It’s strange to think that this will be the last column I write for The Vanguard. Honestly, it makes me a bit sad—there are a lot of stories that I would’ve liked to share. I never got the chance to write about my other stuffed animals or the “Miley’s Dad” T-shirt or the giant “MILEY” written in Pokémon cards taped on the living room wall.

Admittedly, I have no idea where this column is going. I knew that I wanted my final article to be about why I write about the stories that I do. But a lot of what I was saying felt cliché and contrived, so I scrapped 500 words because I want to give my last column the honesty it deserves.

I’ll start with what I know. I’d like to believe that the stories I’ve told in my articles are somewhat unique— I’m pretty sure that diaper-wearing stuffed cats are not a staple of every home. I also hope that my readers get something out of my columns: a smile, a laugh, or even some food for thought, if I’m lucky.

Personally, I believe that any good story contains three things: entertainment to hook a reader, a purpose to drive the writer, and the one I have the most trouble with, vulnerability. Vulnerability is hard because it means offering a fundamental part of yourself up to a wider audience to judge. I don’t like being vulnerable because it leaves me feeling like I’m trying to play a piano without hands.

After writing and rewriting and rewriting again, I’ve come to a conclusion. I write stories with big, bold, crazy things happening in them so that I can hide the vulnerable message inside. At the end of the day, my columns would work without diaper-wearing cats and rumors about North Korean spies and poop jokes and unfortunate wall coloring. My columns would not work without vulnerability because, stripped to their core, my stories are about fear.