“Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.” Tolstoy
After much soul-searching, I came to the decision recently that it was time for me to step down from my 23-year career as a journalist. It wasn’t an easy decision. Journalism is really all I’ve ever known, ever done, ever been.
I remember walking into the newsroom of the McPherson Sentinel on a December day that was frigid and windy as only winter in Kansas can be, but shaking more from nerves than the temperature. The ink was barely dry on my two-year degree and my resume was written in a really huge font, which I hoped would distract from the fact that there wasn’t anything on it but my name and telephone number.
Of course, now I had this new job to add. Christy Potter, staff writer. I gazed and gazed at those words when I got my first byline. Then I put them on the photocopier, enlarged them, laminated them with Scotch tape, and stuck them to the top of my computer monitor where I could see them every day. I still have it here, in my box of memories. They were so symbolic to me, those words. I had always considered myself a writer, but now I had a place to belong. I was a reporter, and from the moment I sat down at my new desk, I told myself I was going to be a good one. I saw myself as Lois Lane, as Brenda Starr, out to save the world in my never-ending pursuit of truth, justice, and a great headline.
And I was a good reporter. It was more than awards from the state press association that told me so. It was how I felt when I was covering a story, when someone would call me to give me a great scoop. It was the little surge I’d get inside when I’d see someone in a coffee shop reading something I’d written in that evening’s paper. It was the feeling of absolute, perfect peace that would find me when I was on deadline, pounding out a story, one eye on the clock as my editor waited to put the paper to bed … that sense of well-being that whispers in your ear, “This is where you belong.”
I always had a long, narrow reporter’s notebook in my bag or my hip pocket, I always had my “nose for news” to the ground, I loved that when people saw me, they’d say, “Uh oh… here comes the press.” I sometimes worked late into the night when my friends were out unwinding at a local bar after their own long days at work. It was different for me. Journalism wasn’t a job for me, it was me. I was never “off work” for the night because I carried it with me wherever I went. You never knew where news was going to happen, and I was ready for it. I loved it. I loved all of it. I fit. I was happy.
But in recent years, things changed. There was no lightening-bolt moment – it was more of a shift, almost imperceptible at first, inside of me. The once-happy relationship I’d had with journalism had begun to dull. I tried moving around within the field, different positions, different publications, but it soon became crystal clear what the problem was: it no longer felt right and fulfilling to me. I don’t know if something grew, or maybe shrunk, but either way, I was no longer happy. I no longer fit.
The decision to “retire” from journalism splintered into a thousand reasons, all of them valid, all of them staring me in the face, slowly edging closer, unwilling to be ignored any longer. I talked about the gritty side of today’s journalism in my latest podcast, but here, suffice it to say I just felt it was time for a change. I’m 44 years old, and although longevity so ridiculous it borders on cryogenic tends to run in my family, for all intents and purposes I’m middle-aged. Spending the rest of my life doing something that no longer fulfills me is not an option.
Writing, however, does fulfill me. I hope you guessed that at some point. So as of today, I am officially a retired (or “recovering” as one of my journalist friends put it) journalist and am focused entirely on my creative writing. My books, this blog, and my podcast. I’m surrounded by a wonderful network of support, both here and in the UK, and while I may work by myself, I know I’m never alone. I’m at peace, but more than that, I’m happy. I fit again.
I will never regret being a journalist – they were some of the happiest years of my life. I learned so much from so many people, from David Bloom, who took me under his wing during my broadcast internship, to Tom Throne, now the editor of the Weekly Vista in Fayetteville, Arkansas, who was my first boss, my first editor and is still my mentor and friend. I’ve had colleagues at newspapers in three states, and while many of them are still in the business and will be until they retire, I know I have their support as I strike out on my new venture.
As I look back, then train my gaze forward, I realize just how blessed I am. So… here’s to new beginnings, to life, to love, and above all, to writing.
