Heidi Stevens: After 23 years and a head full of your stories, this is goodbye

My first day at the Chicago Tribune was the day the Pulitzer Prizes were announced in April 1998.

I walked in to start my night shift, and the newsroom was drinking Champagne. Paul Salopek had just won a Pulitzer (the first of two) for his work exploring and explaining the Human Genome Project, which charted the genetic connections of all people.

I had no idea what I was getting into. I was a 23-year-old intern, hired to design news pages, with a dream of one day writing for a living. This place filled with loudmouths and pranksters and cynics and quiet geniuses, some of whom won Pulitzers, some of whom didn’t wait for Pulitzers to day-drink, felt like a good spot to learn more about journalism and Chicago and humanity.

I wound my way to a features reporting job in 2006, after working as a page designer and then an arts and entertainment editor. I started writing a column in 2012 — a year into a divorce, raising two small kids, trying and rarely succeeding to keep my wits about me. An editor suggested “Balancing Act” for the name, which was a gentle way of saying, “Your life seems like a train wreck. Write about that!”

So I did.

Weekly at first, then five days a week. I heard from readers I hoped I would connect with — other overwhelmed parents, people who knew the sting and liberation of divorce, people for whom balance felt, indeed, like an act.

But I also heard, almost immediately, from folks I had little in common with on paper. Different backgrounds, different realities, different futures, most likely. But their lives looked a way they weren’t expecting, and they saw some of that in my writing, and they wanted to talk about it.

So we did.

What an honor.

And now it’s drawing to a close. As you’ve read, my company was purchased by a hedge fund that is offering voluntary buyouts, and I’ve applied for one. It was a tremendously difficult decision, but one that makes sense right now for my family and my future.

I’m staying in Chicago. I will continue to write. I may even pop up in this space here and there — still working out some details.

But this is a turning point in a career that I honestly feel so privileged to have even tasted, let alone savored and learned and grown in for 23 years.

It’s been a funny fit, in some ways. Journalism demands a certain amount of stoicism and a fair bit of cynicism. I’m not great at either. You probably know the journalism axiom, “If your mother says she loves you, check it out.” It hung on the wall of the City News Bureau of Chicago, a daily reminder not to believe everything you’re told.

If your mother says she loves you, I want to give her a hug. I love mothers. I don’t want to fact-check mothers.

But journalism requires you to leave your comfort zone and track down the truth.

So I’ve done my best.

I don’t write as many personal columns as I used to. Partly because my kids like their privacy. Partly because I’ve developed a pretty robust group of haters, and I lack the stoicism and cynicism to keep offering my heart to be roughed up.

Mostly, though, they’re not what the last few years have called for. I feel like we’re living through a bit of a humanity crisis, where we don’t know or understand one another and we’re surrounded by voices who tell us not to try. To fear each other, sure. Loathe each other, sure. Ridicule each other, absolutely. Get to know each other? Nah.

So I’ve tried to find and tell stories and share perspectives that chip away at that crisis. That introduce us to the people with whom we’re sharing this Earth, ideas that we hadn’t necessarily considered, experiences that let us walk in a different set of shoes for a bit.

And I’ve thrown some opinions at you. And you’ve thrown some opinions back at me. And you’ve indulged me in my ongoing hair saga.

But the storytelling has been the highlight for me. It’s humbling beyond words to be trusted with people’s stories.

I sat at kitchen tables and cried with bereaved parents — people who’ve endured unspeakable grief and then found the strength to speak about it anyway.

I interviewed people in pain. I interviewed people in celebration. I interviewed people who felt undervalued and underestimated and failed by the system. I interviewed people who had every reason to say “Leave me alone” and, instead, invited me to listen. So the rest of us would feel less alone.

Talk about generous. And brave.

If you wrote to me, thank you. If you read me, thank you. If you let me interview you, thank you. If you’ve devoted part of your day to me, thank you. Without you guys, this is a diary. And I’ve read my old diaries. They’re not pretty.

For now, goodbye. If you’re on social media, you know where to find me. I will always want to hear from you. Unless you send me a lot of hate mail, in which case it’s probably time to move on.

My life and my work has been immeasurably enriched by our conversations. I’m eternally grateful. Take good care of yourselves and each other. I really do believe that’s our calling.