Kit Kittredge was my favorite American Girl doll. 

I still recall my first trip to the flagship American Girl Doll store on Michigan Avenue during a day trip from Milwaukee. The store was imposing and awe-inspiring to six-year-old Rosie, but the real significance of that day was getting my very first dolly.

I loved everything about Kit. She had moxie, drive and a strong sense of integrity. But what I admired most about this fictional Great Depression-era doll wasn’t her kindness, sense of style or resilience to the onset of poverty in her community. 

Nay, what I admired most was that Kit wanted to be a reporter. 

Like Kit, I’ve always been fascinated with the news and enamored with the idea of telling important stories. 

That’s not to say I always wanted to be a reporter. Not at all. Like many little girls who grew up dancing, I wanted to be a ballerina. Then there was a small stint in my elementary school years when I wanted to be a nurse (odd, considering I dry heave at the sight of fake blood on “Grey’s Anatomy”). Even as recently as senior year in high school, I was determined to make it as a working actor. Needless to say, none of those short-lived “dreams” materialized into any sort of reality. 

In addition to the fictional Kitt Kittredge, I idolized morning talk show host Kelly Ripa. Truth be told, I’m still vying for her job. 

Whenever I fall into crisis mode about what I am going to do with my life, my dear mum always reminds me, “You just need to be Kelly Ripa. You’d be so good at that, honey.” If only there were a clear pathway from lowly college student to morning news personality. 

Through all these passing fancies on the way to finding a true vocation, being a journalist has always been appealing. However, I never really understood what being a real reporter — being an architect of the first draft of history, being the fourth estate, being an emissary of truth — really meant until I came to DePaul. 

My first ever journalism class was winter quarter freshman year. I’d always loved writing, but had never heard of AP style, let alone a “lede” or a “nut graf.”

I had great teachers here at DePaul who showed me the way and made me a better writer. I am so grateful for their influence in my life and work. Without the likes of Jake Cox, Lucia Preziosi, Lilly Keller and the incomparable Martha Irvine, I’d still be writing 2,000-word stories with flowery words no one understands. Now I write 600-word stories about the pope with my eyes closed! 

My colleagues at The DePaulia not only put up with my long-arse stories, but they put up with my incessant shenanigans: Scottish accents, Irish accents, transatlantic accents and occasionally rolling on the floor. Herculean tasks to be sure. 

Being a reporter is a beautiful calling, and arguably one of the most important professions in a functioning democracy. Reporters must be tough, tactful, quick on their feet and most importantly, creative.

Like Kit Kittredge realized, reporters keep society accountable, notice trends and tell unsung stories.

Though I struggle with determining my purpose and often feel unmotivated and sometimes even feel untalented, I cannot deny the feeling I get when I write a story: a feeling of sublime creativity. A feeling of duty. A feeling of love. I never want to lose that. 

I never knew that feeling before coming to DePaul.

DePaul made me a student of journalism, but The DePaulia made me a reporter. 

And for that gift, I will always be grateful.