In my first career, I was a writer.

I do something different now, but, from the time I could put thoughts on paper, being a writer was all I wanted.

Once I graduated high school, I went to college for a degree in English, graduated, and set my sights on it.

After knocking on many doors, I scored a meeting with the metro editor at the now defunct Rochester Times Union. He was a kind man with warm brown eyes behind thick black plastic frames. I wore him down by calling him every 2 weeks for a few months and landed a spot on the features desk.

It was a glorified editorial assistant job. I was mostly responsible for weekly movie times, the recipe exchange, and writing wedding announcements (yawn), but I wrote the occasional features articles whenever they let me.

I was over the moon -- dream come true, and all that. After the excitement wore off, I realized being a reporter wasn't a good fit. I didn't want to write on command under constant deadline pressure. It was so not sexy in the way that I always imagined it would be.

Deep down, though, I started to feel like reporting on people's stories was a poor excuse for really listening to people's stories. 

Listening, witnessing and honoring what people go through in their Gate Passages is what I do now. It's a much better fit. 

I still love writing. I recently wrote this for Medium. Grab a mug of steaming coffee and have a read. I'd love to hear what you think.