Change is never an easy thing.
Whether you change jobs, change houses or change life partners; change is hard.
Today I sold my car. I didn’t buy another. I am car-less.
And while I feel so free, I feel quite bittersweet about the whole thing.
Logically, it made sense to sell. I use my car about once or twice a month, if that. I pay for parking. It’s hard to justify paying around $600 a month for a thing that really just sits in my garage.
But emotionally, I feel a little mixed. I bought the car when I got my last job. I needed it because the job was about an hour’s commute away, while my life was in this city.
Almost 11 months ago, I quit that job (in fact my last day was almost exactly 10 months ago), I quit that job. I no longer really needed the car, but held on to it. Now, I feel like I’ve totally cleansed myself of everything to do with my last job. Not that I’m trying to erase it, because I’m not, but the experience wasn’t the most positive and now I have nothing to remind me of it, except for a couple license plates that will be buried under my stairs with the other car remnants.
While financially it made sense to sell, it was also due to me and the kind of person I am. I’m just not a car person. Never have been. I didn’t get my driver’s license until I was almost 18, didn’t really care to drive my mother’s car everywhere. Even when I lived in a small town, I loved living right downtown and walking everywhere. I don’t really know car names or makes or models. Instead I like that purple car, or the blue one, etc.
And while you can debate the reliability of public transit in the city, or the affordability of a car-sharing program, both of those better suite my lifestyle than an automobile parked in a parking space.
I’ll miss the freedom my car allowed, but I won’t miss what the car represented.
That being said, it was quite cool to walk into the bank today and go up to the teller and say, “I’d like to pay off my loan, please.”
As I walked out this was going through my head:

That old familiar feeling
Journalism is a hard industry.
If you want to succeed in it, you have to be driven, focused and tough. There used to be hundreds of others you were competing against for jobs — now with blogs and citizen journalism there are thousands. You need to stand out from the crowd.
This month marks 11 years since the first time I walked into a newsroom. I remember the feeling vividly. As a 17-year-old, the cubicles seemed to go on forever, the lighting was too harsh, the people were unknown. Within weeks, there weren’t that many desks to get through to mine, the lighting was fine, and the people all had names (well in my corner of the newsroom, but I’d know everyone soon enough).
It was in that newsroom I fell in love with the craft of being a newspaper journalist (yes, it really is a craft), and I’ve never looked back.
No matter how many times I hear the industry is dying, I can’t walk away. This is more than a job or a career to me, it is who I am in my bones.
Undoubtedly, the Internet has eaten away at the profitability of the old newspaper model, but it has also opened so many doors in ways reporters never could have imagined. With a quick Google, Facebook or Twitter search, sources can be readily at hand. Stories can be written faster because research is easier to obtain than ever before. I still subscribe to the old street reporting style, but love to use the Internet, too.
Twitter, Facebook and blogs connect you with your readers like never before. There’s so much possibility online, and that excites me. This past spring, I took an online course at the Toronto Star to beef up my web skills not because anyone told me to, but because I knew it would be a great thing to learn.
As far as I’m concerned, the web isn’t to be feared; it’s to be explored. And there’s so much out there to explore.
In a couple weeks, I’ll be feeling the way I did when I was 17. I’ll be starting a new job as a web editor at the Toronto Star. No doubt, the newsroom will seem to have hundreds of desks, the lighting will be harsh and the people will be unknown.
And I can’t wait.