Allie Moustakis, Editor in Chief
There’s something about being in the confines of 190 University Ave. that makes it feel like the outside world doesn’t exist. Maybe it’s just my office, the fact I can’t the last time I drank water, or the fluorescent lights, but every hour feels like 2 a.m.
Whatever it is, reality bends in this house—until something forces it to snap back.
Until a student sits across from you, voice shaking, asking if you’ll keep their name off the record because they’re afraid of what might happen if you don’t. Until a family member calls—not to thank you, but to threaten you over a story they didn’t want to see published.
Until you what this job really is.
It’s the people who write those stories—who chase them down, sit with the weight and mess of it—and still come back the next day to do it again.
This is what snaps it back for me.
This year was arduous. I won’t pretend otherwise. There were days, weeks, and months where it felt like the news never stopped.
When the encampment went up 10 days into our term, we were there. When grad students walked off the job, we listened. When protests erupted over the war in the Middle East, we did our best to cover them with care. When the threat of funding cuts loomed, when a snap provincial election was called, and then—because apparently one wasn’t enough—a federal election followed, we rolled with it.
When AMS nonsense landed in our laps in the middle of a print press day and our editorial autonomy was tested, we pushed back. More than I ever could’ve imagined. And when two senior editor positions needed to be filled in the second week of the semester, nobody flinched.
That was you, my dear Volume 152. Eight-hundred words isn’t nearly enough to capture what you pulled off this year.
We did more than just publish a newspaper every week. We held space—for grief, for discomfort, for questions without easy answers. We didn’t always get it right, and for that I’m truly sorry. All I can say is we tried our best because this paper, and the people it serves, deserve nothing less. Because the people who came before us did the same. And we owe it to the ones who’ll come next.
To the overworked, underappreciated staff of Volume 152—I hate to say goodbye. Thank you for trading any semblance of a normal university experience for late nights, cold pizza in the couch room, and the kind of work most people will never understand. Thank you for trusting me—I’m in awe of all of you.
Wardah—you’re the reason why the fluorescent lights stayed on. Literally. Madison and Herbert—in five, 10, 20 years from now, when I think about The Journal, I know I’ll think of you.
Asbah and Cassidy—words cannot describe how grateful I am for the two of you. This paper is built on the people, not the pages—thank you for letting me be one of them. Asbah, your love for The Journal is contagious. Cassidy, I hope I was half the editor you were. Thank you for showing me the ropes.
Our goal was never to reinvent the wheel—you’d already built something strong, steady, and worth protecting. We just did our best to keep it rolling. I hope we made you proud.
Mom, Dad, and Julian—I don’t know where I would be without you. Love you, even when you forgot it was press night.
To my friends and housemates—thank you for caring, and for not caring. Thank you for listening to me talk about work, for not making too much noise on Friday mornings because you knew I was sleeping, and for keeping me sane. I owe you all countless hours I’ll never get back and even more I’ll never be able to repay.
Skylar—I can’t believe it’s over. I won’t miss dealing with the craziness that came with the job, but I will miss doing it with you. You brought me down to earth and always led with grace, sometimes for the both of us. I will always be your biggest fan, in this newsroom and wherever you go next.
There’s no one else who can make me simultaneously laugh and cry at 5 a.m. while exporting. No one else I’d rather sit with in my office. No one I’d rather eat ramen with and vent to when it felt like the world was ending—and no one better to look across the hall at and know, with absolute certainty, that we were going to be okay.
The first Journal story I ever read had your name on it. I’m glad my last one does too.
To Volume 153 and whoever comes next—take care of it. Take care of each other. Let this place challenge you, teach you, frustrate you, and shape you. I know I did. Good luck, Sarah and Meg, with the year ahead.
The outside world is waiting. But for a little while longer, I’ll stay here in this house—because leaving is harder than I thought.
Allie is (almost) ready for one last post-press picture at the blue box.
Skylar Soroka, Editor in Chief
After 339 days, this job showed me my own resilience.
