You know how when you were little, and you were playing in the playground, and then your mother told you to stop, and you couldn’t help but whine, “Just five more minutes?” That is how I feel about a lot of things right now.
I am really bad at “letting go” or “giving up” on things. I never liked people touching my belongings growing up, and, even now, when I cede my stuff to other people for monetary transactions or otherwise, I find it difficult to not feel twangs of emotional discord. I think: “They won’t be as good to it as I was,” “They’ll break it,” or, “What if they don’t do it right?”
I feel this way about The Stute. I started on my journalistic career in my freshman year, a few weeks into the game for personal and stupid reasons. I grew attached, I grew stronger at what I did, and eventually, over a very long and natural process, grew to be one of the backbone elements of The Stute.
From 2014 to 2015, I held The Stute up on my shoulders like Atlas, redefining portions of the organization and revamping processes and procedures that affect the club to this day. During that period, I helped, guided, and trained a lot of the staff that run the paper now. Some more than others. A good number of members just needed a little coaxing.
Then, in the Spring of 2015, I followed the natural cycle of rebirth within The Stute, and handed my title of editor-in-chief down to another. The executive board was reborn, and immediately I knew I was going to have issues coping with the void.
What do I mean by that? Well, let me give an anecdotal example: Every time I go to sign my name in an email, my hands default to “Joseph A. Brosnan [Enter] Edito [Backspace]…” I really filled into that position, and then I left it. But my body and mind never really did. Even though I distanced myself from the new executive board to try and let them grow without me, I couldn’t help but still feel the need to be an authoritative figure — a position I am absolutely not entitled to be in.
Even now, I am spending a good portion of each day pondering the future of The Stute, my legacy in a way, wondering who will be the next executive board members. Who will take over when Frankie Guarini and Dennis Stewart graduate? Will they care for The Stute as tenderly as I did? Will they whip the freshmen into shape before they get too boisterous like a few bad eggs I met in the past? What if they don’t have the proper layout skills? What if they can’t handle the stress of the weekly impending deadline and bickering staff?
These questions plague me, but I have to remind myself time and time again that this is not my problem. I am not the editor-in-chief anymore. I am simply a 5/5 civil engineering student. What happens to The Stute is, and no longer should be my concern. I should not allow myself to lose sleep over it, and I shouldn’t waste my time trying to solve problems that are no longer mine.
But I can’t.
I am sure that I am not alone in this situation, giving up power and then feeling blank without it. But at the same time, I see no path in the foreseeable future that doesn’t involve stress and heartache as I push myself to grow outside and away from my organization.
It is strange when I show up and everyone knows me but I no longer know them. Too much time spent away from my colleagues and they are different people than those who joined me in my 2014-2015 crusade. That, and a whole new batch of talented and eager freshmen, all of whom must have heard stories of the days of yore with me as the head honcho (this is totally my vanity speaking, but I digress).
All I have to do is say my farewells, and silently fade into the future, but, gosh, that seems impossible.
It might feel impossible, but it is probably the best course of action. Be there as is necessary, but only in the shadows — not acting or watching, just being present. If I am no longer needed, I did my job right.
Even so, I still feel… empty.
