There’s a peculiar kind of vertigo that comes with graduating into a world that no longer resembles the one you trained for. When I entered university, artificial intelligence was little more than background noise: something talked about in labs or TED Talks, but rarely in classrooms like mine.
By the time I graduated from university in June 2024, AI had moved from the margins to the center. It dominated every conversation about work, ambition and the very idea of a career in a future defined more by immediate disruption than stability.
Learning to triumph in the shadow of the machine
In my final year, the classroom no longer felt like a place of preparation—it felt like a place of reckoning. The lectures were still about journalism in name, but they had taken on a mysterious, more hesitant tone. Instead of learning how to report a story or craft a headline, we found ourselves discussing topics like algorithmic bias, disinformation networks and the erosion of public trust. AI was no longer theoretical. It was something professors brought up with a kind of resigned inevitability, as if we all knew it was going to change the rules before we even had a chance to play by them.
You could sense the faculty’s quiet reckoning: What does it mean to teach journalism in a world increasingly authored by code and digital content? Each lecture was less about mastering the craft and more like unraveling its eventual postmortem.
Now and then, you’d hear it muttered in lectures—that journalism was dying, or that we’d need to broaden our skill sets just to survive in the media world. I tried to ignore it. In truth, it angered me. I didn’t stumble into journalism. I chased it because I believed in the power of asking hard questions. I wanted to feel inspired, to be told that this still mattered. That the job of informing the public should not fold under pressure from Silicon Valley or be reduced to something cheap, fast and disposable on a social media app.
Telling truths in a time of digital doubt
The soul of news, the careful craft of storytelling, was not something to be sacrificed for short-lived trends or bite-sized convenience in my mind. Abandoning the mainstream press because “no one reads them anymore” felt like surrender, not progress. I stayed motivated because I cared about journalism, about the public and the delicate difference between storytelling and spectacle.
College taught me a great deal, but most of it lived in the abstract. We observed, we listened, we dissected the media’s evolution, but rarely did we ask how to weather the storm, how to work with AI or how to ensure young voices like ours will still cut through. That silence lit something in me. I couldn’t accept the idea that the house was already on fire. Now, a year later, I’m standing inside it.
In conversations with friends, I often find myself circling back to the question of individual moralism: the conviction that, even as society tugs us in countless directions and professional norms push us toward conformity, there remains a deeper compass that must guide us.
Not just a job: Choosing work that reflects who you are
This question goes beyond journalism. It applies to any job, any calling, any pursuit. It is a question of care—of what you choose to devote your time to and how that time shapes the world you leave behind. Did you help others? Did you lift yourself out of silence or fear? Did you run toward the thing you dreamed of, even when the path was unclear?
And if it ever felt effortless, maybe that was the point. Maybe it wasn’t driven by fear or obligation, but by love. Love for the work, love for the process, love for the possibility of doing something that mattered.
Looking back, I’m oddly thankful that university felt so confusing. It showed me exactly what journalism isn’t: predictable, structured or safe. Unlike other fields, there’s no clear path, and to me, that made it worth something more. Some students were discouraged by the disarray. I wasn’t. I saw it as a storm I had chosen.
After graduating, I returned to what I knew best: writing. I shaped my story, sharpened my ideas and sent them out to every news outlet that still saw journalism as more than content—a craft fueled by curiosity and urgency. Months passed in a blur of pitches and follow-ups, met mostly with silence or rejection. But I kept pushing, often testing editors’ patience and refining my voice, driven by one conviction: I had a chance somewhere, somehow.
Those months spent scraping together applications weren’t easy. Job hunting right after graduation feels like walking through a maze with no clear exit. It’s confusing, intimidating and even more daunting when the market is shaky and unsettled. Even with five years of newsroom experience behind me, searching for the next gig demanded a kind of willpower that borders on madness.
Owning the chaos in an AI world
You find yourself constantly tweaking your resume, rewriting your pitch, chasing after every opening, hoping to check all the boxes, because if you don’t, you might not get a second look. It’s exhausting and humbling, but there’s no other way forward. But like hitting a jackpot or finding that precious lost wedding ring, putting in the grind pays off when you least expect it. The AI age shouldn’t scare you. Get bullish. Own the chaos.
One morning, exhaustion hung heavy over me, the weight of rejection more crushing than ever. I wasn’t expecting anything when I opened my inbox that day, just another wave of silence. Then, suddenly, an email from SUCCESS® appeared. They believed in my story and wanted me on board. In that moment, something I hadn’t felt in months stirred within me: hope. Looking out at the sunrise, I saw perseverance stripped of its clichés. Not the kind they preach in classrooms or Disney tales. It was finally raw, hard-won and completely mine.
Since starting a new life as a news writer, I’ve gone through something like a personal reprogramming. I’ve found a space to write again, and with it, a fresh curiosity about the world has awakened. I began moving more, traveling across Asia and Europe, from the neon-lit hills of Hong Kong to the quiet blue bays of southern Spain. Between long flights, crossing borders and relying on borrowed Wi-Fi connections, I started to see the bigger picture more clearly. In many communities, artificial intelligence simply does not exist. Not as a worry, not as a conversation and often not even as a term.
It made me question whether our fears about the next tech revolution are truly based on something tangible, or if the real problem lies in the slow erosion of drive and curiosity among a generation already told they can’t compete with machines.
Not long ago, I lacked even a basic understanding of computing hardware. Now, I report alongside researchers building the architecture of AI. Immersing myself in this world has not dulled my reporting instincts; it has intensified them. I don’t ignore the fear about AI. It’s real. But each day I open my laptop and start writing, I’m reminded: I have to out-think the machine. That challenge makes me better.
Beyond the hustle: Shakespeare’s ancient wisdom on meaningful work
Sure, if AI can sharpen our skills, expand our reach and refine our work, then let it be part of the toolkit. But if it begins to erode the craft, integrity and human edge that defines any profession, we shouldn’t hand over the keys so easily.
Shakespeare wasn’t a career coach, but he understood what it meant to follow a calling. His characters rarely labor for survival alone; they pursue honor, meaning and the courage to act when the moment demands it. In Julius Caesar, he writes: “There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.” For Shakespeare, the call to act is everything. True work isn’t passive; it requires recognizing the moment, rising to it and letting it carry you toward what you’re meant to become.
Shakespeare wasn’t talking about hustle culture or job perks. He meant something quieter, harder to measure. The electricity you feel when your work reflects the truth of who you are. When you love what you do, the labor doesn’t disappear; it transforms. It becomes sacred, even in its strain, because you believe it’s worth fighting for.
Don’t settle for safe, chase what makes you feel alive
Yes, sometimes tuning out reality is survival. Yes, taking advice can lead to paralyzing caution dressed up as wisdom. And no, you shouldn’t follow a path just because it looks safe, glamorous or universally praised. The age of AI will upend industries, we know that. There will be winners, there will be losses. But the world will never outgrow the need for purpose. For truth. For the kind of work that keeps us curious, connected and free. So find the thing that makes you come alive and follow it like your future depends on it. Because maybe it does.
Photo from Tero Vesalainen/Shutterstock.com
