Standing outside the Juniper Road doors of Knott Hall, I said goodbye to my parents in August 1996. I cried, they cried. I thought I knew why the tears were falling: We wouldn't share a house anymore, or meals or the car. That was sad. And scary.

To me, a bouncy freshman still reveling in high school memories, living on my own was as new as the crisp, sky blue sheets I toted in white plastic stacking blocks. For the first time ever, I'd live without my parents. I'd survive because Notre Dame would step in as surrogate parent — complete with rules and regulations.

That September, I began giving my Thursday nights to The Observer. A 17-year-old freshman, I didn't sacrifice Coach's or The `Backer like the editors who oversaw my work did. Those die-hards — who slept on Diet Coke-stained carpets and survived on quarter dogs — welcomed me regardless of my age.

As I worked through The Observer's ranks, these editors treated me like an adult, capable of taking care of myself and their beloved paper. Tossed into a cesspool of responsibility, I was expected to act like an adult — to behave professionally, to ask questions when they arose; in return, I could expect answers in any situation, for any reason, at any time.

With lots of guidance, I faced tough assignments, Diet Coke and horrible hot dogs. I traded school for work. When my fellow employees thought I was ready, I got promoted. I thought I needed more time, more experience. They believed in me.

In the mean time, Notre Dame administrators acted like stodgy parents, treating me and other students like children incapable of maturing. Time after time, they refused to listen to rational arguments strong enough to force changes in University policies. Somehow, students recognized intelligence and maturity in each other while Notre Dame remained a blind parent. Somehow, my friends and co-workers acknowledged my personal growth as the University ignored it.

My mom and dad have said that when they left me at school, they cried because they recognized that I'd grown up. They cried tears of pride and joy, knowing I finally could be treated like an adult. I didn't think I'd understand that feeling until my child packed for college. I was wrong.

Today is "unofficially" my last day as editor of The Observer, and I'm sure I'll cry. Months ago, I thought tears of sadness would fall, reminding me of all I leave at 024 South Dining Hall. If I do shed a tear, though, it will be because I am so proud of those of you who will answer the 3 a.m. phone calls in coming years.

To the University, you are students and, thus, are children. But you know better. You see that in reality, students are adults, professionals and compassionate people. If you continue to recognize this in everyone who walks through the door, you will be like the best kind of mom or dad — the one who, like mine, guides a child, embraces his or her accomplishments and is overwhelmed with emotion when that child finally is ready to face life's challenges as an adult.

And when you leave, you will feel like a proud parent, too.

• A Proud Parent