Between stories, I’m learning to be still

I’ve had a complicated relationship with journalism lately. This is new. So new, in fact, that if you asked me six months ago what I wanted my future to look like, I would have given you a clear, unflinching answer. Though maybe I was posturing then, too.

I keep coming back to a lyric from Taylor Swift: “How can a person know everything at 18 but nothing at 22?” I’m not 22 quite yet, but I feel the weight of that line settling in. The uncertainty is heavy. It threatens to knock me off balance.

For years, journalism was the floor beneath my feet — solid, steady and sure. It gave me direction. It gave me something to identify with. From the first time I chased a story, tracked down a lead, interviewed a source and shaped it into a narrative, it felt like second nature. A rhythm I found deep comfort in.

When I faltered, struck by imposter syndrome or self-doubt, journalism was the foundation I could return to. It caught me, again and again.

My brother recently started a high-paying job in finance. My parents always say that while he works to live, I live to work. I think there’s a narrative in this field that to succeed, you have to make sacrifices, accepting long, unpredictable hours and a life shaped around deadlines.

I didn’t mind that journalism could consume my life; I welcomed it. I embraced that sense of purpose fully. I've always been drawn to characters like Olivia Benson, not just for their strength, but for their fierce sense of duty. I poured everything into my path, certain of who I was and where I was going.

When others question journalism’s future — in an era of layoffs, shrinking newsrooms and misinformation — I defend it ferociously. I believe in the mission. In the responsibility. In the power of telling stories that matter.

But this fall, I stepped off that familiar floor. I came to Florence, Italy, to study abroad, hoping to grow and take a breath from the constant chase toward my future. I came alone, without a single familiar face, seeking something personal. I wanted to find value in who I was without tying it solely to my accomplishments.

It’s been hard. Harder than I expected. I’ve lived in a new place before, many times, but this time feels different. Disorienting. I’ve been asking myself why, and I think it’s because for the first time in a while, I don’t have journalism to keep me busy. The routine and purpose that once guided me is missing. And I’m stumbling.

I considered diving into freelance work. There’s no shortage of stories here — the political unrest, the cultural tensions. I could be reporting. I should be reporting. A small voice inside me says: If you’re truly so passionate about this, why aren’t you chasing a story right now?

The guilt sets in. The shame. The self-doubt.  What kind of journalist doesn’t rush to report? What if I’m not meant for this?

Slowly, I’m starting to see things differently.

Why have I made my definition of journalism so narrow? Does it only count when it’s published? When it’s polished?

Or is there just as much value in the simple act of learning, listening, observing?

I want to write about my own experience. I want to show how uncomfortable it is to be an American abroad right now. I want to tell people how challenging it can be to feel like a reflection of a nation that you no longer understand.

The ground beneath me shifts, but holds steady.

I’m starting to believe there’s power in taking breaks. I’m learning that I don’t need to be chasing deadlines to be a storyteller. By giving myself space to feel, question and grow, I’m becoming more of who I’ve always been. Someone led by compassion and curiosity — the same qualities that shape me as a journalist.

Journalism still calls to me. It always has. But I’ve stopped expecting it to be my entire foundation. Instead, it’s woven into how I see, how I think, how I walk through the world. In tentative conversations with strangers, in the questions I can’t stop asking, in the stories I’m still drawn to, even if I haven’t written them down.

Here in Florence, I read every day. I sit alone in cafés, listening to conversations in languages I barely understand. I wander around the city, exploring new neighborhoods and communities. In doing so, I’m rebuilding something steadier: a foundation not just of ambition, but of clarity and resilience.

When I return to the newsroom, I’ll do it with a stronger sense of self. Journalism doesn’t have to define me. It grounds me.

And that’s enough.