As a features journalist, I’ve always felt my job is to notice and bear witness. To find the right voices to help tell a particular story and convey them authentically to my readers. Often, the topics are light, but sometimes there’s a more difficult story that needs to be told. Those are the ones that leave their mark.

A few come to my mind in quiet moments. A couple of years ago I spent time in a supported hostel, sitting across from women with lived experience of homelessness as they warmed their hands on cups of tea and opened up to me about their lives. Every story was different; some had been wrenched away from their children, others sexually assaulted, many faced daily abuse from members of the public who’d decided they deserved to be exactly where they were: on the street and alone. The through-line of their stories was utter neglect. Their cries for help had been ignored by the institutions that were supposed to protect them again and again. Writing up their words, I felt totally helpless.

Usually, I believe in the power of journalism to raise awareness, change hearts and minds, and fight for what is right. But in moments like those my belief feels painfully naive. A sort of listlessness came over me during that project that it took months to shake. Every day I’d ask myself: what is the point of what I’m doing? Will it help those women? Will it help anyone?

I’ve had other dips like this throughout my career, usually sparked by an injustice I wish I could do more to correct. The interview with a young asylum seeker besieged in a tiny hotel room. The conversation over a crackly line with a 12-year-old girl banned from school in Afghanistan. The countless features I’ve written on women’s health that only revealed more layers of the medical misogyny baked into our culture. With some topics, the more you know, the lower you get.

I used to berate myself for these work-induced dips in my mental health, feeling silly. Shouldn’t I count myself lucky that I’m not a war reporter or an investigative journalist who’s up close and personal with danger every day? Isn’t being a conduit for others’ painful moments the very least I can do?

But talking to yourself unkindly is never constructive. The real antidote to feeling powerless, I’ve found, is to take some action no matter how small. If a particular story weighs heavy on my mind I’ll try to do something to push the needle: volunteering a small chunk of my time, like I did at that shelter; following up with another article that’s more in-depth; or simply bringing the issue to the attention of someone who has more power than me.

I still believe it’s my job to bear witness. But now, when a story strikes deep, I allow myself to feel my feelings and act on them wherever appropriate. There’s no compartment in your brain where you can lock away the tricky stuff, so don’t be hard on yourself when the work sometimes hurts. It just means you’re human, and humanity is exactly what journalism needs.