I understood the power of writing from a young age. It started with bedtime stories I’d make up for my little brother to lull him to sleep — stories of giants, sibling adventures, and dinosaurs (his favorite topic). Back then, we were living in Thailand, my home country. A few years later, we immigrated to the United States, where I would complete my education from middle school onwards. By then, I had progressed to fan fiction and short stories. Later, I spent two years as a high school journalist. It was at this point that I started to view writing as not just an outlet of creative expression, but also a way to speak truth to power.
As a teenager, I learned about the injustices upon which this country was built and continues to uphold. And no matter the lesson, I began noticing patterns throughout history that always indicated someone powerful who benefited from mass exploitation while facing no repercussions for the harms they caused. As a curious student, I began asking myself two questions: who is suffering from a particular injustice? And who is profiting from that suffering?
When I thought about the future, I knew that I would continue to look for these patterns and ask these same questions through writing. And after college, I got my chance.
Four years ago, I came across a listing for a research fellowship at Business Insider. The position required a command of submitting public records requests — a skill I’d never heard of — but I applied anyway. The listing said the team aimed to hold powerful people and institutions to account. Here was an opportunity to speak truth to power through writing; there was no way I was going to pass it up.
That research fellowship was how I learned about, and subsequently fell in love with, accountability-driven journalism. It’s been the perfect venue for me to address my lifelong passions for both writing and social issues. Learning how to navigate public records for a newsroom taught me that they are an immensely powerful tool for investigative journalism. They can reveal entire hidden narratives if you know where to look and what to ask for.
As a researcher, I routinely found phone numbers of sources and handed them off to a reporter. I often spent a whole day crunching numbers or submitting a request — and then when the records came in, I would forward them to someone else. The researcher role had clearly defined boundaries; I never had to call those numbers myself. I didn’t have to worry about composing a paragraph or going back to a source for a follow-up interview. Whether I set up my work laptop at a coffee shop, on my home desk, or even in bed — when all I could think about was work late at night — parsing information from countless PDFs into spreadsheet cells felt just as important as writing the piece.
I often spent a whole day crunching numbers or submitting a request — and then when the records came in, I would forward them to someone else. The researcher role had clearly defined boundaries; I never had to call those numbers myself.
That all changed when I became a reporting fellow at Feet in 2 Worlds in fall 2025. I quickly realized my research skills alone weren’t going to cut it.
When I began my fellowship, all I knew were public records and data findings. And looking back, I recall feeling confident — yet not fully being honest with myself about what it meant to report an investigative series. When I began working on the story treatment for my 4-part series, Surveilled and Sold, I approached it as if I were preparing research for someone else — another “real, serious, career reporter” who’d asked for my help looking into a potential story. I came prepared with the usual information that was asked of me as a researcher. Initially, the reporting steps I planned were all actually research steps. I listed out all the searchable databases and investigative resources I planned to use, as if the series I was pitching were just one long research task.
But as the weeks ticked by, my editors brought up concepts unfamiliar to me as a researcher: the importance of characters, scenes, and a cohesive narrative arc. On one level, I knew I had to speak to immigrant workers for each story, but that seemed like a Herculean task far outside my comfort zone. My series was rooted in my home city of Portland, Oregon; while my potential sources were just beyond my front door, it was much easier for me to tackle what I knew how to do well first — request public records, and read as many research papers on the topic as I could get my hands on. Perhaps I secretly hoped that I could gather information without having to talk to anyone.
Unfortunately, even while I worked safely within my comfort zone, I wasn’t having much luck getting records back the way I thought I would. Processing times took longer than expected. By the time my first couple drafts were due, the original findings I had hoped to have were nonexistent. Before I knew it, the holiday season was approaching — and all I had were unfulfilled requests and dozens of outreach emails to potential sources, with zero replies. The imposter syndrome intensified. I was too ambitious, I remembered thinking. Who do I think I am, to believe I could pull off an investigation like this? I’ve over-promised myself, and now I have nothing to show for it.
Simultaneously, the biggest hurdle I faced was finding immigrant sources who would be open to sharing their stories with me on the record. Feet in 2 Worlds centers immigrant voices in its reporting, so I knew this approach would be central to my project. I reached out to dozens of immigrants’ rights groups, workers’ unions, day laborer advocacy groups, and any other related organizations I could think of that could put me in touch with immigrant day laborers or domestic workers. Looking back, I can see I was trying to do everything I could to avoid going into the field. I sent hundreds of emails and left dozens of voicemails, hoping that spokespeople would set up Zoom interviews. The government’s persecution of immigrant communities — and its chilling effect — didn’t help. For several months, I tried this avenue of outreach with no luck. When I asked community organizers for potential source connections, they all told me the same thing: everyone’s afraid right now and would prefer to keep a low profile.
When I asked community organizers for potential source connections, they all told me the same thing: everyone’s afraid right now and would prefer to keep a low profile.
So when I took a break from reporting during the holidays, I had no characters, no records, and no clear narrative arcs. When I returned to Portland after spending the holidays in California with my family, I knew I had to rip off the Band-Aid. Increasingly stressed that I had no leads for a character while trying to write my first character-driven story, I built up the courage to do the one thing left to do — something I’d never done before: in-the-field, in-person interviews.
On a Monday, I dialed the number of the Voz Worker Center in Portland and anxiously introduced myself. I asked if it’d be okay for me to stop by later that week to introduce myself to the members and ask them a few questions about how work had been going lately.
