Meghrig Milkon, Editor in Chief
A medium s’mores Blizzard, a large box of fresh, crispy fries with mayo, Takis, Grocery Checkout yogurt pretzels, and a cold case of Coca-Cola—those were my go-to orders on a typical press night. Not the healthiest choices, but the ones that brought me the most joy in the middle of all the chaos.
I’ve read so many of these articles before, obsessing over every word, who they thanked, and the stories they chose to tell. I never understood how they managed to capture it all in around 800 words. I don’t have an answer. So, I’ll tell you about one of the worst weeks of this job.
It was the middle of winter. That morning, I had just left a midterm after staying up late the night before to study for it, last-minute, as usual. On my way out, we got an e-mail telling us we had to attend a Special Assembly for something I already knew was coming. Call it a gut feeling, or the naivety of someone always chasing a story—I was right. The story broke because I followed that intuition.
What I didn’t anticipate was everything that came after. From Tuesday through the end of that week, I barely slept. Not just because of the chaos that followed, but because I was shaken by late-night calls filled with anger, by the comments, and by students who refused to read yet spoke as if they knew everything. I saw a kind of hate to a degree that I had never seen before, and I kept falling deeper into that rabbit hole.
Jonathan, I know you’re reading this. You probably already know which night I’m talking about. I just hope you’re not too disappointed to see that I failed to follow the advice I gave you that same night: ignore the noise and go to bed; there’s a press night tomorrow, and we have a paper to put out. Dear reader, if you’re wondering, we did put it out, and we did a damn good job at it too.
Those three days were some of the worst, but also, in a strange way, the “tamer” ones. The comments kept coming—that I was undeserving of the job, criticisms of my background as an Arab woman, and accusations that I defended Western thinking. Maybe there’s some truth in that; maybe I’m “whitewashed” in that way. I found myself struggling to make my voice heard in meetings, cast as the problem, often for wanting to defend the integrity of the paper and its history.
But I won’t dwell on the negative. Partly because I think my experience was unique and partly because there was more good than bad, at least I think there was.
Vol. 153, you taught me many things: patience, kindness, when to slow down, and when to rush. You gave me friendships that will last a lifetime and skills I’ll carry with me wherever I go. You also gave us chaos, with non-ending issues with student politics, bureaucracy, and the weight of ongoing conflicts across the world. You allowed us to navigate it all.
You also took away the home I had come to cherish and replaced it with a space I don’t think anyone will ever love quite the way I do. I know some alumni might be sad or angry with this, but I am happy with where we ended up.
To the next generation of QJ staff who will walk through its doors: take this for whatever it’s worth. Respect it. Not just the walls or the desks, but the weight it carries. You’ll feel it the moment you step inside; let it settle on your shoulders. Be gentle and move with it, not against it.
There will be days when that weight feels like too much, when the easiest thing to do is turn around and run. Don’t. Stay. Open the photo albums. Call the alumni who once sat where you are now. Lean on your staff, even when it feels easier to pull away. They will steady you. They will remind you why you’re here.
Speaking of wanting to run, did you all really think the only thing keeping me grounded was food? Of course not. It wasn’t just the food. It was the people I shared it with. And if you’re wondering who was always there, well, that would be Sarah. Or, as I like to call her, Lisa.
Lisa, I can’t believe we are here now. At the finish line, wrapping up our terms and heading to our outdoor summer that we kept dreaming about the entire year. I am sad that the year passed by so quickly that I genuinely don’t know how we got here and when; it feels like it was just yesterday that we sat together outside at Crave talking about doing this together, and now we’re almost at the finish line.
I don’t think this year will be the last chapter of us. I’m excited to see where your next adventure takes you, and I know that whatever you set your mind to, you’ll make it happen, so carry that fire with you.
I’ll always smile thinking about our little traditions: getting our nails done together, wandering down Princess on some side quest, our walks, our vents, and our laughs that probably made everyone else think we were the weirdest duo alive. I loved being your bodyguard after press nights, walking you home, soaking in the chaos and the quiet alike. Those small, ridiculous, beautiful moments—I’ll miss them dearly, and I’ll carry them with me.
