There’s something most people don’t see in our news stories:
The pause after the camera stops rolling.
The part where I sit in the car… and breathe.
Every interview leaves something behind — a quote, a soundbite, a story.
But every interview also leaves me with questions. And not always for the people I’m interviewing. Sometimes, they’re for me.
Did I ask that gently enough?
Did I interrupt too much?
Was I really listening — or just waiting to fill my script?
As journalists, we’re trained to move fast.
Get the facts. Hit the deadline. Cut the package.
But people don’t speak in soundbites. And grief doesn’t follow a rundown.
I think about this a lot when I talk to someone who’s just lost their home in a fire.
Or a mom who’s grieving a child.
Or a neighbor afraid to speak on camera because they’re undocumented, but still want to be heard.
These aren’t just interviews. They’re exchanges.
And I always ask myself: Did I hold this story with care?
Because people let me into the most vulnerable corners of their lives.
They open their front doors after loss, after fear, after chaos — and trust that I’ll get it right.
And the truth is… sometimes, I don’t know if I did.
Sometimes I replay it all in my head later that night.
And sometimes I cry on the way home.
But I keep asking those questions — because that’s how I stay grounded.
Not just as a reporter. But as a person.
So if you’ve ever shared your story with me: thank you.
And if you’re reading this and carrying your own story quietly — I see you. I hear you.
And I’ll keep asking better questions.
Con respeto y corazón,
José
José Martínez 