Since high school, I knew whichever university I attended, I’d go out for the paper. On Oct. 21, 2021, I did—and I haven’t looked back.
For 339 days, I watched the clock, restless to escape Kingston and the weight of my own name. My only regret is not fully appreciating the opportunity of a lifetime.
It was another incredibly challenging year for news, and stories were raw to the touch: another year of conflict in the Middle East, religious and sexual-based violence, and graduate students grappling with food insecurity and fighting for fair pay. Somewhere in between was an AMS-led campaign—found all too familiar by alumni—where student leaders claimed to know The Journal better than those who had dedicated their entire undergrad to it.
When my friends would ask me what news was breaking, I’d half-jokingly tell them to pick up a copy of The Journal and read for themselves. I was cowardly in that way—I avoided talking about a job I was consumed by to escape the work I was doing. I’m an emotional person. I’m also Jewish, and like many students and community , I was deeply affected by what was happening globally and right here on campus. Eventually, I’ll let the tears slip.
But my struggles pale in comparison to the pain and suffering faced by those caught in the crossfire of global conflicts this year, those whose lives were upended by natural disasters that tore through the world, or graduate students—some unhoused and relying on the University, for the basic dignity they deserve. While I know bigger issues don’t erase my daily unease, I did the best I could. Allie, we made mistakes, but we learned from them.
To the Masthead of Volume 152—thank you for trusting Allie and I with your very being. The work you poured into this place matters. If it were easy, anyone could do it. But it wasn’t, and you did.
Herbert and Madison—you made the all-nighters worth it. Herb, my day-one photographer. Yung Gravy secured our bond, and it never faltered. Madison, you took a new section by storm and emerged a seasoned journalist. I can’t wait to welcome you to Toronto.
Sam, Jenny, Claire, Emma, and Rylie—when the weeks felt endless, you were my anchor. Your patience kept me afloat, listening to every story, no matter how niche or how much you didn’t care, even though I could never tell. Just knowing you were there kept me going.
To my parents, thank you for reminding me that every problem was just a grain of rice. You may not have fully grasped the weight of what we carried, but you listened anyway, knowing each time another grain fell.
Ben and Julia, thank you for taking a chance on a first year—and for patiently waiting while I sprinted to campus after my WiFi failed mid-interview.
Asbah, my first mentor here, because of you, I drank the blue Kool-Aid. Cassidy, you were the editor of my dreams. With every issue this year, you both were the pillars of comion and intellect I strived to emulate. You elevated this paper, leaving a legacy every future staffer should be grateful for.
Wardah, you were always two steps ahead. In a time where print is fading, your foresight ensured our words never ran out of pages to land on.
Meg, never think your willingness to step up and lead the News section at the drop of a hat went unnoticed. You and Sarah have the tools at your disposal to be strong leaders. I can’t wait to see you both continue the fight for this paper and its legacy.
And Allie. You’re the strongest, most adaptable person I know. I know comparison is the thief of joy but your ability to make tough calls with steadfast confidence is a quality I envy. You’re magic. A born journalist. Through every choice we made, you reminded me why this job matters. Through every lukewarm, half-drank Coke can I left on your desk, know I only left it there because I wanted to be with you in your office. No wonder you got into an Ivy League—have the couch made-up when I make my way down to the Big Apple.
With 339 days behind us and every issue out, our last 26 days will be spent wishing time would stretch just a little longer. Now, more than anything, I want to feel the 7 a.m. sun after 26 sleepless hours, to watch the light fade through my east-facing window at 190 University Ave.—just once more.
As Trooper sang in 1977, “We’re Here for a Good Time (Not a Long Time).” Things weren’t always good, but what a terribly good time it was.
Skylar is ready to order one last ramen.
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All final editorial decisions are made by the Editor(s) in Chief and/or the Managing Editor. Authors should not be ed, targeted, or harassed under any circumstances. If you have any grievances with this article, please direct your comments to [email protected].
Natalie Viebrock
Wonderful ladies, even more wonderful writing!