Peyton Moore: Before Harbinger, I was an excessive organizer but through Harbinger I’ve learned to live life a lot less seriously

If you talked to me three years ago, I would’ve described myself as a Type-A, certified control freak. Every aspect of my life, down to my sock drawer, was organized to a T. If I wasn’t mentally and physically organized, I couldn’t breathe. 

Color-coded folders organized my school work by subject and chronological order. I started managing my family’s schedule in fourth grade and hung my clothes from most to least worn and color-coordinated them, of course. To say my life wasn’t more organized than The Container Store itself would be an insult. 

But four years and 56 issues later, everything’s changed: I’m a mess.

If you asked Tate who the talkative girl in the back right table was during Journalism 1, he might compliment my active participation or passionate personality. Now? Tate wouldn’t falter saying I’m chaotic. 

He’d call me clumsy, forgetful and a slew of other slightly sarcastic compliments. He’d laugh and say I often have a few screws loose or look like a clown jumping and clapping at the front of the room. My family and friends might say Harbinger’s made me crazy — spending an embarrassing 30-plus hours a week on the publication that fills my drawers and trunk of my car. 

I concoct new words in my rough drafts and await Franny’s amusing disappointment. I’ve converted the J-room into my closet — it steals my water bottles, sweatshirts and lunch boxes more than Addie steals my clothes. I take life a little less seriously as I hop around before announcements and trip over two backpacks and three chairs before reaching Sophia for copy editing groups. 

I’d like to blame it on Tate and his urge to keep us on our toes. But let’s be real, no jerds (journalism nerds) have color-coordinated closets or alphabetized folders. 

Harbinger has made me an obsessive font freak (Piepie is a new fav) who could spend more time on InDesign than sleep in a night. A two-week cycle could entail a journalism convention in Philadelphia and learning to sail in the middle of Kansas for a story — barely leaving time to eat or sleep, let alone color coordinate. Nowadays, deep breaths and Sunday resets are about as rare as an exclamation point in Tate’s critiques. 

I move a million miles a minute, running from the library to my desktop and back on deadlines and belting out Pitch Perfect riff offs while editing spread. But my life’s less serious, more chaotic and a lot more fun. I’ve stopped agonizing over any small pieces of my life that are out of place because it’s less stressful to be a mess.

If I didn’t crack my NSPA plaques by accidentally dancing on them in the back room or talk Franny’s ear off when all she wanted to do was focus, my time in the J-room wouldn’t have been the same. After 56 issues of behind-the-scenes chaos and 83 best friends that may say I’ve been riding the “hot mess express,” I’ve learned to love my inner wild-child and live life a lot less seriously.