Field Notes: When the Dream Was Never Real

There is ample grief in realizing that something you wanted to believe in no longer exists in the way you thought it did.

I used to believe in publishing.

I believed that if you cared, worked hard, studied, improved, listened, and kept trying, there would be a place for you.

I believed journalism mattered. I believed there would be mentors, editors, guidance, support, and some kind of path.

Instead, the world changed.

Local papers disappeared. Newsrooms shrank. Social media became more important than substance. People were told to brand themselves, market themselves, become a personality, become content.

It stopped feeling like truth and started feeling like performance.

I do not think marketing and restructuring were ever going to save journalism.

I pursued journalism because I believed in stories and truth. I was looking to understand a world I found confusing. I went to school for it. I published. I kept trying.

But I found no real support system. No mentorship. No stewardship. No guidance. No path. Too often, it felt like extraction — produce, publish, perform, move on.

I regret publishing at all. There was no editorial oversight, no one helping shape the work, no one helping protect the writer. Just deadlines and copy link. No feedback. Just pressure to put more of yourself online and keep feeding a machine. And it was a machine I didn’t understand. And I don’t like it either.

When politicians and businessmen learned how to target journalism and the media, and social media rose, branding became more important than reporting. Engagement. Attention. Good. Bad. It never mattered. Views were king. Traffic. Real or fake. It didn’t matter.

Writers were expected to become personalities first. Everything became faster, louder, harsher, and more disposable.

And now, so much of what remains feels hollow.

I think part of my grief is not only about journalism.

It is about realizing that the American dream I thought existed may not have been real anyway.

I thought there would be ladders. I thought there would be support systems. I hoped. I thought that trying would matter.

Instead, so much of modern life feels like noise, branding, algorithms, set ups, performance, burnout, and trying to survive systems that do not care.

But maybe letting go is not the same thing as giving up.

Maybe it is simply seeing more clearly.

I feel like the dream I had is wholly dead.

Now I do art for me.

I do my garden for me.

I write for me.

Whatever American home I thought there would be for me is wholly missing from the landscape.

So perhaps this is not the end of the dream.

Perhaps it is the end of pretending the old dream was ever built for people like me.

And maybe there is something gentler, quieter, and more honest waiting on the other side.