I didn’t grow up wanting to be a journalist.
Journalism doesn’t run in my roots. I’m the only one in my family’s generation and will likely be the last. It’s not going to make me rich, famous or popular.
But it’s my mission.
I do this job because this job chose me, and the job has become a calling and the calling defines me.
After five years, I’m still naïve enough to believe that the results of planning sessions and editorial meetings within the four walls of my newsroom make a difference to our readers.
I believe we’re changing the corner of our world – the corner that’s my concern. I believe I have the ability to lead my team to excellence and expose truth. We have the power to ask questions and get answers, to pen the average person’s story and draft history.
It’s stressful, exhausting, mentally and creatively draining. It’s a marathon, a sprint, and sometimes a crawl. It’s too much sometimes - crushing, tumbling, snowballing. It’s emotional, intriguing, mysterious. It’s thankless, gratifying, satisfying, selfish. It’s life changing, life consuming, jealous, an adrenaline rush. It sucks you in for 12-14 hour days, spits you out to sleep and then brings you back for more.
I keep going back for more, because today, and tomorrow and the next day, it’s who I am.
I have a front row seat to history, albeit painful sometimes, and I’m not ready to vacate it.