As the mother of the late Swedish journalist and Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism alumni Kim Wall described in her book “A silenced voice. The life of journalist Kim Wall”: after Kim had graduated from Columbia University, the editors from the big, global news platforms started contacting Kim – prior to graduation it had been the other way around. I see journalism as a way to represent the world. During an internship in Costa Rica I was severely injured in a car accident, but my perseverance and drive never faltered. I finished my college studies from the hospital bed. My love for journalism remained intact despite these overwhelming obstacles, if anything, they made me more determined to reach my goals. The best storytellers are ceaseless learners. I want to write about subcultures as well as under-reported subjects – themes I am exploring for my Master’s project. I aim for the international news platforms as my future work place. Washington post being one of them. I see journalism as the most important task I will ever do. I live to tell stories about the societies we live in, the people we are and the symbiosis between us. That which the media focuses on creates the norm, and even in the most progressive countries stereotypes are upheld and represented one-sidedly. But, without the media present, no one would cast a light at the dark corners and blind spots and the obscure companies and organizations who prefer to operate therein. I want to dig deeper and investigate similar subjects even harder to help dissolve on destructive structures. Having the financial means to achieve a master’s degree at Columbia Journalism School could move my journalism to more far-reaching and versatile platforms. Just like the late, and very brilliant, journalist Kim Wall did.

Things one may think about when one’s leg goes missing: “This really hurts.” “Should I call mom?” And then a simple statement, slowly, observingly: “I don’t think I will ever walk again.” I had left my house to dance cumbia by a beach bonfire, cradled under a sky so crushed with stars it looked like a dome, encapsulating us. I remember exactly what I was wearing. I remember dialogues I had, word for word. I remember what I was singing in the car as I spotted the curve the driver did not. When the somersaulting car was flipping us through the night, I did not feel frightened. If death would have come, it would have been a friend, painless and quick. But it didn’t. As I was rolled out of the ambulance plane, Dr. Loyola told me his list of priorities: One, my life, and two, my leg. I protested loudly. I cannot live without my leg. Having chronic pain sounds like a nightmare to many people. Pain and happiness are each other's opposites, or that is what I thought until I got tired of being sad. I started writing lists of everything I can do: fall in love, sleep in, laugh, swim, see my granddad, sing, answer the phone, write stories. This is the meaning of life: to simply live it any way you can. As intoxicating as life was “before”, my “after” is richer than my “before”. As if it had all been there since the beginning of time, waiting for me, even the curve that threw the car in loops and pushed the tropical soil deep into the hollowness of my bones. Like a perfect storm there was this omniscient order. Like someone pulled a string and said: “It is okay, little one, you are ready now.”