It's been just 12 years, but it seems like an eternity ago -- the day I grabbed that sheepskin, packed every worldly possession into a pile of UPS boxes, and set off across the country to pursue my dream of becoming a journalist.
My first job was 2,500 miles from home, and paid the princely sum of $21,000 a year. No matter, I thought; this was the first step in a noble career as a servant of the people and the truth.
Six years later, burned out and disillusioned after years on small newspapers across the country, I shut the door on journalism. There were many reasons: financial, work-life balance, overwork, stress. But disillusionment was the biggest. Put simply, I had decided that engaging in hack journalism -- sensationalizing and exaggerating the story, rather than simply presenting the facts -- was the surest path for advancement to the big leagues of journalism. And I couldn't do it.
The past 72 hours have provided me with a stark reminder of why I left.
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