As my toes gripped the edge of the cliff, I took a deep breath, steadied myself, and prepared to jump.

My first assignment at the Medill-Northwestern Journalism Institute had officially arrived: write an article about who Evanston residents think will win the 2024 U.S. presidential election. I ventured downtown, painfully aware of my inexperience interviewing strangers right off the street. After nervously eyeing the man walking in exactly my direction, I went for it. Freefall.

“Hi! My name is Sophia. I’m a summer journalism student at Northwestern. Can I talk—”

He cut me off.

“Are you a Cherub? I was a Cherub!”

It turns out I had run into Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Rick Tulsky, who had been in my exact shoes 57 years ago. In the following 30 minutes, he ran me through everything from his experience at the MNJI in 1967 to his most recent journalism job as the co-founder of the nonprofit newsroom Injustice Watch.

Reflecting on our conversation, I was blown away by life’s inexplicable coincidences and couldn’t help thinking about what I would’ve missed out on had I not been willing to jump. In that moment, everything changed for me. I realized that journalism wasn’t just about asking questions or reporting facts. It was about making connections and seeing people as stories waiting to be told — because everyone has a story.

So, although I’m someone who professes to be scared of speaking to strangers, I now know that when I have my reporter’s notebook in hand, magical things can happen.

One afternoon, I sat down with a calculus teacher to discuss her inspiration for Women’s History Month. The conversation was supposed to be brief, but as she began to speak, her voice wavered and her eyes welled up. She told me about her late grandmother who had shaped her life, who had taught her strength and resilience, who had encouraged her to become a teacher. Now, I wasn’t just a journalist; I was a listener, a confidante. I felt the weight of her grief and the depth of her love, and I knew her story was more than just words on a page.

For another story, one about sexism in our school, I interviewed a student who spoke haltingly, recounting how being labeled as “gay” and “soft” had left him feeling ostracized, as if his love for theater somehow diminished his masculinity. His words were heavy with the burden of the judgment he had faced, and the more I listened, the more I realized his story was a powerful challenge to the insidious nature of sexism and the harmful stereotypes that persist in our community.

It is these stories that have taught me to be immune to the discouragement that inherently comes with being a journalist. The unease, late nights, and inevitable challenges are all part of the privilege of giving a voice to those who need to be heard.

In a world that often speaks without listening, I’ve found that the most profound stories emerge when I take the time to truly hear someone’s voice.

The best stories are born from courage — the courage to ask difficult questions, listen with an open heart, and tell the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. I strive to inspire this courage in my team on The Standard, just as journalism has inspired it in me. Whether it’s mentoring a younger reporter through their first interview or pushing my team to take on more ambitious investigations and packages, I want us to uncover stories that need to be told. Together, we’re creating a space to inform, illuminate and give voice to the silent struggles and unnoticed triumphs that define our shared humanity.

Now, every time I prepare for an interview, that familiar cliff edge reappears before me. But I've learned that stepping off isn’t a plunge into the unknown — it’s a leap into connection and understanding. In other words, the fall is always worth it.