When I traveled to London, Dublin and Paris earlier this year, taking photos of people actually reading newspapers became sort of an obsession for me. As a young journalist who was thrust out of school a little over three years ago into a melting media market that bled jobs daily, life became uncertain and depressing and well, worrisome.

I felt as though the dreams I had been building upon since middle school of becoming a writer were falling through the cracks – and that I would never get them back. I never could be a Nicholas Kristof of the New York Times, writing about worldly problems and changing the world in the process. I could never be a Ben Badikian, an editor at the Washington Post who came into possession of The Pentagon Papers. I would never be in that atmosphere. That excitement, that time.

I could never write for the Los Angeles Times or Atlantic Monthly or the dozen other publications which I cherished more than life itself.

And while now, I have resolved my fear and am more in the “I can” rather than the “I can’t” box, the possibility of not fulfilling my passions is still a frightening concept. I know I have what it takes to write for the L.A. Times and the NY Times and whatever else. I just know it. It’s the one thing in my life that I am completely, 100 percent sure of. When I get there, I don’t know. But I will get there.

In the meantime, I found comfort knowing that there were still people who actually read newspapers, even if it was overseas. There are papers everywhere you go in London. On the tube, in cafes, on the street – it’s really a reading culture, and as someone from Los Angeles which suffers more from a “tv culture,” it made me feel at home.

The world of media is changing right in front of our eyes and it’s amazing to be in the middle of this revolution. I am excited to see what the future holds for journalism, but for now, I revel in the fact that somewhere in the world, someone cares.