Originally published in the St. Augustine Record, this was my farewell column to the first job I ever loved.

It’s rough in a lot of places, and 9 years after it was first published, there’s a lot I wish I could change. But it’s nice seeing it now and knowing that the heart was still there, even when I wasn’t sure I’d ever be writing professionally after its publication.

The following six years of my life were spent in oil fields from California to Oklahoma, knowing it wasn’t right, but knowing it was what I had to do. I’m thankful for all of it.

Click the button to read my column at staugustine.com—or continue reading the full, original copy below

By Austen Gregerson

January 31, 2013

There's a line from a book that's stuck with me for some time. Invisible Cities, written by Italo Calvino, is a novel about Marco Polo's conversations with Kublai Khan. Polo goes around Khan's empire to bring back stories of the cities he's conquered, lush, detailed and symbolic of the decay that Khan's territory has actually become.

The line is at the top of page 29 in the book I've had for at least eight years. It's stayed at my desk since I started working at The St. Augustine Record, a tool to humble myself whenever I think I've gotten this writing gig down pat.

"… the foreignness of what you no longer are or no longer possess lies in wait for you in foreign, unpossessed places."

That phrase carried me when I was a 15-year-old Southern California native moving to rural Tennessee. It guided me up to Nashville and down to Miami for college, and 18 months ago it kept my head straight when I moved to St. Augustine to take this job that I'm leaving behind in a few days. For the first few months on the job, I had a hard time calling myself a professional journalist - I still do to an extent, as do some of my detractors. Nobody in my family was in media. One grandfather was a farmer in north Minnesota and the other worked on the railroads. I was always smart growing up, loved sports, but it never occurred to me that I could one day call myself contemporaries with Dan Le Batard and Chuck Klosterman. That was too high; I was smart, but they were special.

Then there was the issue of being bipolar. It's only been diagnosed (and properly medicated) for the past few months, but it's been with me for as long as I can remember. More depressive than manic, my brain, the only thing any of us have to decipher the world we live in, kept telling me those dreams were too big.

But thanks to a few lucky breaks (covering the Shapiro mess at Miami) and some other candidates backing out, former sports editor Danny Klein gave me a chance to prove myself. I was a month out of college serving food in Coral Gables, thinking the closest I'd get to sports writing was giving Heat coach Erik Spoelstra a plate of eggs and a bottle of Sriracha sauce. I had a shot and I got it in one of the worst times for a journalist to be making his or her break.

And I loved it. Each and every story, every dog of a game I covered was the best day of my life. I never liked school, never liked sitting at a desk, so to be able to get out and meet people, to learn organically, was something I've never regretted.

The biggest story I've written was the one about former Nease and current Mississippi State volleyball player Kelly Costeira and her brother. That a family would open up to me in that way, a complete stranger by most accounts, is something I'll never be able to repay.

The biggest mistake? The stories I never got to write. This town is full of them, and from miscues in scheduling to the encumbering responsibilities being part of a two-person team putting out all aspects of a daily newspaper; there were stories that I never got to touch. They'll still be there for whomever takes my place.

And yes, Twitter. If people knew who I was in high school, I wouldn't have a thousand people caring about anything I said. I'm flattered by it and know it's all going away on Feb. 3, unless you still want my snarky pro wrestling observations.

I'm leaving with the knowledge that this place has changed me for the better and with the hope that I've at least entertained some of you enough times to validate a click, subscription or passing glance.

I'm going back to Los Angeles, back to the place where all this started for me. It’s scary; but I won't be the same person, and I owe it to this town and this job, you people that railed me when I was wrong and taught me to stand up for myself when you were misguided.

I can't say for sure if this was the right choice, but I know it was the right time to make it. I'm 23 and forever grateful to all those who gave me a chance to find out what I no longer am:

Afraid.