EVERY semester, I find myself standing in front of a classroom full of eager faces – students taking my mother’s News Writing course.
It’s become a quiet ritual between us. She’ll call or text, usually with a casual, “Can you spare a bit of time next week to talk to my students about life as a journalist?”
No matter how hectic my week might be – deadlines looming, stories in progress – I almost always say yes.
It’s not because I have time to spare (journalists rarely do), but because these sessions ground me. They pull me out of the rush of newsroom life and make me pause – to reflect, to remember, and to reconnect with why I started doing this in the first place.
I’ve been a journalist for most of my twenties, and every time I walk into that classroom, something shifts inside me. I see those students – notebooks open, pens poised, eyes full of curiosity – and I can’t help but see myself in them.
It’s like looking at a younger version of me: hopeful, unsure, and trying to make sense of what it means to tell stories for a living.
And then it hits me – I’ll be ending my twenties in just two years. That thought always makes me a little emotional.
I still remember my first day stepping into the newsroom: nervous, overwhelmed, yet completely certain I was exactly where I was meant to be. Back then, I didn’t have all the answers – I still don’t. But I’ve learnt that journalism is one of those professions where you grow up with every story you write, every interview that changes you, and every mistake that humbles you.
When I share my journey with students, I try to be honest. I tell them journalism isn’t glamorous. It’s not about the byline or the photo ops; it’s about long hours, unexpected assignments, and the constant balancing act between heart and professionalism. It’s about telling stories that matter, even when it’s hard.
What makes me most reflective is how much has changed since I began. I’ve seen interns come and go – each batch shaped by the world they grew up in.
I remember the early ones, back before artificial intelligence became a newsroom buzzword. They arrived clutching notepads and recorders, eager to learn shorthand, master interviewing, and chase stories on foot. They’d ask about angles, ethics, and deadlines – the foundations of good journalism.
They didn’t have ChatGPT or AI summarisers. Every word was their own, every draft an exercise in patience and practice.
Then came the new wave – the post-AI generation. They’re sharper, quicker, and more tech-savvy. They know how to optimise headlines, generate leads, and find data in ways we never imagined. But they’re also growing up in an age where content is everywhere – fast, endless, and fleeting.
It’s a different world now. I often tell them that while AI can be useful, it can never replace the heart that makes journalism what it is.
Because journalism, at its core, is still about people – about laughter, tears, resilience, and truth. No algorithm can replicate that.
During one session, a student asked me, “What keeps you going?”
I paused. The truth is, it’s not always easy. The industry faces shrinking newsrooms, shifting audiences, and constant pressure to stay relevant.
But what keeps me going are the people I meet. The privilege of being trusted with their stories – to listen, document, and give their voices space – is something I never take for granted.
There’s a certain weight that comes with being a journalist. You carry the stories of others – sometimes their pain, sometimes their joy – and you hold them with care. You learn to balance empathy with accuracy, emotion with objectivity.
Every so often, a story stays with you – one that changes how you see the world, or yourself.
Those are the moments I share with students – not the awards or bylines, but the lessons that come from stories that touched me most. I tell them about the times I’ve held back tears while interviewing someone who’s lost everything or laughed with strangers in unexpected places.
Because journalism, to me, has never been just a job. It’s a journey – unpredictable, exhausting, but deeply fulfilling.
When I look at those students, I wonder how they’ll find their way in this ever-changing landscape. Some might become reporters, others might move into digital media, communications, or content creation.
But what I hope they’ll take away is this: the essence of journalism – curiosity, compassion, and courage – never goes out of style.
Sometimes, after the session ends, a few students come up shyly and say, “Your story inspired me”, or “I didn’t realise how much heart goes into this work”.
Every time I hear that, I feel a quiet pride. If even one student walks away more certain of their calling, then it’s worth it.
It’s funny how life circles back. When I was their age, I’d look up to journalists who came to speak to us, thinking they were miles ahead – seasoned and sure of everything.
Now, standing in their place, I realise none of us ever have it fully figured out.
What changes over time is perspective. The years, the stories, the people – they’ve taught me that success in journalism isn’t about climbing the ladder or getting the “big scoop”. It’s about staying true to your purpose. It’s about integrity, empathy, and the willingness to keep learning – from people, places, and even mistakes.
Storytelling evolves as we do. The tools have changed – from pen and paper to laptops, from notebooks to smartphones, from late-night editing to AI-assisted writing – but the heart of journalism remains constant.
It’s still about telling stories that matter.
When I look back, I marvel at how far I’ve come – the stories I’ve written, the people I’ve met, the late nights spent chasing deadlines. There were moments of doubt, exhaustion, even heartbreak. But there were also moments of joy, purpose, and pride – the kind that remind me why I fell in love with this profession.
And as I look ahead to closing the chapter on my twenties, I feel immense gratitude.
For the lessons, the opportunities, and the stories that have shaped me. For the chance to stand in that classroom every semester and see the next generation ready to take on the world, in their own way.
It’s a full-circle moment every time – from being the student with dreams, to the journalist with stories, to the mentor passing them on.
Each session reminds me that storytelling isn’t just about capturing history; it’s about passing the torch – inspiring others to keep asking questions, to seek truth, and to believe in the power of words.
And so, each time I walk out of that classroom, I carry the same quiet thought with me – that if my journey, in all its imperfections and lessons, can inspire even one student to write fearlessly, listen deeply, and stay human in this digital age, then that’s enough.
Because at the end of the day, journalism isn’t just what I do – it’s who I am.
And sharing that story, again and again, reminds me why I chose this path – and why I’ll keep walking it, one story at a time.
DISCLAIMER:
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.
