Ada Lillie Worthington: Harbinger helped me branch out of my socially awkward bubble to tell people’s stories

I hate talking to people.

I actively avoid any social confrontation, always beelining for tablet kiosks in restaurants and choosing to work independently. So naturally fifth-grade-me was set on joining Harbinger — a class where writers talk to dozens of strangers a month. 

Makes sense.

But before unconsciously applying to my worst nightmare, freshman-me had to fend for my life in the woods. Also known as attending J-1 class.

Tate ruthlessly assigned stories that had me interviewing everybody from a terrifying senior to the SMSD head of educational testing. I was exhausted. My life became a highlight reel from “America’s Funniest Home Videos” as I stammered and stuttered through my interviews. But through all of Tate’s “huh” and “????” critiques, one comment loomed larger:

“Really nice job. Hope you have applying for Harbinger on your list.”

Maybe, just maybe, this trek through the woods was worth the excruciating discomfort. So I jumped back down the never-ending hole of embarrassment as a new Harbinger staffer sophomore year. And I panicked. Every awkward silence or stupid question sent me into a spiral of overthinking. Until the last story of the semester. 

In 2023, an East senior received a $20,000 NROTC scholarship, so I approved the story with the editors and got to work. Staring at his mom’s number, I felt the familiar brick in my stomach. It’s going to be awkward — just get through it. With shaking hands, I pressed call.

“Hello! I’m so happy you’re writing a story about my son! He’s worked so hard for this moment, and I’m so happy you recognized his talent!”

My heart stopped. This wasn’t included in my mental script. I stammered out a mumbled “You’re welcome” and continued. But after I hung up, I felt different.

I felt… happy? 

This feeling is what Harbinger is for: telling people’s stories.

I’d been selfish this whole time. My writing isn’t about me, it’s about the subjects. When reading an article about a state-winning student athlete, people don’t care who wrote it — because that’s not the point.

I’ve had parents text me with their thanks, students repost my writing on their Instagram stories and people pass my articles around the lunch table. Writing impacts people. It makes golfers and actors and debaters feel seen and heard.

Now, as the Head Copy Editor — and maybe a less socially awkward person — I still hate talking to people. It’s true, I do. But I’m willing to sacrifice comfort for the smiles I see as students read my stories.
I guess people aren’t that bad.