I introduced myself as a journalist for the first time last month. The title felt strange. Like I was a wearing a hat too big for my head, but it fit my style and went with my outfit. I believe if a job doesn’t humble me then I probably shouldn’t have it.
I’ve walked into a home where a mother watched her young baby breathe every day, almost every minute, waiting for the moment when he might stop breathing. I’ve watched a retired, bearded man with a cane do the largest pumpkin carving I’ve ever witnessed. A skate border, a mayor, a converted executive turned artist, a historian, a woman rancher…nearing a hundred stories.
What I know from listened, asking and being curious about these people's lives is I’m walking on holy ground. I get to hear the innermost struggles and the victories of someone who may not share with anyone else. They chose me just as much as I chose them. I feel the hat I’m wearing slip over my eyes at times reminding me of my smallness, and the significance of this role. It’s a special gift to hear someone’s story, and even more of a privileged to turn around and share it with thousands of people to read and feel inspired by. A weighty responsibility. One I don’t take lightly.
Wherever my writing takes me and whatever my path, I’m thankful for the people who allow me to hear their stories and for those who read them. Thank you.