I’m realizing there’s going to be moments in my life where I’m so shocked and baffled that something so horrid can be done to humans, by humans, that I feel frozen in time. And my brain feels waterlogged. So heavy. And this is a result of being a journalist because half the time, we seek out the wrong, rotten aspects of the world in which we live. The grotesque, the horrid, the hidden, the unimaginable.

But the other half of the time, we seek out the creative, profound aspects of that same world. The courage and resilience in the face of threat and fear. The inspiring, the brave, the bold, the jaw-dropping.

I guess I just have to not let the horrid stories win. And, sometimes, the very act of reporting on them is defeating them.

I must remember that.





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