I have a feeling our paths will cross again. Maybe this summer, maybe at an alumni day thirty years from now. Wherever, whenever, it’s already something I can’t wait for.
To the Editor in Chief (Jonathan) in the making: your clock is ticking, and you’re almost at the point of taking over my office, shaping your volume and your team, and I couldn’t be more excited for you. It’s about to be the best year of your life. It won’t be without its challenges, but I raised you, so I know you’ve got this.
All jokes aside, Jonathan, you’re an incredible person, hardworking, dedicated, sometimes too dedicated. Your talent, skill, and relentless effort will pay off, and I can leave knowing that The Journal is in safe hands. Thank you for an amazing volume; your work didn’t go unnoticed, and I know everyone on staff and on campus has seen it. Be proud of yourself, because I know I am and always will be.
To Vol. 154, you’re lucky! You’ve got a level-headed guy driving the paper. I can’t wait to see the first issue hit the stands on that last weekend of May. And Jonathan and Eva, if you ever find the need for it, we’re always going to be a call away.
To Liam, you were the steadiness and stability I needed while navigating the ups and downs of this job. I’ll forever be grateful for everything you’ve done, not just for me but for everyone around here: driving us home late at night, picking up food when hunger struck, spending an entire summer helping me pack the QJ house, or carrying things with me when my back gave out or exhaustion hit a limit. So yeah, I love you is really all I can say.
Everyone warned me it would be hard to let go. I kept shaking my head, saying no. But they were right. How do you let go of a place that has held you for so long, that feels like part of your bones?
So not yet. Not tonight. There’s another all-nighter in waiting, a walk by the pier to lose myself in, and social media posts to put together half-asleep. Maybe later, when the lights are dim, and the chaos has quieted, I’ll face the music and slowly, finally, let my fingers unclench from this space I’ve called home.
From Vol. 145, Meg had said in her last words, “Meg is ready to … who said Meg was ready?” and I couldn’t help but chuckle—so relatable.
Sarah Adams, Editor in Chief
A job that was as unforgiving as it was addictive.
It feels like just yesterday I was sitting in the front office of The Journal house at 7 a.m., on a slightly wobbly chair, racing to lay out Issue 1 before the 8 a.m. print deadline as the sun crept over the homes of 190 University Ave. My heart was pounding, my hands unsteady, caught somewhere between the weight of 153 years of student journalism and sheer exhaustion, but even in that chaos, I knew I was exactly where I was meant to be.
And more than anything, I was completely hooked.
If I could go back to that terrified version of myself, I’d tell her this: it all works out. The moments that feel impossible become the ones you’re most proud of, and the decisions that feel like they might break you are the ones that build something stronger than you ever thought possible.
I look back on the summer months as a hazy dream, days spent chasing time in a boiling house with bats scurrying overhead as we worked late into the evenings, until, suddenly, it was gone.
I can’t help but admit that my heart drops passing The Journal house on 190 University Ave., our big red home. I can’t quite bring myself to fully look at it, because to do so would mean confronting all the memories held inside it, and knowing those moments won’t exist again, not for me, and not in the same way for the future of The Journal. But when I think about those times, I have to remind myself that I’m looking at them through rose-tinted glasses. It wasn’t always good. The simple things—like using the washroom or using broken chairs and desks or having drinkable water—made working there hard.
I know alumni are disappointed, thinking we didn’t fight hard enough or didn’t care enough. But it was never for a lack of trying or for a lack of love.
What I wish I had known in those heated summer months is that what we would build here would be better than I ever imagined; a space where we can breathe, work, and actually look forward to. It didn’t erase the loss, but it gave us something new—something stronger.
The AMS made life hell for us this year, and I need that to be clear. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I remember the pit in my stomach as we hit publish on the AMS President having her credit card revoked, knowing the fallout that would come. But I knew we had done our job. And when Joe Brean emailed us to say it was excellent student journalism—that he was proud of us for trusting our gut—we felt, for the first time, that we weren’t alone. That we were backed by 153 years of people who had done this before us.
And in many ways, The Journal had been there for me long before I ever had the chance to show up for it.
