There’s a quiet heaviness that comes with covering true crime and missing person cases. It’s not always immediate. Sometimes it’s a subtle ache that lingers in your chest after reading the facts, after hearing the stories of lives interrupted, stolen, or destroyed. And sometimes, when a case touches on domestic violence, abuse, or the murder of a parent, partner, or child, that ache can feel sharp, almost unbearable.
As someone who writes about these cases day in and day out, I’ve learned that it’s impossible to stay entirely immune. My heart breaks alongside the families. I feel the weight of what could have been, the heartbreak of futures erased. And yet, I keep writing. I keep reporting. I keep documenting.
Why? Because this work is not only about others — it’s also about me. News is something that gets me through the day. It gives structure to my mornings, focus to my hours, and purpose to my attention. I approach these stories as if I were a newscaster, bringing them into the light, telling the lives behind the headlines, and honoring the people who were taken or lost. This isn’t just journalism. It’s a ritual, a way to engage with the world on a level that matters.
Sometimes, I stop. I take a deep breath. I step away from the articles, the court filings, the press releases. True crime, especially cases involving domestic violence or child victims, can be triggering. It can take me back to my own experiences with abuse and fear. The stories of Ashley Lockhart, Zanie Thompson, and countless others who vanished or were killed make my chest tight and my thoughts race. It’s easy to get lost in the grief of it all.
That’s why self-care is essential. For anyone covering these stories — journalists, podcasters, content creators, or even avid followers — it’s okay to take a break. It doesn’t make you less committed to justice, less passionate about the truth, or less empathetic. Sometimes stepping back is the only way to return with clarity and compassion, ready to tell these stories fully, respectfully, and meaningfully.
I know this personally. Years ago, I hosted a true crime podcast on Spotify called “Murder, Madness, & Mysteries” (link). Producing that show brought me face-to-face with some of the darkest realities of human behavior. Every episode, every story, required energy — emotional, mental, spiritual. And I learned quickly that without boundaries, the work can consume you. You can care too much, feel too much, and start to lose yourself in it.
Yet, there is also healing in this work. There is clarity in documenting the truth. There is solace in knowing that when I write about a missing person or cover a domestic violence tragedy, I am creating a record. I am giving space to people whose voices might otherwise be lost. I am shining a light on injustice and human suffering, because acknowledgment is the first step toward change.
Writing about true crime is like walking a line between grief and purpose. Sometimes the balance is delicate. Sometimes it tips, and I need to breathe. And that’s okay.
To anyone who follows this work, or who engages with true crime stories: honor your feelings. Allow yourself space to step back, to grieve, to feel, and to rest. The stories don’t lose value when we take a pause. In fact, they gain depth — because we return to them fully human, fully present, fully ready to tell them with the care they deserve.
For me, writing these articles, hosting podcasts, and sharing stories on The Inkwell Times is not just reporting. It’s a way to connect with the world, to confront the darkness, and to find light in remembering those who are gone. It is a form of therapy, a way of honoring memory, and a commitment to truth.
Because in the end, we don’t just report on crime. We report on people. And people — their lives, their struggles, their joys, and their tragedies — are always worth the care, even when our hearts break along the way.
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