having the confidence to share that with those around me.
Although I no longer hated UMass, I came back to school for the second year, still struggling with severe anxiety and doubting myself in and out of the Collegian office. In my classes, I kept my head down, convinced that I wasn’t smart enough or that the ideas I had were outlandish. On the women’s basketball beat, I stuck to routine stories, terrified that if I tried something else, I would mess up or embarrass myself.
On March 6, 2025, I was in Richmond, Virginia, covering the UMass women’s basketball team for what would be my last time. This should have been a trip filled with wonder and curiosity in a new setting, while getting one of the best professional experiences of my life. Instead, it consisted of approximately 16 outbound calls to my mother and three panic attacks.
The arena faded around me as a single thought consumed my mind: I don’t belong here. I wasn’t worthy of the role I held. The environment felt too big, too loud, too much. My anxiety latched on to every doubt I’d tried to bury about my writing, my value and myself.
Behind all the stories I’ve written, and the days spent in Mullins or at Gladchuck, was the voice in the back of my mind saying, “you’re not good enough.” Until recently, I believed it.
Choosing to stay at the Collegian, despite my fear, led me to somewhere I never expected. In the sports section, surrounded by people whose talent and passion humbled me, I found not only my confidence but a community. A place where I was valued, encouraged and, even if I failed to believe in myself, I was believed in.
Three years and 38 stories later, Monday sports meetings are the highlight of my week. Matt, Kayla, Johnny, Rachel and Mike are familiar faces on campus, Owen is a lifelong friend and Dean and Cam are the future of the Collegian.
To the Collegian, thank you. To Amherst, I couldn’t love you anymore.
Lucy Postera was a Collegian staff writer. She can be reached at [email protected] or followed on X @lucypostera.
