Between What Is Written and What Is Lived

By Mariela Angella Oladive

When one of my professors asked me last year whether I saw myself leaning more toward creative writing or journalism, I answered that I was leaning more toward creative writing.

My reason was simple: there was more freedom.

It was not a random answer. By then, I had already begun to understand that journalism and institutional communication often move within constraints. There are standards to follow, facts to verify, and responsibilities to uphold.

There are also realities less often discussed—power dynamics, professional boundaries, and conflicts of interest that can shape what is said, how it is said, and sometimes what cannot be said at all. Writing in those spaces requires caution as much as skill.

Creative writing, in contrast, felt expansive. It offered room for voice, introspection, and honesty in ways that seemed less negotiated.

In literature, one could wrestle with truth through metaphor, character, memory, or emotion. There was freedom not because there were no rules, but because the self could speak more fully.

Yet while I answered in favor of creative writing, I was already living another education.

My time in Daily Guardian (DG), which began as an internship and grew into more than two years of professional experience, introduced me to forms of writing I had not fully appreciated before. I remember calling news writing “boring” because it was so straightforward, and simply because I loved fancy words.

My first field coverage was a picket calling for a minimum wage increase. I remember planning carefully to arrive on time, taking a taxi to the venue, only to be met by workers holding placards and demanding wages that could meet the realities of everyday life. That moment has remained vivid to me.

I could not ignore the irony of it. I was stepping out of paid convenience while they were publicly asserting the insufficiency of what they earned.

From that first coverage, many others followed: art exhibit openings, sustainability forums, government programs, business stories, community events, and many more. Eventually, I became a regular employee at DG, and it was then that I came to understand the workers’ plight from my first coverage more clearly.

What fiction often does is create a world to make meaning. News writing, meanwhile, enters the world as it is and tries to make sense of it as accurately as possible. What first felt like routine work slowly became exposure to many kinds of lives and realities.

At the same time, journalistic writing began to feel more meaningful to me. It was more than writing about current events. What made it most meaningful was the privilege of meeting people and going to places I would not have known otherwise. DG gave me experiences I could not gain by staying behind a desk.

Among the moments that stayed with me most were the times I went into the streets and interviewed strangers: a market vendor struggling to make profit, students worried about an incoming typhoon, a trisikad driver dealing with inflation, a mother budgeting carefully, an Ilonggo voter hoping for better leadership. The unscripted ones have always been my favorite.

There were also stories of progress and celebration— cinema events, government initiatives, business openings, and communities creating opportunities for themselves. If some assignments showed hardship, others showed resilience.

But more than the articles I wrote about the people I interviewed, the events I covered, or the forums I listened to, what stayed with me most were the stories of those I worked alongside— the ones that could never be carried by a byline.

They were found in the long hours of waiting under the scorching heat before a program began, in the quiet coffee shared after an afternoon press conference, in laughter during exhausting coverages, in frustrations casually confessed while traveling back to our respective destinations, and in the silent understanding between coworkers after a difficult day.

We write news, relay information, and meet public demands, but at the end of the day, we also become one another’s confidants.

We are often taught to imagine journalism through its noblest language: the watchdog, the truth-teller, the fourth estate. Those ideals matter. But there is also a less seen side to the profession. Behind the headlines are workers with their own exhaustion, unfinished grief, and private burdens.

Some struggles do not make it to print or reach the public eye. A friend overworked but expected to keep producing. Someone verbally abused in the workplace yet still required to remain professional. Reporters carrying personal instability while documenting public events. Young practitioners learning to appear composed before they have fully learned how to steady themselves.

Those who tell the stories of others are not exempt from having stories of their own.

Time passed quickly. More than two years have gone by, and now DG is celebrating its 25th year, a milestone I now have the privilege of being part of.

In those years, I learned that media work is sustained not only by deadlines and outputs, but by people who quietly support one another through them. Perhaps this is what my years in DG have taught me most clearly: behind every article, photo, caption, or report are people carrying their own circumstances while still showing up to do the job.

I never loved creative writing any less, but DG taught me to value another kind of writing too— the kind shaped by urgency, responsibility, and public purpose.

Some truths need metaphor. Others need plain language.

And somewhere between the two, I found not only a profession to practice, but a deeper way of seeing people, work, and the world around me.