Dear Reader,

By fate I found myself in a newsroom for the first time the summer before college. That June, I questioned why I’d picked up a pen at all. My official news reporter notepad was packed with scribbled notes about AP style rules I shouldn’t forget, quotes from interviews before I knew to record them, and trial-and-error drafts that were heavily torn apart by editors — red pen and all. There I sat at my monitor, staring at the blinking cursor of an empty document from dusk until dawn. When words and quotes finally spilled onto the page, I watched them dance around in a rhythm I had never felt before. Backspace. Delete. Reword.

I glanced around at editors with their stacks of books and old articles, at my fellow interns cold calling the mayor's office, and at the team around me that ushered stories into the publication with such confidence. I squeezed my eyes to carve every detail into my memory before switching my mind back to the screen. My thoughts spun — mostly with hopes of sharing my source's story with the world. Then, anxiously, I submitted it to the copy desk for a final round of editing.

My eyes wandered to my nameplate. It was the first time my chosen name had looked so… solid and serious.

That afternoon, I left the newsroom for a short walk. I took off my lanyard, jittering while the elevator bumped down toward the first floor. The sun caught me as I strolled out the front door. The shade of the courthouse enveloped me as I strode toward it with my partner's hand in mine.

I was there to testify as a witness to my partner finalizing his name change petition, and he was more than prepared to testify for mine. His new signature: finalized like ink onto paper, stamped with approval. I stared down at my own paperwork, hands shaking. Once I was called forward, I announced my new full name, the official one on nameplates and bylines, for the first time.

“Granted,” the magistrate said with a smile.

With no hesitation, the gavel banged.

In that moment, I was more myself than I had ever been.

My byline on the front page the next morning broadcast my name to the world, a name that finally matched my nameplate, my court records and who I am.

The word “surreal” is inherently subjective, but for me, it is the way life twists and turns, offering us moments so profound they feel like we couldn’t possibly be experiencing them. It has been, in that sense, surreal to work with this incredible staff of writers, editors and creatives, all of whom have taken an idea and brought it into the world, making this edition a reality.

Dearest reader, I leave you with this:

When you skim the edges of reality, let yourself feel the sun giving way to shade, the grit of the sidewalk under your feet, the steps up to the courthouse. Embrace the contradiction of the surreal, those fleeting moments when time folds and the impossible becomes tangible. The path you’ve walked and the transformation within you are an idea now, and also something that can define your world, as are the infinite doors waiting to open — if only you dare to step through.

With gratitude,

Jase Picanso

Editor-in-Chief