“EVERYONE you meet is a story and has a story to tell.”
Those were the exact words my chief executive officer, Datuk Dr Jeniri Amir, said during one of our meetings this week.
It was not meant to be poetic.
It was part of a wider discussion about direction, editorial priorities, and the responsibility we carry as a media organisation.
But that line stayed with me long after the meeting ended, perhaps because it felt deeply personal.
As journalists, we meet people every single day.
Some walk into the press conference room with prepared statements.
Others speak cautiously, unsure of how much to reveal.
And then there are those who, once they begin, unfold layer after layer of lived experience — raw, honest, human.
The stories I am most proud of began that way.
A conversation that stretched beyond the initial interview.
A quote that revealed vulnerability.
A pause that said more than words.
I have met people whose journeys demanded to be written, and I returned to my desk determined to do justice to what they entrusted me with.
Those are the days I feel most alive in this profession.
The days I remember why I chose storytelling.
But if this column is about truth, then I must admit something else.
There are stories I did not pursue.
Not because they were not compelling or did not deserve space, but because I was tired.
For most of 2024 and 2025, and the beginning of this year, tired has not just meant long hours in the newsroom.
I am a new mother, and sleep has become something fragile and fragmented.
Research shows that in the first few weeks after childbirth, mothers average about four to five hours of sleep a night — often broken into short stretches.
Over the first year, new mothers can lose between 700 and 1,000 hours of sleep, which is more than 40 full nights.
Deep, restorative sleep — the kind that truly replenishes the body — can drop by nearly 40 per cent.
When I first read those figures, I nodded.
Not because I was surprised, but because I felt seen.
There are afternoons when my baby finally falls asleep and the house grows still.
In that quiet, I sit with a familiar internal debate.
Should I open my laptop and follow up on that promising lead? Draft the feature that has been forming in my mind? Reply to that message I flagged earlier? Or should I sleep?
Sometimes, I choose sleep.
And sometimes, I feel guilty for it.
I replay conversations with potential sources in my head.
I remember someone I met who had a story worth telling — one I mentally bookmarked but did not chase.
I wonder if I am becoming less driven, less sharp, and less hungry.
But motherhood has a way of reordering priorities without asking for permission.
I have learnt that rest is not indulgence; it is necessity.
Without it, patience thins, focus falters, and compassion shrinks.
In journalism, compassion matters.
Ironically, the only time I experience real, uninterrupted sleep now is when I am out of town for work assignments.
When I travel for coverage, I check into a hotel room alone.
There are no soft cries in the middle of the night, no instinctive alertness to every rustle.
The silence is complete, and I sleep deeply — the kind of sleep I used to take for granted.
But here is the paradox.
As much as I enjoy that uninterrupted rest, I miss my baby.
I wake up and instinctively reach for my phone.
I scroll through photos.
I ask how the night went.
I calculate how many hours until I am home again.
The bed may be comfortable, the sleep uninterrupted — but a part of me feels absent.
It is a strange contradiction: longing for rest, yet longing for the very reason rest is elusive.
“Everyone you meet is a story and has a story to tell.”
That quote makes me think about the sources I will interview and the angles I will pursue.
It also makes me think about this chapter of my own life.
About how I am stretched between ambition and exhaustion, between professional fulfilment and maternal instinct.
Perhaps some stories are meant to wait.
Perhaps some seasons are not about producing more, but about learning more — about empathy, about resilience, about grace.
The stories I did not pursue are not gone.
They remain in my notebook, in my memory, in the quiet corners of my mind.
And maybe when I return to them — rested and steadier — I will tell them with even greater depth.
Motherhood has changed the way I listen.
I am softer, more aware that behind every title and achievement is someone who is also tired, also trying, also balancing more than the world sees.
Everyone is a story.
The leaders we quote, the communities we highlight, and the strangers we meet briefly.
And yes — even me.
This chapter of sleepless nights, of choosing rest over productivity, of hotel-room silence and homesick longing — it is part of my story too.
And perhaps, one day, I will write about it again — not from exhaustion, but from gratitude that I lived it fully.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at sarahhafizahchandra@gmail.com.
