the moments before and after freedom.

I woke up at 4:30 a.m. with a stomachache. That stomachache was more than a reflection of the two dinners I had the night before; it was the result of the nervousness I was feeling. I went in and out of sleep for the next two hours and was ready to be picked up at 7 a.m. sharp. 

Me and the photographer, Justin, decided to leave Columbia a full hour before Jeff Mizanskey would walk out of the prison in Jefferson City. We wanted to be there to capture those first moments of Mizanskey walking out as a free man for the first time in 21 years. 

And then life happened. 

We got stuck in 25 minute bumper-to-bumper traffic, pushing our ETA back from 7:40 to 8:05. Think of how much value is in five minutes, especially in those. Google Maps suggested an alternate route that bought us two minutes of time. So yes, we would have gotten there at 8:03, had there not been a train crossing that we had to stop and wait for. HA. 

We ended up pulling into the Correctional Center at 8:04. By the time I joined the crowd with my notebook, Mizanskey was already giving his statement. Justin also joined the crowd, but with all of his equipment, ready to capture the emotion of relief and freedom. 

We missed it. The initial moment of a man being reunited with his family and friends, had passed. 

As important people took turns behind the podium, a man touched me on the shoulder, asking if I was with a man named Ryan. I didn't recognize the face of this man, nor was I with a Ryan, so I quickly said no. Come to find out, that man was Chris Mizanskey, Jeff's son. Because I had not done my homework, I let an important person tap me on the shoulder and walk away. 

The entire thing happened very fast. I listened intently, gathered a few quotes and then Justin and I were on our way back to Columbia by 8:40 a.m. Don't worry, no traffic this time. 

The rest of my day was spent in the newsroom, working with an editor that taught me many lessons in the short time we worked together. 

Multiple times, she would put a pause on our intense concentration, more for my benefit than her own. 

"You done this before?"

"No."

"You can do it," she said. 

We worked together for five hours, merging two stories together to form one. It was a process of editing, playing puzzle and fact-checking with a few moments of relief, thanks to Elizabeth. 

It felt incredible to sit there and have someone sort through your work, helping your voice and emotion to be heard and felt. Not only to push you and challenge your reason for every sentence written, but at the end of to look at you and tell you what you did well. 

There isn't a right way to teach someone something, but there is a wrong way. The same goes for a lot of things. There isn't a right way to tell a story, but there is a wrong way. That day my editor was right in her way of teaching me something I will never forget, and I was right in telling a story in how I felt it should be told. 

I walked out of the newsroom, feeling accomplished and free. I wandered how Jeff Mizanskey felt when he walked out of prison from being in there 21 years, in comparison to me walking out of the newsroom from being there for five hours. I couldn't wrap my head around it and I wasn't meant to.

How boring life would be if you fully understood someone's story, recognized every face of someone that tapped you on the shoulder, or knew every time that a train crossed. 

There's no freedom in that.