8.09 | What am I even doing here?
Fellowship, freelancing and freaking out about it all.
Written from the couch, in Islington, while I wait for my sheets to air-dry before I can finally make my bed and pass out.
Cheerio! (CRINGE) I’m on week three of this adventure, still in London, and I’ve finally started making some progress in my work. The days are starting to pass in a blur, packed with meetings, coffee chats, interviews, phone calls, emails and reading. Lots and lots of reading.
If you’re reading this — thank you for sticking with me! I think it’s time to tell you what exactly it is I’m doing here, and why I ran away from home.
First, a quick story
I jumped in my sleep. The opening chords of my poor choice of a wake-up alarm song — A Fifth of Beethoven, by Walter Murphy — jerked me awake. (Editor’s note: Never choose any song you remotely like to wake you from your slumber. It’ll never sound the same.)
This was my requisite morning alarm for nearly two years. I never slept enough when I was in journalism school at Columbia part-time and working full-time at The New York Times, so I needed something that would get me up immediately. And this song did the trick. No snoozing possible after the first jarring “DUNDUNDUNDUN.”
Except this specific morning — May 17, 2022 — I woke up so uncharacteristically exhausted that I ended up going back to sleep. As it turned out, I had Covid brewing. But when I woke up half an hour past my alarm, I didn’t consider that. Instead, I realized that I had 15 minutes to get myself fed, dressed and out the door to Journalism Day, an annual tradition at the J School where students, faculty, alumni and journalism professionals gather to confer awards on each other. We part-time students typically tuned out any mention of extracurricular activities at the J School, since our schedules outside of class were often too packed to permit our attendance. My part-time student friends all texted to say they didn’t plan to attend. I really didn’t want to go. I didn’t expect to get any awards, or even honors. But I had taken off work. And this was literally the last event of the entire Master’s program (outside of graduation the next day). So I decided to get my butt up to 116th Street and Broadway. Since I overslept, this involved no shower, pulling on a random business casual dress from the back of my closet (a relic from my pre-Covid work wardrobe) and stuffing a protein bar in my pocket for breakfast. Too rushed to even work a hairbrush through my morning frizz (but always time for mascara).
It’s in this disheveled, sickly state that I hear my full name announced not once, not twice, but three times, echoing throughout Columbia’s Miller Theater. I received the James Weschler Award for Local Reporting, for my story chronicling violent attacks on subway workers during the pandemic. I graduated with honors, part of the top ten percent of students in the entire graduating class. And, I was one of four top Master of Science students who received the ultimate prize, revered across the school, awarded to the likes of New York Times Opinion Editor Katie Kingsbury when she graduated from the program:
A Pulitzer traveling fellowship.
“Each year, in addition to the core Pulitzer Prize finalists and winners, the Pulitzer office announces the recipients of five Pulitzer fellowships. The fellowships are awarded to top graduating students of Columbia Journalism School, which also houses the prize offices. Four [fellowships] provide financial backing for travel required for reporting out a project, while the fifth is designated for arts criticism.” (Quoted from the source: Pulitzer.org)
When I hear Dean Steve Coll, two-time Pulitzer Prize winner and New Yorker staff writer, announce my name, my heart leaps into my throat. Dazed, I step onstage in my wrinkled dress to accept the award. I smile for a picture, offer my sweaty palm for a handshake and return to my seat. They must have gotten something wrong, I think. The white envelope has my name on it. It probably says someone else’s name inside, I tell myself. I open the envelope and see my name.
How’d I get here?
Today I’m on week three of my fellowship. So, it’s happening. Present tense. But part of me — this insecure, self-loathing voice that lives part-time in the ears of most women — still doesn’t believe this is real, or that I deserve the opportunity, that it wasn’t an accident, or a mistake. And if you have questions about why that is, go see the Barbie movie, ok??
It took me over a year of preparation to get here. Many conversations with my ever-supportive team at work, and HR. Coffee chats and phone calls with my incredible mentors. Hours of research and pre-reporting. A thorough fellowship proposal, submitted and approved by the powers that be. Saving money. Budgeting. Planning. Networking. All of the logistics.
Most importantly, I had to decide what I wanted to do for my fellowship. Where do I want to travel? How much time do I need? What stories do I want to tell?
These questions, naturally, were the hardest, and took the most time, to answer. You’ll have to wait to read my stories to find out exactly what I’m reporting on, and where. But the general theme was clear to me from the beginning: I wanted to report on mental healthcare.
If you’re still here, you’re probably a close friend or family member, so you know that my parents, Aimee and Jeff, are both ophthalmologists. The field of medicine has always played a prominent role in my life. The majority of my family friends are doctors or surgeons. At my sister’s wedding last month, there were so many doctors present that we joked in the event of any emergency, we’d be covered. Heart attack? Cardiologist, present. Pregnant wedding guest going into labor? ObGyn, check. Broken limb? Orthopedic surgeon, prepared to scrub in. Champagne cork shot into an eyeball? Nearly a dozen eye doctors at the ready.
To my parents’ open disappointment, not one of my siblings decided to go into medicine. Least of all me — I think I’d get sued for malpractice in 0.5 seconds, if I even made it through training. I faint at the sight of all things needles and blood. Sometimes even just thinking about it will knock me unconscious. I’d pass out into a chest cavity during open-heart surgery or something, and that would be that.
Alas.
My late grandfather, William Shakin, for whom I’m named, was a psychiatrist. We never met, but I’ve always been eager to learn about him, and his work. My curiosity intensified once I turned 14, which is when I was first diagnosed with a mental illness. I started learning about the system in which he operated, through my own experience.
Talking about mental health is so important, and one of the larger reasons I’m dedicating my fellowship to covering it. I’ll share my full personal story here, eventually. For now, let me tell you more about my next few months.
My itinerary has changed so many times already, and will continue to evolve, so I’m also keeping that a bit of a mystery for now. What I CAN tell you is the following: I’ll be in Europe until December 21. I’m not returning to my full-time job until January 2024. I’ll be spending the bulk of my time here completing two deeply-reported, narrative feature stories related to mental healthcare in Europe. I’ll also be freelancing, writing about literally anything anyone will to pay me to cover.
And, I’ll try my best to schedule some time for the whole Eat Pray Love thing and force myself to just be present, reflect, explore and enjoy. This is my first time solo traveling. Right now, I have the luxury of only being responsible for myself. After all, I’m 27 years old. I’ve no money and no prospects….
Love,
Chloe Willow
girl, I love this blog. let’s figure out who is beautiful enough to play you in the movie.
I absolutely LOVED reading this. I actually read it several times. Such talent! Can't wait for what is going to follow. Enjoy this once in a lifetime experience and keep us updated!!