FOR someone whose job revolves around words, I have found myself unusually short of them this week.
Over the past several weeks, I have been working on a six-part special report series on childhood cancer in collaboration with the Sarawak Children’s Cancer Society (SCCS). It has been one of the most meaningful projects I have undertaken in recent years, not because of the scale of the stories involved or the complexity of the issues being discussed, but because of the people who have trusted me with some of the most personal and painful chapters of their lives.
The series has introduced me to children who have faced unimaginable battles, parents who have spent months and sometimes years living between hope and fear, and families who have learned to find strength in circumstances many of us can barely comprehend. I have listened to stories of resilience, sacrifice, heartbreak and survival. Every interview has reinforced a simple truth: behind every diagnosis is a family whose entire world has been transformed in an instant.
As journalists, we are trained to tell other people’s stories. We ask questions, take notes, conduct interviews and search for the right words to bring experiences to life for readers who may never meet the people featured in our reports. Most of the time, the words come naturally because that is what we have been trained to do. We learn how to organise information, provide context and shape narratives in a way that helps readers understand complex issues.
As journalists, we are trained to tell other people’s stories.
We ask questions, take notes, conduct interviews and search for the right words to bring experiences to life for readers who may never meet the people featured in our reports.
Most of the time, the words come naturally because that is what we have been trained to do.
This time, however, the words have not come easily.
I am currently working on Part Five of the series, which tells the story of a mother who lost her daughter to cancer.
While the interview itself was not difficult because the mother was remarkably open, honest and courageous in sharing her experience, the challenge began when I sat down to write.
She spoke about her daughter with such warmth and affection that, at times, it felt less like an interview and more like listening to a parent sharing stories about someone she loved deeply.
There was no bitterness in her voice, no attempt to dramatise her experience, only a quiet honesty that somehow made the conversation even more moving.
Yet when I returned to my notes and recordings, I found myself struggling to articulate my thoughts in a way that felt worthy of the story being told.
It was not because I did not understand the story. Nor was it because I lacked information. The facts were all these. The chronology was clear. The interview had provided everything a journalist could reasonably need to write a compelling piece.
What I found myself confronting instead was a simple but uncomfortable reality: I could not find words that felt adequate enough to describe the loss of a child.
Perhaps part of that struggle comes from where I am in life today.
With my own son approaching his first birthday, I have spent much of the past year witnessing how quickly children grow and how much joy can be found in the ordinary moments that often go unnoticed. Parenthood has a way of changing how we see the world. It sharpens our awareness of time and reminds us how precious seemingly insignificant moments can be.
As I listened during the interview, I found myself thinking not about major milestones, but about the countless small moments that make up a childhood and a parent’s memories — conversations at the dinner table, bedtime routines, favourite toys, school events and all the simple expectations that tomorrow will arrive much like today.
And then I found myself wondering what it means when those tomorrows are suddenly taken away.
That thought lingered long after the interview ended and followed me back to my desk, where every sentence I wrote felt incomplete and every paragraph seemed unable to fully capture the depth of what I was trying to say.
I have rewritten sections of the story more times than I care to admit, not because the facts were unclear, but because I kept questioning whether any combination of words could truly convey the weight of such a loss.
The truth is that I do not think there are enough words.
Perhaps that is also the lesson this story has taught me.
As journalists, we often believe our role is to explain the world, to provide context, to help readers understand events and experiences that may seem distant from their own lives.
Yet there are moments when our responsibility is not to explain but to listen, to create space for someone else’s voice and to acknowledge that some forms of grief cannot be neatly summarised into a headline or reduced to a few hundred words.
There are still two more parts remaining in this special report series before it concludes, after which I will move on to another project, another story and another set of interviews, as journalists always do.
Yet one of the reasons I have always enjoyed working on special reports is because they allow us to spend time with stories that deserve more than a single news cycle, forcing us to slow down, look beyond the headlines and understand people not merely as subjects of a story, but as individuals whose experiences have something important to teach us.
These projects often stay with me long after publication, and I know this one will be no different.
Perhaps the reason I am struggling to write Part Five is because, deep down, I know it is not really a story about cancer.
It is a story about a mother’s love for her child, about the memories that remain after loss, and about the extraordinary strength required to keep moving forward when the future you once imagined no longer exists.
And when a story is ultimately about love measured against loss, words rarely feel like enough.
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.
