All things come to an end. And as this chapter of my life draws to a close, I find myself full of mixed feelings.
I have enjoyed my internship. I can see myself doing this job, as it is something almost second nature to me, but I guess not because I really love it. There are aspects of the job I love, like the rush I get from covering exciting stories, and how no two days are ever the same.
I am also lucky enough that in terms of colleagues, I have the best I can ask for. My colleagues have been a blast, and I feel lucky to have worked with them for six months. They have been irreverent, spirited, and dedicated to the job. Well, it also mostly depends on what time of the day it is, because our enthusiasm tends to plummet after 7pm.
I have also been lucky enough to receive recognition from my stories. I get emails from members of the public every other day telling me that they appreciate what I write, or from those that I write about thanking me for telling their story.
Sometimes, my stories even prompt volunteer organisations or government institutions to step in and help the underprivileged, whether its because they don't want to look bad or because they find out from my story that somebody needs help. I don't really care, as long as it means that someone gets the help they need because I took up their cause.
It is really good to know that for all those hours you gave, as one person, you made a genuine difference to society, a tangible difference that you can see, and several years later when no one remembers, you do, and remind yourself that you helped to make it happen.
It is this aspect of the job that is more rewarding than money itself, the act of service to one's community or country.
However, in jobs, it is often what you hate that comes back to haunt you day after day. I hate the hours. They are ridiculous. I never understood how journalists could work till late every day till I actually became one. Then I realised that as one you're essentially married to the job, and the job is so important nothing else matters. Not even your family and friends. When a call comes in, everything else is put on hold.
I have spent too many days in the newsroom knowing that my mom cooked dinner for me that I could not eat because some idiot out there did something stupid. And I feel bad every time because I know what a luxury home cooked food is, especially when you eat canteen food for lunch every day and it's always the same stuff.
Plus my mom will nag at me the next morning before she goes to work saying I should have called the day before to tell her not to cook my share. I find it difficult to explain to her that news strikes at any time of the day, especially when all I can often muster is a muffled "mmpf". I am one of those people who have trouble waking up every morning, because I love my sleep too much.
It is something I cannot come to terms with, because to me, a job is just a job, and it will never be more important to me than the people around me, no matter what job it is. Doesn't help that the pay is less than spectacular either, which makes the hours we sacrifice look worse.
You give up your social life for your passion, but at the end of the day, when you can serve that passion no more, what is left for you? I think that is the question that haunts all journalists, that huge empty void to fill when you finally finish working and realise that you gave it all up to chase other people's lives.
As you grow older your priorities change. And you might realise in time that you can't work in a job that is as selfless and yet selfish as journalism. It is probably the reason why SPH has a problem retaining talent, because the job is most unkind to those who are the best at it.