As a military kid, I grew up used to change. By the time I was 10, I had already called three different continents home. I constantly had to make new friends and adapt to new schools and new houses.

The one constant was the hum of the national news playing on TV while sitting at the dinner table. My dad emphasized the importance of knowing what was going on in the world, no matter how ugly the story.

What drew me to journalism was change, in all senses of the word. I love the unpredictability of the job. Being sent to breaking news is thrilling. Talking to those who’ve lost loved ones is humbling.

The ability to create meaningful change by holding those who’ve committed wrongdoings accountable is a responsibility I don’t take lightly. This profession is a calling — but also incredibly challenging.

Part of that challenge is learning to succeed in newsrooms where you feel isolated.

In the suburbs of San Antonio, where I spent my teenage years, diversity was not hard to find. My classmates came from all different socioeconomic backgrounds. Just like me, many of them came from households where their primary language was Spanish. Other than being the only Ecuadorian American kid in school, I never felt like I was alone.

That all changed at the University of North Texas. The student population is about 25% Hispanic, but you couldn’t tell by looking at the students in my journalism classes. My time at UNT made me hyperaware of the lack of Latino journalists around me.

This self-awareness, along with the fact that I was going to school during the 2016 election, made me focus on telling more stories about the Latino community and other communities of color.

After graduating, I took a TV reporter job in Abilene, which pushed me to grow. It was the first time I was truly alone in my life. That feeling of loneliness went away quickly by throwing myself into my work. Abilene is where I learned to tell stories instead of just reporting them.

I was lucky enough to work in a newsroom that valued pairing reporters and photojournalists. Without Scott, Joe or Jesse, I don’t think I would have survived the next stop of my journalism journey in Oklahoma.

The two years I spent at a Tulsa television news station truly tested me. It’s a competitive market — and I wanted to win. I was a multimedia journalist. I shot, wrote and edited everything on my own under a daily deadline, something I had not done since college.

Like many newsrooms after the pandemic, this one struggled to keep employees, leaving our staff stretched thin. I learned to embrace being in control of every aspect of my story.

Some days, I didn’t have help out in the field, even though some of my colleagues tried. Like my time at UNT, Tulsa made me embrace being Latina: I was the only one at my station. Despite that pressure, I shined. I told stories that made a difference, like pushing the city to address an aging fire apparatus fleet and crime in an underserved part of town.

I reported on a legal loophole in Oklahoma’s protective order law. A lawmaker ended up watching it and credits my story for inspiring the Stephen Bernius Memorial Act, which was signed into law by the governor six months after my initial story aired. Through the hours of tears and frustration, Tulsa made me a tougher journalist.

Now, I’m back home in San Antonio working for the first TV station that aired something I wrote. I have my own desk, which 19-year-old me would probably not believe.

My mission remains the same — telling the stories of people who are underrepresented in the media, people who look like me.

About this essay

This essay is part of the Latino Watchdogs series sharing journeys to journalism from the National Association of Hispanic Journalists Investigative and Data Journalism Task Force. More from this series: