To my eight-year-old self,

You once balled your hands into fists — not of childish indignance, but to contain the fury blazing in your chest. The same mulch tangled in Ingrid’s curly hair filled your palms, ready to be hurled at the young perpetrators. Even then, you did not know how to call out injustice, but you knew how it felt: immediate and unfair.

Your instinct was to defend, to make something wrong right. Back then, justice meant retaliation and protecting someone meant meeting harm with harm. Your understanding still has room to grow. But now, I want to tell you that the instinct to defend never disappeared. It just has a much more powerful outlet.

Today, your hands are no longer clenched around mulch. They hold a pen and a steno pad. When I learned about California’s recent curriculum mandate requiring instruction on the mistreatment of Native Americans, that same sense of responsibility came back to listen and to amplify voices long stifled. As a marginalized individual whose perspective is rarely reflected in mass media myself, it felt natural to celebrate an apparent step forward for another less-heard community. I pitched the story, believing the educational mandate marked meaningful progress for the community.

After the pitch was approved, I began to do what I love most about journalism: connecting with people. Writing an article isn’t just about presenting the facts; it’s about hearing stories from those most affected. Whether I’m interviewing students at schools adopting new phone policies or former zoo employees concerned by the conditions in modern zoos, my journalistic process will always include the voices that matter most to the story. I always seek out sources who can provide an informed perspective — people whose insights not only enrich my article, but also deepen my understanding of the topic at hand.

You’ll come to learn that journalism doesn’t reward instinct. One after another, Indigenous sources met my optimism with a recurring sentiment of distrust. Their unshakable belief that the educational program would bring meaningful change, and that the government lacked the ability to implement it, was grounded in years of history. You’ll talk to Tribal Chairman Lloyd Mathiesen, who will describe decades of tumultuous negotiations with the state and his tribe’s legal challenge against Governor Newsom over bad-faith negotiations.

I remember sitting with my notes, deeply unsettled by interview after interview that tore down my expectations. I had anticipated a story about progress, but instead, I was confronted with complexity and a more complicated truth.

What began as a report on hopefully policy became an examination of various hollow, reactionary measures by the government and the volatile history between Indigenous communities and the state. When the story changed, so did I. Sometime between your clenched fists and my careful questions, my understanding of justice matured. I learned that it is not fueled by retribution, but by a certain degree of thoughtfulness: the patience to understand power, history, and whose voices have been ignored.

In choosing ethics, I’ve found deeper meaning and impact by listening first and setting aside my assumptions before responding. We still have much to learn about people, power, and the limits of our perspective. I carry this story not as regret, but as a starting point — a reminder of how I want to keep learning, listening, and reporting.

This is not a solo journey. There are people who will help you develop this understanding that you otherwise might not have reached alone.

Dad will walk just a few steps behind you when you plunge into crowds in San Francisco during No Kings, sprinting with a camera in hand, breathless with purpose. He’ll support your hunger for chasing stories while keeping you safe. While other dads took their teens to sports games or the mall, he took you to protests, festivals, the zoo, and even a bagel factory, so you could do what you love. Because of him, you’ll experience journalism in ways few high schoolers ever do.

Your press badge will become a piece of armor when you step into your role as a journalist. Your smile is still awkward and genuine, and strangers will know that you are there to listen. Keep the badge with you. It opens doors to conversations you would never otherwise have and grants the privilege of being trusted with people’s truths.

Mom’s craft will influence you too. Though a food blogger and a news reporter may seem worlds apart, her love for chronicling and documenting is in us. Her step-by-step approach to teaching cooking is one I emulate when walking readers through a policy or complex issue, like welfare failures in the poultry industry. Her steady lessons in righteousness are etched into our bones. They guide your sense of justice and propel your purpose.

You’ll make so many friends through journalism, and your closest allies will be Kiana and Isabelle, your managing editors. They will embrace your stubborn determination and work just as committed alongside you. They’ll show you what true leadership means: an effort in numbers, not solitude. The trust you have in each other is integral; the magazine reforms we accomplished would not have been possible without it. Kiana’s unparalleled sense of design and Isabelle’s organization and determination will help transform ideas into tangible realities.

If you’re wondering, your endless curiosity never goes away, and people will embrace it. Mr. Raisner will joke that your “fatal flaw” is trying to pursue everything in a single day, yet he encourages you to explore every medium that calls to you, from broadcast journalism to audio storytelling to leadership.

Journalism is tangible. You’ll feel it in the discomfort of asking difficult questions, in the communities we build, and in the weight of being trusted with someone else’s truth. We’ll be continuing our journalism journey at Northwestern this fall, putting everything we’ve learned into practice. I hope you’re proud of me. This work fills me with purpose; it’s demanding, grounding, and human to its core. You’ll fall in love with it. I cannot wait to see who you become.

With much love,

Your older self, Shiori

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