Once I received the go-ahead, I prepared myself emotionally. On one hand, I was enthusiastic about finally honing in on a potential character. As someone who religiously meets deadlines, this huge remaining question mark weighed on me. I thought about my reporting constantly. When I woke up and when I went to sleep, the unknown of whether I would successfully get one person to talk to me was among my first and last thoughts of each day. I mentally prepared for all of the worst case scenarios. Perhaps, secretly, I even hoped I’d be turned away or denied for every interview I pursued, and I’d walk away with proof that I was never meant to be a reporter after all.
What would’ve been a routine day of field reporting for a more experienced journalist was a special day for my career that I’ll remember for a long time. On that cold January morning, I woke up early and took a Lyft to the Worker Center — notebook, microphone, recorder, and headphones in hand. When I arrived, I rang the Ring doorbell (a device I would later highlight in my reporting) and saw my image appear on screen as the receptionist confirmed who I was. Seeing myself with all of my gear in hand made everything feel more real. The people I had spent months searching for were behind that door. Now all there was left to do was ask them my questions.
I felt really self-conscious when I walked through the door. The workers sitting in the waiting room stared at me and the recording equipment I held in my hands. The members and organizers are very protective of their space, especially given the current political climate, and I was a stranger encroaching on it.
The organizer on site gave me a brief tour of the space — a two-bedroom, one-story house in Southeast Portland converted into a community center. As she spoke, I channeled my jittery feelings into taking detailed notes. This was a practical choice, as I knew I’d need to describe the space down the line, but it also helped ground me. I noticed the ornaments still hung up on the Christmas tree in the living room, and the posters and photos on the walls spotlighting members and the center’s history. Even the bits of conversation I caught in Spanish helped to keep my mind from succumbing to my anxiety.
Once I got my bearings of the space, I worked up the courage to approach the only female member in the center. She was sweeping the floors while others were deep in conversation or dozing off in the living room after a long bus ride. I introduced myself as a periodista. I said I was also an immigrant, from Thailand. As I spoke to other members, I started with these same details. Many of them said they assumed I was born in the United States. But then we’d talk about how long we’d each lived in the U.S., and how many family members live here too, and suddenly the big microphone in the room blended into the background. We were a couple of community members just sharing our experiences with each other. It didn’t feel like the extractive or exploitative dynamic that I was afraid of for so long.
Many of them said they assumed I was born in the United States. But then we’d talk about how long we’d each lived in the U.S., and how many family members live here too, and suddenly the big microphone in the room blended into the background.
The interview questions I’d prepared were deliberately broad: How has work been going? How often do you come to the Center to find work? Have you stopped looking for work because of increased ICE activity in Portland?
I interviewed a man in his early twenties who had arrived from Honduras a few months prior. He told me he’d had numerous hostile and xenophobic encounters with Home Depot staff while looking for work. Still, he couldn’t afford to stay home; he needed to eat. I spoke to three men my father’s age who vented to me about how slow work had been since winter began, and how most days, they went home empty-handed. The more of these conversations I had, the more my ever present imposter syndrome slowly began to fade away. These were very normal, casual conversations I was having with everyday people — and this was reporting! I was doing it! The task I once perceived as Herculean was perfectly doable. The only thing stopping me was a mental hang-up, not a lack of skill or ability.
When it was time to leave, I was beaming as I closed the door behind me. I called one of my editors, Mia, to give her an update. I couldn’t stop smiling as I told her about a conversation I had with a worker named Nemorio, who ended up being a central character in my first story. I’d told her how anxious I felt about going into the field, so I knew that she would understand just how big of a deal this was to me. She matched my enthusiasm perfectly and made me feel so validated in the pride and relief that began washing over me.
When I went home that day, the feeling of accomplishment reminded me of getting a good public records victory. Reporting wins come in different shapes; I had just proved to myself that I was the type of reporter who was capable of achieving them in more than one way.
Reporting wins come in different shapes; I had just proved to myself that I was the type of reporter who was capable of achieving them in more than one way.
Now, with the entire series published and distributed, I’ve been asking my friends and family one question: which story stuck out to them the most, and why?
One of my best friends said the first story about ALPRs and day laborers introduced them into the world of surveillance technology in a way they hadn’t thought about before. Another friend said the story about domestic workers and nanny cams stood out the most, as it made them think about the industry’s unique work conditions in a way they hadn’t considered before. An editor found the second story, a “strange bedfellows” angle that compared Montana and Oregon’s data privacy laws, was the most compelling angle.
No matter the story, one piece of feedback remained consistent across these conversations. My readers all loved the human-centered approach I took to this series.
Once I digested this, I felt validated — and surprised. The piece that people remembered most wasn’t the public records. Readers related to my immigrant sources and their experiences. After seven months of struggling to craft an investigative series, the impact of centering human characters has made me deeply value that way of framing a story.
This completely shifted the way I saw my reporting. It showed me what really sticks with readers. It was the exact perspective shift I needed to challenge what I thought was most interesting about this work. It was the last push I needed to understand, finally, what my editors were trying to teach me the whole time.
People’s stories — their pride, their pain, their struggles, and their moments of celebration — that’s what sticks with us far beyond the page.
Numbers and research are critical. They provide a way to contextualize a concept or portray a pattern. But people’s stories — their pride, their pain, their struggles, and their moments of celebration — that’s what sticks with us far beyond the page.
Feet in 2 Worlds is supported by the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation, The Ford Foundation, the Fernandez Pave the Way Foundation, the Elizabeth Bond Davis Foundation, an anonymous donor, and contributors to our annual NewsMatch campaign.
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