Editor’s Note: See Jane Write publishes guest articles by writers who identify as women, non-binary folks, and our allies. Learn more here.

By Mary Chiney

The first thing they teach you in a newsroom is how to disappear.

As a journalist, your training is a masterclass in the art of the invisible. You are taught to stand in the back of the room, notebook pressed against a damp palm, recording the vibrations of someone else’s brilliance while your own voice stays tucked safely behind a press pass. For years, I have made a living in the third person. I have dissected the discographies of global icons for The Quietus, mapped the rising trajectories of African trailblazers for The Recording Academy (Grammy.com) and Afrocritik, and translated the raw, sonic vulnerability of artists like Kid Cudi and Amaarae into the polished, intellectual prose required by “reputable publications.”

In the high-stakes world of culture journalism, the “I” is a liability. To say “I felt” is to invite the ghost of “unprofessionalism” into the room. We are taught that the story is the subject, and we are merely the lens, transparent, unbiased, and essentially, silent.

But lately, I’ve been thinking about the cost of that transparency. When you spend all your time building legacies for others, what happens to the architecture of your own soul? I saw the call for submissions for See Jane Write, and it felt like a mirror being held up to a face I hadn’t looked at in years. It asked a question that journalists rarely ask themselves: Are you the author of your own life, or are you just the biographer of everyone else’s?