Before I ever set foot on campus, The Journal was already shaping my Queen’s experience. When I was placed on West Campus and searching for what life might look like, one article—“West Campus isn’t that bad”—gave me a sense of comfort at my first moment of isolation in university that I didn’t know I needed.
And I couldn’t have imagined then that the same paper would go on to do that for me in a million other ways. I’ll always be grateful for what The Journal has given me—and this year, I only hope I gave something back.
The Journal is in the most capable hands for Vol. 154 and beyond, and I genuinely can’t wait to watch all the incredible things Jonathan and Eva will do next year. The two of you will without a doubt make The Journal a better place, and all I ask is that you never forget why you wanted to be here.
Julia, Noah, Marijka, Eva, and Cloey, thank you—for the care you poured into every piece, for your patience, and for the quiet commitment to excellence that never went unnoticed. You showed up, again and again, and made this paper better because of it. Noah, you were truly my saving grace this year—the kind of person who makes even the most impossible moments feel steady, even manageable. I don’t think I’ll ever stop telling the story of your interview, taking place over a last-minute FaceTime from a hospital hallway, because it says everything about who you are: showing up, even when it’s hard, for the people who matter. And above all, I think what I’m most excited for now is getting to know each of you beyond this—without titles, without deadlines—just as friends.
Mannat, thank you for the memories, and for leaving your mark on The Journal in a way that truly speaks for itself. What you accomplished this year—securing over $10,000 in ads for the next volume—is something no Business Manager has done before, and it completely redefined what’s possible in this role. Your impact can’t be overstated, and you’ve set the bar not just high, but almost unfairly so for whoever comes next.
Jonathan, I’ve never told you this, but somewhere along the way, you became my favourite person—which is impressive, considering how convinced I was that you were the most obnoxious man I’d ever met when we first crossed paths interviewing for Assistant News Editor in Vol. 152. Joke’s on me, I guess. No matter what chaos was unfolding, on campus or in my own life, you had this way of pulling me out of it, grounding me, and somehow making everything feel manageable (or at least making me laugh about how unmanageable it was). You are, annoyingly, one of the most strong-willed and compassionate people I’ve ever met. Not just in student journalism, but in everything you care about, which, as I’ve learned, is a lot. I’m sitting here writing this with more tears than I’d like to admit, mostly because I’m realizing I’m out of time with you in this space. No more bothering you in your office, no more leaving you cheeky notes on your FLATs, no more arguing about the dumbest possible things.
Meg, I put off writing this because I don’t think words can describe what you mean to me, but I’ll try. You are the most steadfast, selfless, and quietly brilliant person I know. Anyone who knows The Journal knows your name, and how lucky we are to have you at the heart of it. I never could have imagined that one Slack message would lead me not just to a partner, but to one of the most important people in my life. This job can be isolating, but I was never alone in it because I had you. It breaks my heart that this is over. You made me excited to walk into work every day, even when everything felt like it was falling apart. Running this paper meant everything but doing it with you is what made it truly special. Thank you for being my person in this—for every late night, every laugh, and every tear. There will never be another you at The Journal. And I will always be so, so grateful I got to do this beside you.
And Jack, there aren’t really enough words for what you’ve been to me this year. In the middle of everything, you were my constant, the quiet reminder that there’s a world beyond the chaos and that I’m going to be okay in it. You showed up in all the ways that mattered, sometimes with Blizzards and fries, sometimes just with your patience, but always with so much care. You loved me through every version of this year: the overwhelmed, the exhausted, the angry, the joyful, and the in-between. You never asked me to be easier or quieter or less, you just stayed. And that meant everything. I love you.
If there’s anything this year has taught me, it’s that even the hardest endings can make space for something unexpectedly good.
Sarah is in fact ready to send out the Campus Catch-Up sleep deprived and starving, for the final time.
Tags
Editor in Chief, Last words, Vol. 153
All final editorial decisions are made by the Editor(s) in Chief and/or the Managing Editor. Authors should not be contacted, targeted, or harassed under any circumstances. If you have any grievances with this article, please direct your comments to journal_editors@ams.queensu.ca.