You May Think You Know the U, but You Don't Know Me

If you know me particularly well, you know I often don’t feel the need to defend myself. I’m no stranger to debating my beliefs, but I've never been interested in convincing people determined to misunderstand me.

There comes a point where trying to change someone’s mind feels less like a conversation and more like a performance. I've never been especially interested in performing.

And most of the time, I figure my work and my choices speak loudly enough on their own.

But every now and then, life places you in a position you never intended having to argue.

I’m set to graduate from The U in the spring with a degree in journalism. When I was applying to universities for transfer, the University of Miami was my top choice for its connections, hands-on learning, and professors working within the industry. It had the ability to connect me with people from around the world, placing me in situations I would only find in the 305. 

But even as it is widely considered a competitive, top university, it has recently been hailed as a laughing stock. 

Or, at least, that’s what it sometimes feels like.

And if I'd known attending Miami came with a lifetime appointment as its public defender, maybe I would've tried harder for Stanford.

Apparently, I attend Influencer U. If I'm lucky, someone asks whether I spend my days on yachts, my nights at LIV. If I'm unlucky, someone references UM alum Sincere Rhea from Love Island USA mispronouncing ‘epitome’, influencer drama I have no hand in, and the TikToks of students partying until 6 in the morning. 

And if they're really committed to the bit, they assume my journalism degree will be handed to me with a minor in bottle service (newsflash: it won’t.) 

Never mind that I'm not in the trenches of Miami’s party culture, and I’m arriving to my final year without attending a single University of Miami party. 

Even so, I find myself having to defend my decision to come here in the face of people — and the entire internet, evidently — who have already decided who I am. 

More often than not, they get it wrong. 

And that’s the embarrassing part. 

Not because the University of Miami has influencers. Every university has students who go viral, students who party, and alumni who make questionable television appearances. That's life.

But when those moments become shorthand for an institution that is infinitely more complicated than a thirty-second TikTok or a reality show clip, the students become the punchline before anyone bothers to learn the rest of the joke.

It's hard to watch your university trend online for reasons that have nothing to do with the professors who changed your life, the research happening across campus, or the students quietly working towards careers they'll spend decades building. 

But the internet rarely rewards nuance over spectacle.

The problem is that stereotypes only tell you what people expect to find. They never tell you what it's actually like to live here. The version of Miami I’ve come to know exists almost entirely outside of the algorithm of people’s For You Pages. 

I spend more Friday nights writing than going out to bars and clubs. I know the walk between the School of Communication and the newsroom better than I know the route to any fraternity house. I spend quiet mornings sipping Vicky’s coffee and munching on pastelitos at the radio station, cross-legged on its orange and green cushions. I've interviewed Olympians, covered NCAA championships, and spent more time chasing deadlines than happy hours. 

I brunch with my friends, listen to music too loud, complain about traffic, and walk around Brickell in the sweltering heat and sticky humidity. Whatever little free time I have left is spent writing — or when my fingers need a break from the words in my head, reading. 

And if you asked me my plans for after graduation, I’d confess that I’m not 100% sure — though I am convinced they involve me packing up and moving to Boston or London… a big city with four seasons, tons of history, and accents that make me grin. 

None of these experiences or ambitions fit neatly into the version of Miami people have already written for me. It doesn’t account for the thousands of students on campus working towards their future who are being judged by minute-long videos and influencer drama that literally has nothing to do with them.  

I don't say this because I think one version of Miami is more legitimate than another. I say it because it’s unfair that only one version seems to define the rest of us.

On one side of our campus, students are filming content that will end up on millions of TikTok feeds and land them brand sponsorships or cast on a TV show. On another, they're conducting marine research at the top of its field, treating patients, building startups, producing Emmy-winning journalism, and preparing for careers that have nothing to do with influencers or yachts. 

Both versions thrive here. 

One just happens to garner more attention. 

And that’s the version we’re all judged by. 

But maybe that's the cost of attending a university whose loudest moments aren't always its proudest. You inherit a reputation you didn't build, then spend four years trying to convince strangers it isn't the whole story.

Sure, part of my school’s culture is defined by yachts, influencers, and bottle service at nightclubs.

The culture I’ve found my home in, however, was built in newsrooms, studios, and offices — by professors who changed the trajectory of my life and friends quietly building futures that rarely go viral.

That's the University of Miami I'll remember.

It's just harder to fit into a thirty-second TikTok.