Rose in Barren Soil
When I decided to become a journalist, I had no idea how profoundly this profession would change my life.
At the time, I understood journalism simply as the work of finding the truth and bringing it to the public. But as the years passed, I came to understand that being a journalist is about much more than writing the news. It also means learning to live with the grief, fear and hope contained in the stories we witness.
I am a journalist. But I am also a woman and a mother.
Whenever I leave home for an assignment, a question follows me:
Will I make it home tonight?
I worry less about myself than about the child waiting for me at home.
In Myanmar, being a journalist is no longer simply about finding a story. You are constantly thinking about security: whom you can contact, when it is unsafe to make a phone call, where you should not take photographs, and what information you can safely carry with you.
Living with those calculations every day creates a pressure that quietly accumulates.
The Images That Follow You Home
Among the memories I cannot erase are the young people I saw shot dead in North Okkalapa Township.
As a journalist, I had a responsibility to document what happened.
As a human being, I could not simply leave those images behind when the assignment ended.
At night, they returned.
I would close my eyes and see them again. There were many nights when I could not sleep.
My home is also close to Mingaladon Air Base. After the military coup, the sound of fighter jets flying at night became enough to wake me suddenly from sleep. Even when the aircraft sounded far away, my body reacted as though danger were approaching.
Eventually, experiences like these became part of everyday life.
That was when I began to understand something about journalism that no one had taught me: while journalists document other people’s trauma, we can quietly begin carrying that trauma ourselves.
When you spend your days hearing about deaths, conflict, displacement, floods and families being torn apart, the work may finish at the end of the day, but the stories do not necessarily leave with it.
Sometimes, as I try to sleep, I still see the faces of the people I interviewed. I hear their words again.
Journalists become so accustomed to listening to other people’s pain that we sometimes forget to listen to our own.
When the Headline Is Someone You Know
I regularly hear about fellow journalists being beaten, arrested or sentenced to prison.
For me, these are never just headlines.
They are people I have reported alongside. People I have laughed with. People with whom I have shared difficult days.
I did what little I could. Sometimes, I sent snacks and small packages to colleagues in prison.
I knew these were not significant forms of assistance. But I wanted those small gestures to carry a message:
We haven't forgotten you. You are not alone.
Yet even while trying to support them, I worried about my own safety.
Every time I heard that another journalist had been arrested, the questions came automatically:
Could I be next? When will it be my turn?
Those fears are not abstract. Myanmar remains one of the world's most difficult environments for press freedom. In Reporters Without Borders' 2026 World Press Freedom Index, the country ranks 166th out of 180.
And yet, amid those conditions, Myanmar journalists continue to receive international recognition for their work. In 2026, Myanmar Now journalist Nay Min Ni received an International Women's Media Foundation Courage in Journalism Award for continuing to report from inside Myanmar while in hiding. Myanmar Now photojournalist Sai Zaw Thaike, who is serving a 20-year prison sentence, received Reporters Without Borders' 2026 Courage Prize.
For journalists like me, recognition like this brings pride. But it can also bring strength—the reminder that even under immense pressure, the work of documenting what is happening still matters.
The Choice to Stay
Some of my fellow journalists have moved to areas outside the military's control. Others have sought refuge in third countries.
Friends who had already relocated repeatedly encouraged me to join them.
But for me, leaving was never a simple decision.
My son has Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) and needs regular treatment and ongoing developmental support. As his mother, I had to consider his health and future alongside my own safety.
So despite knowing the risks, I made the difficult decision to remain inside Myanmar so that he could continue receiving the care he needs.
It is one of the contradictions I live with every day.
I am a journalist trying to protect the public's access to information.
I am also a mother trying to protect my child.
And sometimes those two responsibilities pull me in different directions.
Reporting While Living the Story
Since the 2021 coup, conflict and political upheaval have transformed everyday life in Myanmar. The military activated the People's Military Service Law in 2024, and the current military-backed government has said it will continue implementing conscription.
The political landscape has also shifted again. Min Aung Hlaing became president in April 2026 following elections that were widely criticized by opponents and several international actors as neither free nor fair; China, by contrast, supported the electoral process and has deepened engagement with the government.
These political developments sit alongside the realities people experience every day: insecurity, conflict, economic pressure and uncertainty about what comes next.
For me, these are not circumstances I observe from a distance.
I live inside them.
And I continue to report from inside them.
As Myanmar's political and armed conflicts have stretched on, the physical and emotional exhaustion has grown.
Journalists who have relocated to places such as Chiang Mai and Mae Sot can sometimes access counselling, psychosocial support, wellbeing activities and other forms of assistance through media and civil-society organizations.
For journalists who remain inside Myanmar, opportunities for this kind of support can be much harder to reach.
And that matters.
Because journalists cannot endlessly absorb other people's trauma without being affected themselves.
Learning to Draw Boundaries
It took me time to understand that wanting to carry other people's voices does not mean I should neglect my own wellbeing.
If I cannot care for myself, I cannot continue doing this work for anyone else.
So I have started creating small boundaries.
When work ends, I sometimes switch off my phone and spend time with my son.
We eat together without talking about work.
We play.
During the day, I try to find even a few quiet minutes when I can simply pay attention to my breathing.
And when I feel that I no longer have enough strength to carry everything myself, I talk to colleagues I trust.
Sometimes I wish someone had told me this when I first became a journalist:
Protect your mental health with the same seriousness with which you protect the truth.
I have also come to understand courage differently.
Courage does not mean being without fear.
For me, courage is feeling afraid and still finding a way to carry out your responsibility.
Listening to Our Own Hearts
I am still reporting today.
The challenges have not disappeared. Neither has the stress.
But I have learned that becoming a good journalist is not the only thing that matters to me.
I also want to be a good mother.
And I want to become someone who knows how to care for herself.
As journalists, we spend our lives carrying other people's voices to the public. We listen to their fear, grief, anger and hope so that their experiences will not disappear unheard.
But sometimes, we also need to listen to the voice inside our own hearts.
Because only when we learn to care for the person behind the byline can we continue doing the work we believe in.
Perhaps that is what survival looks like for a journalist in Myanmar today:
continuing to grow, even in the harshest soil.
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