Reflections

“Well, what are your thoughts Priya?” Professor Hank Greely asked. It was a simple question, yet the only ideas I could string together were reiterations of opinions from other people. I had prepared for the interview thoroughly — researching the scientific literature and surveying the prevailing views on embryo genome screening. Still, unexpectedly put on the spot, I failed to articulate my own perspective.

Greely pushed further, posing conceptual questions that forced me to consider the boundaries of the problem. The more I clarified my own thinking, the more I could challenge his. Those 90 minutes flew by as I delved into medical and ethical dilemmas and explored the implications of biotechnology from a societal, cultural, and economic lens. What began as my attempt to restate the “right” opinion became an opportunity to investigate what I actually believed in and understand why those beliefs mattered.

The more I examine why I'm inclined to hold a certain opinion, the more attuned I become to whose voices dominate a narrative and whose are left out. Through journalism, I've learned to ask myself who benefits from a popular narrative and who does not. This awareness has taught me to recognize silence as a unique signifier of where power is being held. We see this play out in the novel All the President’s Men and right next door at the Stanford Daily.

I saw this dynamic clearly when my co-reporter and I decided to interview two teachers who had refused to sign a letter opposing the adoption of a new math course at Paly. Both were visibly reluctant to share their views, as their actions were in the minority, and one declined to speak on the record at all, fearing professional repercussions. As student journalists, we have protections that other teachers or even professional reporters don't always enjoy. I've learned that reluctance isn't a reason to back away from a story — it's often the clearest sign that the story matters.

In addition to learning to think critically and listen for what isn't being said, through journalism, I’ve also learned how to be an effective leader. When I scrambled to pull together a Tiny Desk Spark Grant proposal — an idea I had formed just hours before — our team’s excitement was enough to win us the funding. But producing the actual videos would prove harder than first anticipated. It took us three months to film, and two more months to publish our first video. I had mistaken enthusiasm alone for real leadership. I hadn't articulated clear deadline expectations or responsibilities, and the bulk of the editing fell on one person's shoulders.

I changed course. I started holding regular check-ins, creating timelines, and assigning specific tasks. Through trial and error, I learned that motivation isn't about rallying people around my vision, but about helping them see how their contribution shapes the final product. I made sure everyone understood not just what needed to be done, but why their work mattered to the story we were telling. When new members joined, I encouraged senior video editors to mentor them and oversee the team’s collective editing, which would lighten their workload and build investment. Leadership, I realized, is about creating space for people to lead alongside you.

From discussions with teammates to reluctant teachers and bioethicists, journalism has taught me to ask better questions of others, power structures, and most of all myself. There is no doubt I will use these skills in my life beyond high school, in a college publication, or even a professional journal. Until then, I’ll continue to pursue the conversations and stories that challenge me and complicate the easy answers.