Because I Love the World

I just want to make people happy.

I just want to make them feel safe and warm and welcomed and loved. I want people to trust me, to find a friend in me no matter who they are. I want to care for others, and I want them to feel better because of it.

At the end of the day, I just want to be there for whoever needs it, and I just want the world to finally realize it is loved.

There’s so much hurt and so much pain right now — so many who are unhappy and have lost their ways — and I just think it’s so unfair. Why are they sad? Why are they hurting? And why is no one helping them?

It makes me want to do everything I possibly can in order to change things, in order to help make the world better, and I have to ask: What’s wrong with that?

You see, I decided to go into journalism because I knew I had a talent in writing. I’m able to take words and put them together in a way that gives them some sort of meaning and makes someone somewhere care. Because I can write, I can impact others, and so I latch on to it tightly.

I guess that’s why journalism only seemed a natural choice for me. With it, I would be able to take sorrow and hope and tragedy and joy and turn them into life-changing, world-changing, generally meaningful things. And that, to me, was a dream.

However, I’ve found out recently that not all journalism is quite as…captivating, for lack of a better word, and it’s starting to make me question whether or not this career choice is actually for me. Through my work, I’ve encountered some pretty mean and nasty individuals who aren’t trying to better the world through their careers at all, and I’m not too sure I can handle working with people of that nature every single day for the rest of my life.

I am very blessed right now, being able to spend most of my journalistic time in a newsroom with those who I very happily call both my coworkers and friends. But before, it was never that way, and I know that it probably never will be again. This, then, obviously makes me wonder if I’ll be able to survive the industry.

I have a bleeding heart, after all, which means that if I’m constantly surrounded by mean workers and mean sources and mean bosses and mean everything, it will break me. And that will be my end.

I guess it’s just hard finding out that everyone isn’t as compassionate as I. I don’t mean to sound vain here, but it’s true; there are very few people I’ve met who care the way that I do, and while it’s tolerable knowing apathetic individuals elsewhere in life, in a field that deals almost entirely with only heartbreak and heartache and tragedy and blah, it’s more than disenchanting to find not every single journalist as jovial.

It really makes me wonder if they all started out the same — if we all start out the same. Maybe we all just end up miserable and uncaring because the job’s easier that way. Maybe it’s just the rookies and novices who are happy, and the more experience we get, the more hardened we become.

If that’s the case, then I don’t want to go any further. My kindness is something I refuse to lose, and I will give anything in order to keep it — even my dream.

You know, I don’t even know what type of journalism I want to pursue anymore. I used to dream of doing hard news — maybe even in a war zone — just because it seemed important and vital and needed. But now every time I think of that, I can’t help wonder if it even has any worth. Yes, there’s information that needs finding out, but is that all? Is there nothing more?

The same goes for the fluffy stuff. Features articles, entertainment pieces — well, what good do they give to the world, other than a flash of momentary happiness?

Will anything I do in this field ever really affect anyone, ever really change someone’s life and thus make this world just a little bit of a better place?

What’s the point? As reporters, why are we covering the things we are, doing the things we do? Why are we telling people what’s important in the world? Should they be the ones telling us? What is all of this even really about?

I don’t know. I sit down and try to reason it out now and again, but I honestly just don’t know.

This may sound stupid, but I just want to know what purpose I have, and if I have none, then I want to know why I’m even bothering.

Every bone inside of me aches to the very core when I think about making no difference with this career, and that aching always leads me to believe there’s another path. But when I think about leaving, it all only hurts even worse.

So I don’t know. I just never really know.

Maybe that just means it’s destiny. I’ll always be hunting for facts, looking for interesting stories to use to rip off the Band-Aid that covers the earth, letting the wound air out and finally heal.

I know what I want to do, but I’m a bit afraid to face it. I want to write about people — people with amazing, awful, beautiful, painful, hopeful, harrowing lives, people who have hurt and people who have healed, people held in prison and people roaming free. I want to get to know them — all of them — so that the rest of the world can know them all, too. And that will make a difference. It will bring forth more compassion, whether through hope or heartbreak, and it will helo make the world a better place.

Why do I want to do this? Because if not me, then who else will? There are some things no one wants to do, and getting close to others is one of them. But I’m willing to take on the task.

It needs done. So why not do it?

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