I must ask, dear reader, how will you remember me? It is rather selfish to assume you will at all, but I am dying to know. This question—what is your legacy?—has been reemerging time and time again as graduation approaches. And it’s not just me; for everyone, teachers and students alike, saying farewell to this school seems to necessitate asking this question. It seems conclusions are a ripe time for reflection.

In thinking of my legacy on this publication, I can not help but recall those who came before me: Ella and her joyful smile, Ivy and her masterful prose, Ruby’s compliments on my page designs, Alex’s suggestions for my work, these people, these leaders, made me who I am. Their legacies and lessons live on in me.

I cannot know how I will be remembered. I cannot know what stories will circulate about that one girl who ran the paper when the new adviser came. If they will roll their eyes and talk about how I was in over my head and disrespectful. How I should have quit when they told me to. I was too busy. I couldn’t handle the changes. Untrustworthy. Pretentious and nagging. A perfectionist who couldn’t delegate.

I accept that these accusations are rooted in some truth. I have made mistakes this year—God, so many mistakes—and I suppose that’s the thing about legacy, you can’t control it. So should my legacy depict me with devil horns and a pitchfork, there is nothing I can do about it. But there’s something beautiful about losing control.

So much of our time in high school is spent trying to control things. To fill our resumes and boost our GPAs so that another person can decide our fates—as if college is equivalent to fate. So much pressure to fight for that A+ because how can you know? What if that A+ was all it took? That leadership title? That rec letter?

I cannot critique the system too much because I am a part of it. I’ve sent that shameful email asking my teacher to round my grade up from a 97 to a 98. I’ve joined clubs for the sole purpose of putting it on my resume. I am far from being indifferent about academics, but this year, my mindset around school has shifted dramatically. Many refer to this as developing senioritis, but it’s not that I had stopped caring about school, it was that I only put effort into the aspects of school I found truly rewarding. The majority of this effort was funneled into just one activity: The Globe.

At the beginning, it was pettiness that drove me to work so hard on this paper. It was like screaming in the faces of every person who doubted me, “Screw you, watch this. Watch me be everything you think I am not. Watch me do everything you thought I couldn’t.” And from this I found satisfaction, but I also found discontentment. Spite is a short-term fuel source. So as time went on, my motivation became something else. I stopped trying to control what I couldn’t. I just wanted to make something I was proud of. I just wanted to have fun. So I did.

I have had so much fun working on this paper. Believe it or not, I actually enjoy designing pages for hours. I have laughed so much from texts in our editor’s group chat and grown closer with so many people from our shared experiences. The unwavering support from the people on this staff has meant the world. As I leave them behind, I hope my impact on them is as positive as their impact on me.

Once upon a time, on a day that feels like yesterday and a million years ago, I sat down to write my Editor-in-Chief application. I concluded with the following sentences: “I am a good leader because I’ve had good leaders. I will make leaders even better than myself.”

If I do get a say in my legacy, that is all I want.